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He is tired, more tired than he’d ever admit. Even as he stumbles down the street, shivering in his oversized sweatshirt despite the bead of sweat crawling down his neck to remind him of the rising temperatures outside, he wants nothing more than to crawl into bed. He could still turn around. He could still go home. He could even call someone if he could work up the courage.
Mia always picks up the phone when he calls, but she’d hear his voice, and she would insist on picking him up. Then, he’d have to look at those haunted eyes of hers and crush her faith in him.
He could call… well, he knows who he wants to call. Oliver would pick up the phone if he had service. Oliver would listen to him. Oliver would—
But Oliver is not here, and as far as he knows, Oliver has never stopped foot in Gotham.
Oliver loves the warmth of California and Arizona. Right now, as he cranes his head back to stare up at the Gotham sky, he cannot even see the sun. No, Oliver would hate this city with all his heart. Even if Batman comes from here—and man, does he hope Batman stays in tonight—none of the Justice League would visit.
There is anonymity in Gotham, though. People do not come here for opportunity; they come here to make mistakes. They blow up their lives, knowing there will be worse problems to solve. If he wants to wreck his life—and he already did, so he might as well keep going—this would be the place to do so.
He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, and he picks up the pace.
He tried to memorize the layout of Gotham on the bus ride over, but he refused to bring his cell phone with him. He got a burner from a department store, and it couldn’t do anything other than operate as a phone. So, he had a paper map unfolded over his leg before his paranoia got too high.
He can’t tell if his paranoia comes from years of operating as Oliver’s sidekick or because of the other reason.
Still, Crime Alley seems to pull at him. Everyone hustles around at night, their heads ducked and their hands covered up. Even as the frost melts away, paving the way for spring, nobody dares to walk uncovered. When he heard stories about Gotham, he assumed most of it was an exaggeration.
Now, he can understand why Gotham has the highest crime rates.
In Star City, he thinks some well-meaning adult would have attempted to pull him aside at this point. Sure, Star City holds its fair share of nightlife; Green Arrow can never rest for long. It was never to this extent. It was never this many people.
Could he live in a place where he always needs to be looking over his shoulder? Could he live in a place where he can’t trust anyone there? Even the good guys—Batman and his thousands of sidekicks; Oliver used to joke Batman had an adoption addiction, but where it once made him laugh, it now leaves a sour taste in his mouth—can’t be trusted. What if they return him to Star City? What if they force him to change?
What if…
Someone shoves past him, and he feels the weight change in his jeans pockets. He spins around, watching a small child try to stroll away. They must be seven or eight, but as they shove their hands in their pockets, trying to pass off as nonchalant, their guilt radiates off them. Their shoulders tremble, and their hands keep fumbling with the money in their pocket.
The second he turns around, though, ready to start catching up, they bolt.
“Are you kidding me?” he mutters under his breath before he takes off after them. Fine. Why not? He should’ve expected less from Gotham; why wouldn’t he get stolen from the second he returned?
The kid gains on him, though, as the pain starts to build in his chest. He only has disadvantages here. He doesn’t know Gotham as well. He doesn’t feel right. He doesn’t have that same level of desperation. When the kid turns around, the glee clearly glinting in their eyes as they get farther and farther ahead, he resists the urge to just start screaming. The people of Gotham barely even part for him, only moving when they fear for their own safety. Nobody tries to stop the kid.
He needs that money. He can’t go to an ATM; someone would be able to track him down from that, and if he has to hit rock bottom, he’d rather not hit rock bottom in his home. He can’t get money any other way. He has nothing worth buying.
That money will determine whether or not he can live in Gotham.
As he tears down the streets, trying in vain to fight through the lead weight in his chest and the sour coughs starting to build in his throat, the kid skips into an alleyway, far enough ahead that he loses sight of them entirely.
When he skids to the entrance of the alley, though, someone stands with one arm clamped tight around the kid’s chest. The other arm is held high, the jacket sleeve pulled over his fist, probably in a shallow attempt to disguise the cash from anyone who might be running this way.
Great.
Now, he’ll need to fight someone.
“That,” he rasps between pants, “is mine.”
“Maybe you should take better care of it,” the other boy responds. He releases the kid, letting them gasp and dash into the shadows. He only rolls his eyes, though, and he tosses the wad of cash back. “New to Gotham?”
“That obvious?” He snatches the money out of the air and shoves it back into his sweatshirt’s pocket. “I didn’t think you’d just… hand it back.”
“I’m no thief.”
“Well, ‘no thief,’ who are you?” He tries to lean back against the alleyway, subtly catching his breath again. Judging by the way the boy’s blue eyes narrow on his chest, he does a shitty job of it. Still, once upon a time, people thought he was cool, and if he can channel that aura, maybe he can convince the other boy.
Maybe he can convince the other boy to show him around Gotham. At the very least, the boy wouldn’t steal from him. He might be capable of committing other crimes, but, in a fight, the boy would not be winning against him.
“J,” the boy says after a second.
He blinks. “Like the letter?”
“Like the bird.” The boy— Jay— rolls his eyes.
“Roy,” he offers quickly.
Jay pauses, cocking his head. As he takes the time to look over Roy, Roy takes the opportunity to look over Jay. He doesn’t look familiar, but Roy didn’t expect to know anyone in Gotham. The only person he knew to live here was Bruce Wayne, and Bruce Wayne died months ago. He knew there was some sort of family drama about inheritance, but he tends to let rich people deal with their own problems.
Jay wears nothing but Gotham Knights gear right now. Roy wouldn’t be shocked if his black sweatpants bear the emblem somewhere subtle. Right now, he wears an oversized black sweatshirt, so big he swims in it, with peeling letters on the front and mysterious stains littered on the sleeves. The hood sits on top of the equally ratty Gotham Knights hat, the fabric of the brim fully ripped through and exposing the interior. A few red strands of hair peek out from under the hat.
Jay finally shrugs, content with whatever he looks for. “Looking for something in particular, Roy? Gotham can be a dangerous city for newbies.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“Hell no.” That is the only elaboration Jay will provide. Spoken like a true Gothamite, Roy supposes.
He starts to say it before hesitating. If he gives the location of the meet-up he arranged, would Jay know what happens on that street corner? As he stares back at Roy, almost bored, Roy gets the sense he knows more about Gotham than he’d ever let in. He lived here his whole life. If he spent his whole life on the streets, he probably knows the crimes here better than anyone else.
So, he shrugs. “Just looking around. Is that a problem?”
“It will be when you get your money stolen again.” Jay pauses. “It’s a lot of cash. What are you planning on buying?”
Well, shit. There goes subtlety. He might as well bite the bullet.
“Do you know where the Bowery is? I need—”
“Yeah. Follow me.” Jay pushes past him, knocking their shoulders together as he moves. Roy scowls at the abrupt action. Jay doesn’t bother slowing down as he starts to merge with the crowd again, disappearing into it with ease. He belongs in the ebb and the flow of this city more than Roy ever belonged in Star City.
That’s not fair, a small voice thinks in the back of his head. Just because he didn’t grow up in Star City didn’t mean he didn’t find his way there.
Rather than listening to that voice, though, Roy scratches at the inside of his arm and falls into step once more.
“I feel like you don’t want to show me the Bowery,” he tries, attempting to keep his voice light. Something about it falls flat, though, not quite right. It sounds a little too desperate, a little too strained.
Jay glances over at him, something harder in his blue eyes now. There is a shield up there he hadn’t seen before. His eyes dart down to Roy’s arms, still covered up by the sweatshirt, but somehow, Roy thinks he can still see through the fabric. He knows the secret Roy has managed to hide from everyone else in his life.
Then again, Roy doesn’t have many people left in his life. Maybe he does fit into Gotham well; after all, he’s an orphan just like their legendary Bruce Wayne. Unlike Bruce Wayne, though, he is still living. He is still fighting. He is just… taking a detour on the way he lives. This doesn’t have to be forever.
“I’m not a tour guide,” Jay finally says.
“You don’t have to show me,” Roy says, oddly defensive. “If you point me in the right direction, I’ll figure it out.”
“I’m not a guide of Gotham City,” Jay says instead, and somehow, the words still strike him the same way. Again, his gaze dips towards Roy’s arms before he scowls and looks ahead once more. His pace quickens.
Roy’s temper flares. “I’m not trying to be judged here. We’re in Gotham. There are worse things I could be doing.”
“And what exactly are you doing?” Jay counters. When Roy hesitates, just for a second, he snorts. “Yeah. That’s what I thought. Too afraid to say it out loud?”
“It’s not about that.”
“Sure, it’s not.” And before Roy can come up with a good rebuttal, Jay holds up a hand. “And before you say something about me not knowing you or not knowing what you’re about to do, you know that’s not true. You said it yourself. We’re in Gotham. There are worse things I have seen.”
He does not doubt that. When Roy was researching Gotham, he saw how much the citizens went through. The people in Star City should complain less because they aren’t consistently getting bombed and poisoned. Roy doesn’t even want to experience Fear Toxin. If he hears about the Scarecrow patrolling the streets, he will simply hole up in… whatever home he ends up finding.
Still, despite all that, he can’t shake the impression Jay judges him for what he’s doing. For someone who walks around Gotham like he owns the place, he doesn’t seem very comfortable with the unsavory sides of it. Despite his broad stance and the hostile energy he can put off, getting any pickpocket hiding from him, he must still believe in people like Batman and… and Green Arrow.
Maybe Roy should pull the Speedy card. What could one random kid do to him?
Then, Jay stops in front of a small, beaten-down house. On the front door, someone has spray-painted a red bat against the dark wood. Its edges bleed, dripping down towards the pavement step.
Roy groans and takes a step away. “You’re not serious.”
“You didn’t seriously,” Jay says, his tone mockingly light, “think I’d bring you to the Bowery, did you?”
“I’ll find my own way then—”
“Will you?” Jay bounds up the steps before turning around. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the wad of cash again. Roy curses as he searches his own pockets, but sure enough, everything he owns now rests in Jay’s hands. “Didn’t I warn you that you would want to take better care of it?”
“I thought you said you weren’t a thief.”
“I’m just borrowing it.” Jay nudges the door open with his shoulder.
Roy shakes his head. “I’m not going into Batman’s territory—”
“It’s not Batman’s safehouse,” Jay interrupts.
“There’s a bat on it.”
“Because the Red Hood works for Batman,” Jay says.
Roy freezes. “The Red Hood?”
“The people of Crime Alley trust him.” Then, in a quieter voice Roy knows Jay doesn’t want him to hear, he mutters, “for whatever reason.”
Then, with the wad of cash still waving in the air, Jay pushes into the safehouse, leaving Roy no choice but to follow after him.