Archive of Our Own ^beta

   “There’s somethin’ fishy about that guy.”

   Marcus Durelio pulled a frown, setting his bottle down on the dirty countertop. “It’s worth it.”

   “No, it’s not,” his companion repeated, downing his beer in one gulp before slamming it with finality next to his previous three. He made a face at the grumpy bartender before turning to Marcus, faux concern plastered across his ugly mug. “New crime bosses are bad business. Just go to work for the Maroni family. Hell, the Penguin. Least then you’ll get some class out of it.”

   “I dunno, John; this one’s different.” Marcus wiped his mouth with one calloused hand, thoughtful. “You remember the pimp down on Second? The real creepy guy with the bald head.”

   “Yeah, his customers killed a couple girls. What of it?”

   “I heard Hood popped him last week. Two bullets to the head.” Marcus couldn’t help a smirk. “The first shot killed. The second was just to fuck up his face. Spite, they said.”

   “Damn. Were they Hood’s girls?”

   “They’re all his, man. Word is they know him by name.”

   “Bullshit. No one has that many girls.”

   “I don’t think he even gives ‘em business. He’s, like, a sponsor; a protector or some shit.”

   “Yeah, that’s called a pimp, ya dingus.”

   “Nah, man, not this one. I’m telling you. This one’s different.” Marcus pushed his unfinished beer away, sighing. “‘Sides, I got a wife an’ a kid on the way. I can’t afford to mess around with Maroni.”

   “Maroni pays pretty good.”

   “Hood pays better.”

   “Already? Hn. Wonder who he’s sleepin’ with.”

   Marcus rolled his eyes, standing to go. John didn’t get it. Most of his friends didn’t. “See, unlike you, dumbass, I’m willing to believe in the impossible. Not everyone gets their power by sleepin’ around. Some are just built different.”

   John released a bark of laughter. “Alright, buddy, okay. You go work for a brand new up an’ coming nut job. See how well that works out for you.”

   “Odds I might actually stay alive,” Marcus challenged lightheartedly, slapping a twenty on the bar. “I gotta go.”

   “Yeah, I’ll bet you’re headed to a real important meeting, huh.” John shook his head, chuckling. “Wipe off those goody two shoes on your way out.”

************

   I was, in fact, required at a meeting, Marcus groused to himself as he entered the diner. This place was real fancy shit for Crime Alley. The tables were even covered with tablecloths.

   “Squeaky, come on in.” One of the three guys standing near the counter gestured him over, expansive. Marcus knew for a fact that Two-Bit was not as confident as he looked, but he didn’t really blame the guy. This was a big night for them. Everyone was bound to put on a little show.

   “Marcus Durelio,” he said, sticking his hand out to the masked stranger standing between his buddies. No use mincing words.

   “Marcus,” the stranger greeted, clasping his hand in a firm almost-crushing grip before shaking exactly once. He was looking Marcus over, probably, but it was hard to tell with that mask, not to mention the red gaiter that was distorting his voice. His black hair was visible, at least. A patch of white brushed over his forehead. Weird fashion choice, but Marcus had seen weirder. (Those were the days.)

   The stranger was also the only man present wearing a suit.

   “You know who I am, of course,” Hood continued as he pulled away, gesturing to a table set for four. “Do I wanna know why you’re called Squeaky, Marcus?”

   “I doubt it,” Marcus admitted as his his companions tittered with laughter. He faked a frown as he sat, opting for the seat across from Hood’s. It wasn’t a very safe position, honestly; his back was to the front of the restaurant, and he couldn’t see Hood’s face for cues. Marcus had always been a pretty good judge of character, though, and he was getting solid vibes so far. “The guys call me a goody two shoes. It’s a pretty low bar; I’ve stayed clean ever since getting out of rehab a couple years ago.”

   “I know you have,” Hood nodded approvingly, resting his clasped hands on the table. “That’s why you’re here, Marcus. I assume the rest of you know why you’re here as well.”

   “Sure,” Two-Bit groused, sticking his hands in his pockets with a sniff.

   “Hands on the table, Michael,” Hood said cheerfully. He was keeping his head very still; no one could tell where he was looking. “Why don’t you explain to me, in your own words, why you’re here.”

   Two-Bit rested his hands awkwardly on the tabletop, suitably subdued. “We’re here to meet with you about your growing empire, boss.”

   “And our contracts as your new enforcers,” Dusty put in, arms already folded on the tablecloth. He glanced at Marcus, a tad uncertain.

   “Correct.” Hood pointed one finger towards the cook waiting at the counter. “Three of your best, Toni.”

   “Right away Mr. Hood,” the man answered amiably, disappearing back into the kitchen.

   Hood steepled his fingers together like a creepy Bond villain, finally moving his head. “You’re clearly eager for the spotlight, Michael; let’s start with you.”

   Marcus sat still, listening quietly as Two-Bit, then Dusty were questioned by Hood about their expectations, their demands, and their long-term goals. It felt more like a real job interview than something illegal. Both of them were in it for cleaner money. Dusty threw in a request of protection for his fiancé.

   Marcus shrugged when it was his turn, trying not to be unnerved by the blank gaze of red lenses. “I’ve got a wife an’ a kid on the way, a reputation to beat, an’ a bent I’d like to think is pretty morally righteous in a city like this. There aren’t a lot of employment opportunities for someone like that. I could just find a delivery job or somethin’, but that doesn’t cover protection for my family, an’ it doesn’t help anyone else.”

   Hood leaned forward a bit. “Help?”

   “I was in for… a long time.” Marcus glanced away, subconscious. “You prob’ly know more about me than I want you to. It got… bad. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

   “Hm.” Hood leaned back. “I would. You want to keep it out of young hands that don’t understand what they’re in for, is that it?”

   Marcus sat straighter. “More than anything.”

   “Good. My congratulations, by the way. Boy or girl?”

   “Uh,” Marcus’ brain stalled for a second. “We don’t know yet. We can’t really afford doctor’s visits.”

   “Leslie’s clinic will do it for free.”

   “We aren’t a charity case.” Marcus bit his tongue right after he’d said it. “Respectfully.”

   “Not even for the health of your wife?”

   Marcus took a deep breath, thinking. He wasn’t being goaded; it sounded like a legitimate question. “We haven’t really thought about it yet. We just found out.”

   Hood waved one hand, crossing his legs; the picture of ease. “The cost of doctor’s visits will be covered, regardless, but I recommend Leslie’s. She actually gives a fuck.” He tapped his mask for a moment, thoughtful. “I like the way you think before you speak, Marcus. That’ll save you a lot of trouble in a life like ours. Now I know why I’ve picked you for Top Ten candidates, gentlemen, but why do you think?”

   It was a bit of an odd question, but then again, no part of this exactly counted as “normal”. They went in a circle again. Two-Bit fancied himself to be an excellent enforcer. (He really was, and he didn’t even resort to violence. Much.) Dusty was an excellent communications’ specialist, prioritizing concise message-moving above all all else. He’d be rather handy with the rumors Hood actually wanted to spread.

   “If there’s one thing I know,” Marcus offered when it was his turn. “it’s how to get places. I can memorize maps an’ routes like no one’s business. I’m not bad with a rifle, and I’ve got a cheesy bent for justice. I dunno what else you could want me for.”

   “You’re about to be a father,” Hood explained easily, tapping one finger on the tabletop. “That works in my favor.”

   Marcus wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that, but he didn’t not like it, exactly, so he braced his elbows on the tabletop. “So are we in… or out?”

   “In.” Hood’s modified voice dipped into a vicious tone that the mask barely picked up. “Let’s talk salary.”

************

   Working for the Red Hood, as it turned out, had far more upsides than anyone had expected. First of all, they got Fridays off. What other form of employment gave you every Friday all to yourself? The real jobs went down on the weekends or week-beginnings, when the rest of the world was at its busiest. Hood counted on people being so wrapped up in their own shit that they’d never see him coming.

   That was the plan, Marcus began to realize. Not having much of a reputation yet was what Hood had been counting on. He was marching into drug deals and shady meetings and others’ heists like he was the boss, creating explosive fallouts among the organized crime through the whole city. No one knew who he was or where he’d come from; worse, who worked for him. False moles were being accused every night, some even shot dead in their own businesses.

   It was chaos. (It was genius.)

   Another thing was the pay. Hood was getting real money real fast, if from no other source than stealing it from the people who’d stolen it first. He kept whatever he “happened” to find; no one knew what he did with it besides what went into their paychecks.

   And a lot of money went into their paychecks.

   Marcus learned around week three that the less questions they asked, the more they got paid. Every so often, someone would ask a particularly smart question that got them a hefty bonus, but Marcus usually didn’t take those chances. He stayed quiet. He watched. He learned.

   Hood seemed to like Marcus a lot, for some reason. Maybe because Marcus was a little older, a little wiser than some of the other guys. Maybe because he talked less. Maybe it was because he had a family.

   Marcus wondered sometimes if Hood had a family. He was very protective of others’. Most men he hired were previous addicts or family guys with kids. The men with kids got special benefits, and Hood, somehow, knew who would spend theirs wisely… and who would not. He paid accordingly.

   The guy never punished anyone for showing up late, which was the weird part. He never punished anyone for mouthing off or cracking a joke at his expense or asking a question far too personal. He just sent them home, or, in some cases, fired them. Sure, he was pretty intimidating when he wanted to be, and no one he fired had the balls to test that mercy, but he never physically hurt them, not even in fun.

   That was why it was such a shock at the end of week four when Hood backhanded a rookie across the face.

   “Sorry,” the boss muttered into the shocked silence. Then he turned on his heel, movements clipped, and stalked from the warehouse room.

   “What the hell, man?” the guy muttered, pushing to his feet with a hand on his jaw. “All I did was ask if he was ‘fraid of Batman. He cracked a tooth.”

   “Damn,” someone else muttered.

   Marcus patted the rookie on the shoulder, sympathetic. “I hear he includes a dental plan.”

   “For this very reason?” Two-Bit shook his head, flabbergasted. “It was only a matter of time before he snapped.”

   “Hood’s got rules,” Marcus said firmly, drawing the uneasy attention of everyone in the room. “Some of them are obvious, some we’ll have to figure out on our own. Guy’s got a sore spot for Batman. Most guys ‘round here do. Now we know.”

   “Yeah,” Two-Bit muttered, staring at the door where Hood had disappeared. “Now we know.”

************

   It was probably because of his own Ask Questions Never policy that Marcus was one of the first men drafted for Hood’s more important meetings. Not the planning or training or briefing, oh no--- These meetings were specifically for making deals with the most powerful bosses in the city.

   Well, for a given value of “deal”. The word “demands” might have been better.

   “No selling to minors,” Hood always announced cheerfully. “no more trafficking, and definitely no shooting at the helmet. It’s new.”

   These deals never ended very well. Hood’s demands were… pricey, apparently, and no one was afraid of this new upstart who’d just popped up out of nowhere.

   That was their first mistake. (Their second was aiming for the helmet.)

   Most meetings went the same. Two minutes in, someone got angry, and by the time the dust settled, enough men had been killed that anyone left over grudgingly fell in line. Sometimes, if Hood was feeling particularly edgy, no one would be left standing at all.

   Though there were times when these regular agendas went… awry.

   “Well,” came the answering chuckle as the dust settled from the wrecked doorway. “Here you finally are.”

   Hood twirled his right-hand pistol, all bravado as he stepped into the warehouse office. “You’ve been expecting me, old man?”

   Marcus peeked around Hood’s shoulder as he took up his usual flank position. The old man inside was… still sitting. The office had barebones decor; only as much as you’d need to work with before burning the place. There were two bodyguards, but they stood with their backs to the wall behind their boss, unmoving.

   Something was off.

   “Of course,” the supposed victim answered with a slight accent, finally getting to his feet. Marcus felt his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. This dude was tall, taller than Hood. “You’ve been knocking on the door of anyone with clout who isn’t the Commissioner himself.”

   Marcus positioned himself near the door. He didn’t feel like getting any closer. Sure, this guy seemed harmless--- nicely combed silver-gray hair, trimmed beard, pressed suit, even a smoking cigar--- but there was… something. Hood, by this point, had usually aimed his pistol, maybe made a few warning shots, but this time--- it stayed up at his shoulder. “Then you know why I’m here.”

   “Of course,” the old man repeated, flicking a piece of lint from his shoulder before clasping his hands in front of him. Cold gray eyes focused on Hood’s helmet. “I assume, naturally, that you are here to make me beg for my life.”

   Hood’s weight shifted. “I’m here to clean up the alley. You’re gonna get on board. Or, and this is the fun option, get out of my way.”

   “Ooooooooo.” The man before them kissed his fingers. “Magnificent. Add a little rumble to that last bit; an edge of age never hurt one’s reputation. Better too old than too young--- Look at Don Falcone. Bah, I get ahead of myself. Sit. Would you care for a drink?”

   Marcus glanced around, but no one else revealed themselves. This was either a very powerful distraction tactic… or a waste of time. Hood seemed to think so, too, because a low growling noise crept from his helmet.

   “Yes, like that.” The old man snapped his fingers. “Adds a bit of umph, don’t you think? Please, please, take a seat. You strike me as a lover of the classics--- Manhattan?” He opened a cabinet below his desk, removing a few bottles, then two glasses. “Have you tried it with rye whiskey? Really fell out of style in the twentieth century, unfortunately, but you cannot forever squash tradition--- It’s made a comeback, as of recent.”

   “Are you stupid?” Hood snapped impatiently, lowering his pistol from shoulder to floor.

   The old man looked up, eyebrows raised. A moment of tension grew before he waved his cigar, apologetic. “Ah, yes, the pleasantries. I had guessed that you knew the names of those whom you threaten at gunpoint, but---”

   “I know who you are,” Hood cut in. “Ego Koldan, leader of the Russian mobs in oh-eight. Traveled illegally to the US to ‘retire’, or so you’d have people believe. Homeland wasn’t good enough for you?”

   “Never say never.” Ego straightened up, sighing, and took a drag from his cigar. “I can see that you have yet to learn the nuances in our line of work. This is the part where you offer a deal, but you’ve made that quite impossible by opening with the threat. Better to open with a bit of mystery, yes? Then you have the room to adjust as you see fit instead of backing yourself into the corner, like so.”

   The room suddenly plunged into darkness as steel shutters dropped over the doorway. Marcus released a startled shout, backing into a wall. Shooting was currently a big NO if they wanted to get out of here alive, but it was three against three if---

   “Hold your fire,” Hood ordered gruffly.

   Marcus clutched his gun closer, checking the safety with his fingers, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the soft glow of the cigar. The light bobbed around the desk, then waved expressively, outlining Koldan’s body directly in front of Hood’s.

   “Corner.” the man rumbled, tone light. “You’d be dead by now, if that’s what I wanted. Fortunately, your life is in my best interest. Now is when, ordinarily, I would make you a counter offer you simply couldn’t refuse.

   “Oh?” Hood responded softly. Marcus couldn’t see him, but he had to assume that the helmet allowed Hood to spot any threats before the rest of them did. Otherwise…

   “Indeed.” The cigar waved through the air once more, briefly illuminating Ego’s smirk. “Take over organized crime, seek revenge, destroy the trafficking business for all I care. The reason you have come woefully underprepared, understandably, is your lack of information.”

   “Let me guess--- I should have known what a big-shot I was dealing with before kicking down his door,” Hood responded sardonically.

   The cigar twirled in a lazy circle. “Only the insecure call themselves big-shots, real-deals. True power needs no introduction, syn, remember that. Here is my proposition.”

   Marcus shifted uneasily in the following silence. Even the coms were quiet.

   “You,” Koldan finally continued. “are going to proceed. I am going to melt back into the shadows, continuing my business unhindered as I was before you so rudely broke down my door. Not very many know of my presence here. Not very many ever will. I stay away from the trafficking business, from the drug trades, and you, in turn, act as if I’d never existed.”

   “You’re still making contracts to share your munitions,” Hood pointed out lowly. “That’s just as bad.”

   Koldan’s shadow stepped forward, and the light of his cigar vanished, pressed out against Hood’s chest armor. A few embers fell to the ground below, smoldering.

   The silence stretched.

   “I merely suggest a way out of the corner,” Ego finally murmured, deadly quiet. “I suggest, pride aside, that you take it. You wouldn’t want to ruin your chances this early in the game.”

   Hood stepped away, and the rest of the cigar fell to the floor with a soft thump. “Watch yourself Ego. The bigger they are.”

   “Obviously.” Koldan’s voice retreated. “Oh, and Hood… next time, just admit that you’re too young to drink.”

   The shutters abruptly went back up, and Marcus blinked confusedly as daylight flooded the space. A Manhattan cocktail rested on the desk. All signs of Ego were gone.

   Hood swiped the drink to the floor, swearing in another language as he stalked from the room.

************

   Hood had a lot of plans that he shared with no one else. That wasn’t the unusual part--- He’d be a fool to put all his eggs in one basket. The unusual part was that he didn’t take any muscle along for these private plans of his. He left all by himself, causing a level of disturbing disquiet that his men only ever discovered the day after.

   One of those mornings dawned with the news of eight severed heads in a duffel. All of ‘em were dirty thugs. Rapists. Murderers. No one would miss them, exactly, but they’d been left on the doorstep of the GCPD precinct.

   It was a challenge.

   Marcus closed the news app before opening his texts, scratching blearily at his stubbly chin. “Plans for Tuesday canceled. Regroup Wednesday at sundown. Enjoy your freedom.”

   The message was ominous, and it wasn’t the first they’d gotten. The number it came from was untraceable. Hood had caused havoc that he wanted his men to stay far away from. It was a familiar tune, but it never stopped sending shivers down Marcus’ spine. What is he up to?

   “Is everything alright?” his wife asked, leaning gently against his side.

   Marcus twisted in bed, stroking his thumb down her soft cheek, then placing it over her slight bump of a stomach. “It’s all good.”

   “That boss of yours causing trouble?” she asked sleepily.

   “Yeah,” he answered, tucking her back in. “It’s nothin’ he can’t handle.”

************

   One mysteriously quiet week later, an explosive confrontation at an abandoned apartment complex raised an uncomfortable amount of questions for those who watched the news.

   Hood had confronted Batman. With the Joker as a hostage. Alone.

   Marcus abandoned his orders for another day off, speeding his beat-up motorcycle to the wreckage before the fire department could get there. He wasn’t stupid, he just… He had to make sure. Stuff would get bad if either Batman or Hood didn’t make it out.

   Marcus didn’t see Batman. He didn’t see the Joker, either. He saw nothing but fire.

   “Hey,” Dusty’s voice wheezed from thin air.

   “What the hell?” Marcus hissed after he’d jumped out of his skin. He whipped a glare on the kid that he hoped conveyed his deep displeasure.

   “He’s still up there,” Dusty said breathlessly, panting like he’d just run ten blocks. He shoved his phone into Marcus’ face. There was a grid on the screen with a little beeping dot.

   Marcus’ eyes crossed, and he pushed the phone away, incredulous. “You put a tracker on him?”

   “In his backup helmet when I was fixing it last week,” Dusty panted quickly, dark eyes almost animalistic in the flickering orange light. “He knew, he made some sort of dark joke about it, but he didn’t punish me or make me take it out--- I didn’t tell, honest, but he’s still up there.”

   Marcus stopped breathing as the words finally sunk in. He raised his eyes to the burning building above them as the top floor caved in. “Shit.”

   “We gotta do--- Squeaky!!! No!!!”

   Marcus dashed to the alley door, shot off the handle, and yanked it open. “Call Leslie; tell no one. Stay the fuck out.”

   Dusty’s protests were quickly drowned out by the roaring of the fire. Marcus took the stairs three at a time, grateful for the first time in his life that he wasn’t one to skip leg day. The middle floors were scattered with smoking wreckage, but the worst was at the top, and it was spreading.

   Surprisingly, the stairs were still intact. Marcus’ thighs burned, but he did not slow down. He jumped over a burning piece of fallen ceiling, ducked under a burst pipe, and screeched “BOSS!!!” like his life depended on it. (Or like someone else’s did.)

   No one answered. That was fine. This was fine. Everything was fine. Marcus kept his elbow over his mouth, dodging around the worst of the fire in a frantic circuit of the second-to-top floor. The fallen ceiling had smothered some flames, but the debris had put more pressure on the floor beneath. The structure released a mighty groan. It was only a matter of---

   There… beneath the rubble by the closet. A cracked red helmet.

   “Boss,” Marcus coughed out, shoving sheetrock aside with one hand so he could grab Hood’s limp arm with the other. “C’mon, boss, up an’ at ‘em.”

   Hood moved drunkenly, barely conscious. Concussion? He’d been way too close to that explosion, but at least he could hold his own weight.

   “C’mon,” Marcus repeated hoarsely, hauling his boss’s arm over his shoulder. “Fire escape is clear--- second floor down.”

   Hood stumbled after Marcus’ steps, swaying one direction, then leaning heavily in the other. Marcus did his best to keep them steady. The escape was not in good shape anymore, so he took an extra floor down for good measure before shoving them out of a window.

   There were sirens around the front of the building. The wail of firetrucks were closing in, too. They had to get out of here.

   “No,” Hood rasped out, halting when Marcus tried to get him down the metal steps.

   “Boss,” Marcus pressed urgently. “we gotta get you to Leslie.”

   “Can’t---” Hood coughed violently, doubling over the railing. “see me--- the men---”

   Marcus blinked incredulously, tugging at Hood’s singed jacket. “There’s no one here but Dusty an’ me. I know you don’t wanna lose face, I know; I ordered for no backup. If you don’t follow me to get medical, that will change.”

   Maybe it was that Hood’s options were very limited, or maybe it was the dad-like edge that had slipped into Marcus’ tone, but Hood finally relented, stumbling the rest of the way down the steps. He dropped at the bottom with far too much grace before promptly crumbled to his knees.

   “Shit,” Marcus cursed repeatedly, both because his employer was pretty far gone--- Please be conscious I can’t carry you I’m not fucking Superman--- and also because his own hands were burned. Dropping to the ground had to be done with less precision than he would have liked. His leg clipped a dumpster.

   “He didn’t---” Hood muttered absently, wheezing for breath behind his cracked helmet. “He didn’t--- choose---”

   Marcus staggered to Hood’s side, cursing fluently under his breath. He fumbled with the helmet’s chin, finding a catch--- easing the shattered shell off Hood’s head---

   The boss was wearing a half-broken domino, but it did very little to hide his soot-smudged face, free of stubble. One glowing green eye moved in the domino’s shattered lens, staring just past Marcus’ face.

   Marcus stopped breathing again. Hood was a kid. Hood was a fucking kid.

   “He came,” Hood’s voice rasped, far too young without the modulator, and Marcus risked a furtive glance at the building above them. A bat-shaped shadow was flying back in, and a deep voice called frantically over the roar of the fire, “HOOD!!!”

   Marcus looked back down at the kid’s chest. The plain black armor sported a new design in the shape of a blood-red bat.

   Well. Shit.

   “C’mon,” Marcus muttered aloud, hauling Hood up by the shoulders. Durelios were stout sons of bitches; he’d manage a fireman carry for three blocks before giving up hope for his spine. “Let’s get outta here.”

   Hood grunted as he was slung over Marcus’ shoulders, but made no effort to escape. Good. This was enough trouble as-is--- Hood weighed a fucking fuck-ton.

   Leslie’s. And then a drink, because Marcus’ job description did not include family feuds, and he was pretty sure he’d lose said job if he ever mentioned that aloud.

************

   “Well,” Leslie Thompkins sighed, clicking the door shut behind her. “He’ll live.”

   Marcus sat straighter. His plastic chair squeaked in protest. “But?”

   “He’s got a few third degree burns, but they’re already fading.” The doc scribbled on a small scrap of paper, then handed it over. “He should take this painkiller every two hours. There’s a meta anomaly in his blood that’s speeding the healing process, so he’ll be alright in a few days, four at most. Just keep him out of trouble ‘til then.”

   Marcus shoved the paper into his jacket pocket. “Thanks for doing up my hands, doc. How much do I owe?”

   “Nothing.” Thompkins waved her weathered hand, smiling. Her smile reached her eyes. A real one, Marcus decided. She was a real one. “I’ve treated Hood before. It was long time ago. I never thought I’d see him again.”

   Marcus eased his bandaged hands into his jacket’s pockets. “You got a past, huh?”

   “He’s the same boy,” the doc sighed, stowing her pen away into her graying bun. “Do us all a favor, Mr. Smith. Make him take the damn pills.”

   Marcus nodded seriously. He sort of already trusted this woman, but he’d probably be able to convince Hood about the pills with a cursory check anyway. A little extra security never hurt. “I will.”

   Thompkins opened her mouth, then paused, head cocked. The atmosphere sharpened. “He’s here.”

   Marcus surged to his feet without asking questions, slipping quickly into Hood’s room. The guy was conked out on a cot, arms bandaged. His mask was gone. Marcus didn’t look. He drew his gun, checked the safety, and stood with his ear to the closed door.

   “Leslie,” a deep voice filtered through.

   “Batman,” the doc answered, deadpan.

   “Where is he?”

   Marcus suppressed a shiver. That voice never ceased to instill terror in people like him. People WORSE than me. Keep it together.

   “Who?” Thompkins answered firmly. Tough as nails, that one. Did she know the Bat personally?

   “Hood,” Batman growled louder, and the kid startled awake on the cot, gasping.

   Marcus held his hand up for silence. He still didn’t look. There was a reason Hood never removed his helmet or mask for his men, and that was a line Marcus did not intend to cross.

   “Hood was injured tonight,” Thompkins’ muffled voice guessed. “wasn’t he?”

   “He---” Batman fell silent. Then, “Is he here?”

   “He dropped by for a few bandages about half an hour ago.” Thompkins’ voice softened. “He’s alive. He’s walking.”

   Batman’s voice dropped. “I made a mistake.”

   “I gathered. You should have rescued him.”

   “I tried.”

   “First. Where is the Joker, Batman?”

   “Bolted. I had to catch him before he… By the time I got back… Hood…”

   The outer room fell silent. Hood moved to Marcus’ side, hands clenched. A quick glance revealed that he had a backup domino sealed over his eyes, but he still looked ready to jump out of his own skin.

   Marcus silently shucked his jacket, handing it over. It was a little too small, but it was still better than bandages alone. Thompkins had thrown Hood’s jacket away as soon as she’d seen it, and his chest armor was nowhere to be found. A health hazard, she’d said.

   Hood slid the jacket on, zipping it up. His shoulders eased down.

   “I need to fix it,” Batman’s voice was muttering.

   “My suggestion is to start with a step back.”

   “He’s killing people.”

   “Yes, guilty people. The number of rapes I’ve had in here has lessened by fifty percent this past month. You can’t argue with numbers, B.”

   “It’s not that simple.”

   “We humans insist on making it complicated.”

   “Is he here?”

   The doc’s tone dripped with ice. “He is where he should be. Home.”

   Hood’s fingers curled into the leather of Marcus’ jacket. Marcus kept his eyes on the door.

   A quiet grunt. Then… nothing.

   “Alright,” the doc said softly, tapping on the door.

   Marcus eased it open, gun at the ready. He was greeted by Thompkins’ smiling face, so he didn’t raise the weapon. Yet.

   “Leslie,” Hood muttered gruffly.

   The woman stretched a hand out, brushing one of the many bruises on Hood’s face. “Jason.”

   Hood jerked his head away, lenses widening. A tense silence followed.

   Marcus cleared his throat, eyes on the ceiling. “I don’t hear anythin’, for the record. Just… counting… ceiling tiles…”

   Hood grunted tiredly. “Thanks for your help.”

   “Don’t mention it. You’ve been doing a lot of good around here. With a little focus, you could do even more.” She jerked her thumb at Marcus. “He’s got instructions for the painkillers I want you taking, which I know you still have.”

   Marcus held back a smile, because now was definitely not the time for laughter, even though the scene in front of him was turning hilariously maternal. Wait… If Hood was somehow related to the Big Bad Bat… maybe the doc…?

   No. A romance between Batman and Doc Thompkins seemed kinda weird. The age gap, for one thing. Maybe? Probably. Marcus wasn’t being paid to wonder about that.

   Hood grumbled something unintelligible under his breath, but it must have sounded like an affirmation, because Thompkins stepped out of their way with a sharp smile. “Drive home safe, boys.”

   Marcus handed over his keys as soon as they stepped into the frigid air. “Bike’s around that corner. I live close enough.”

   Hood caught the keys before tossing them right back. “It’s a short walk from your place to mine.”

   Marcus shrugged one shoulder as he pressed down more questions. Hood got onto the bike behind him, barely touching at first. He leaned against Marcus’ shoulders a little as they took a slow circuit through the dark streets.

   Marcus tried not to think about what would have happened if he’d stayed at home.

   “Thanks,” the kid muttered, hopping off at a shadowy corner two blocks from Marcus’ apartment. “I owe you.”

   Marcus shrugged again, trying to ease the obvious awkwardness choking the air. “Least I could do. Keep the jacket. I want it back without a scratch.”

   Hood’s mouth twitched up. “Not a scratch.”

************

   Marcus never got that jacket back. He glimpsed it on a street kid one night during a stakeout. Which was fine, honestly… He wasn’t hurting for clothes or anything. The funny part was the brand new jacket that showed up on his doorstep a few days later, along with a hefty bonus in his bi-weekly pay. (A bribe for staying quiet, or a thank-you? Both?)

   Marcus had enough sense to move on as if nothing had happened, and strangely, so did Hood. The guy didn’t wait a single day before donning another red helmet (Where was he getting them?) and returning to work as usual.

   He did, however, take his pills. Marcus knew this because when he saw Hood make a twenty-foot drop on a drug bust, which would definitely have endangered the kid’s healing ribs. Marcus risked a glare. Hood, in answer, discreetly took a bottle from his (new) jacket pocket, shaking it in the silence. The sound indicated that it was almost empty. The clipped movements indicated that Hood was not happy about that.

   Even more surprisingly, Marcus didn’t get any sort of warning for this slip-up in mutual ignorance. The boss never addressed it again.

************

   Marcus tried to ignore the fact that Hood was just a kid. The guy was dangerous as fuck. His control on the drug trade was growing, bodies were dropping that no one else had dared to go for ‘til now, and more money was pouring in every week. Women were walking home arm-in-arm through the worst parts of Crime Alley without being jumped, and kids were playing out on the streets until dark.

   There was no denying this guy’s power. No one knew where he came from or what he knew; he could be an alien, for crying out loud. (Marcus hadn’t forgotten those glowing green eyes, but…)

   It wasn’t logical to keep thinking about Hood’s face under the red helmet. To remember the fear in his eyes, the sound of his voice, barely deep enough to be out of puberty. (Was he even old enough to drink? Koldan had said otherwise. It had sounded like a simple insult at the time, but now…)

   The rising crime lord of Gotham was young, so young, and there was no forgetting. Marcus tried to stop thinking about it, but he couldn’t. Every time Hood jumped across a gap too wide or caused an explosion too big, Marcus’ heart shot to his throat, and he had to monitor his own breathing for at least ten minutes before convincing himself that his boss was okay.

   Why should he even care?

   The part he actually did manage to stop thinking about, given practice, was the kid’s relation to the Batman. Hood hadn’t mentioned Batman since (Not that he never did), and hadn’t tried to confront him, either. He stuck to Crime Alley, the Narrows, and the docks, keeping a tight boundary. Avoidance?

   Whatever. Marcus wasn’t paid enough to be curious about that. Besides, the recurring nightmare of a roaring fire was more than enough excitement.

   Marcus stuck to his job and kept his head down and shrugged off the strange bonuses whenever his wife happened to ask. Stuff was quiet for a while. That’s why it was such a shock when he arrived at home one day to see the casually dressed Red Hood sitting in his living room.

   “Marc,” his lovely wife greeted, flashing one of her dazzling company-is-present smiles. “This is Peter; he helped me with my groceries.”

   Marcus surveyed the scene as long as he could before reacting. His initial fight-or-flight response had calmed down in light of the fact that Hood had no helmet, no visual weapons, and was sunk down into the couch like he wanted to disappear; a far cry from the aggressive confidence he showed off on the streets. Marcus wouldn’t have believed it was the same guy if not for the patch of white in his hair.

   The white had grown. Huh.

   “I invited him in for dinner,” Catherine said firmly, interrupting Marcus’ train of thought with a disapproving be-nice-to-our-guest glare. “He clearly hasn’t eaten in a while.”

   “I’ve eaten,” the supposed Peter contradicted under his breath. He looked very much like he wanted to be anywhere but here.

   “Stalking my wife?” Marcus greeted lightly. A typical greeting, probably, for a husband of a five-months-pregnant wife.

   Peter made eye contact. His eyes were a dark teal, but as Marcus watched, they faded into a lighter green. “I was just out for a walk.”

   “No one takes walks anymore,” Marcus started to counter, but Peter looked so abruptly offended that he decided to drop it. “Well, welcome in. Cathy can’t help feeding anyone who looks even remotely homeless.”

   “Marc,” Catherine scolded him on her way to the kitchen. Peter looked even more offended, if possible. He didn’t look homeless, either, to be honest. He was wearing his signature brown leather jacket, but the rest of his clothes were in pretty decent shape. He’d even gotten a haircut that did nothing to hide the growing patch of white.

   Marcus almost missed the shift in the atmosphere as he hung his coat up. Something tense that changed from danger to anxiety. He turned back around, giving Hood a sharp once-over. The kid was sitting on the edge of the couch, ready to bolt. He looked so out of place, as if he’d stumbled in by accident but still had no clue what was going on. (Catherine had claimed many victims that way; Hood was not her first, and would definitely not be her last.)

   Hood met Marcus’ gaze, green flashing briefly where almost-blue had just been. He was attempting to look angry, but Marcus could see why he always wore a helmet besides the obvious age-disguising factor. The kid’s expression, though stone, did nothing to hide the emotion in his eyes. His thoughts were an open book, and the expression he gave Marcus was a borderline desperate one. Not “help me” or “leave me alone”, no. It was closer to “please please PLEASE just pretend”.

   The kid was stuck. He didn’t wanna be Hood, but he likely didn’t feel safe enough to be Peter. (Or whoever the hell was sitting in Marcus’ living room like a toddler dropped off in the wrong class.)

   Marcus’ shoulders softened, and he broke eye contact, taking a seat in the chair facing away from the front door. (Back to danger, just like the first time.) “So let’s assume you like school, kid. What would you wanna study?”

   Hood eased back into his chair, gaze shifting away. A line had been drawn. Hood was not Peter; Peter was not Hood. The atmosphere had settled back to chill. “You may think I’m crazy, actually, but here’s the thing about literary English---”

************

   Hood disappeared a week later. A super secret mission, the guys said, but Marcus knew better. Robin had been sighted on patrol again after almost half a year, and Batman’s beatdowns on petty criminals had gotten much worse. Like a threat. A promise.

   There was no way these events were unrelated. Hood was either already injured or going to ground. (Maybe… Maybe he was the reason that Robin had disappeared in the first place.)

   Marcus caught half an answer one night on his walk home from the deli. Peter, white hair barely visible in the dusk, was disappearing around the edge of his block.

   “Cathy?” Marcus stepped into his apartment--- the second floor, obviously, because first-floor apartments were quite a gamble in a city like this one--- and locked the door behind him.

   “Oh, hey, Marc.” Cathy bustled over to him on mismatched sock feet, pecking a kiss to his chin. “You’re home early.”

   “Yeah… It was a slow day.” Marcus peeked out of the kitchen window, but the dark street was devoid of noticeable life. “Was that Peter I saw outside?”

   “You saw him?”

   “He was out of earshot.”

   “Shame. I caught him on his way home, so I offered him a hot drink. He couldn’t say no. Not that I’d have let him, poor thing--- He’s got a limp. Bike accident he said.” Cathy leaned against Marcus’ side, pointing. “He goes up into that apartment there. The third from the top.”

   Marcus straightened up, frowning. “How do you know?”

   “I’m not stalking him,” Cathy huffed indignantly. “I don’t do that anymore. He always sneaks around behind that building, and his light goes on about two minutes later.”

   “He keeps coming back?”

   “Well, no; this was his second time. He walks by outside a lot.” Cathy laid a hand on Marcus’ arm, her voice softening. “He’s not stalking me, either, Marc. He’s just a lonely kid without a proper home. I think he likes knowing there’s somewhere he can go where everything is… normal.”

   Marcus peered out of the window again, watching as the lights in the indicated apartment turned on. The windows were shuttered, but a shadow moved around inside.

   “Y’know,” he finally muttered. “you might be right.”

   “Of course I’m right. Now help me with these potatoes.”

************

   Marcus got home two days later to a kitchen full of mouth-watering smells. “Whoa… What’s the occasion?”

   “There’s no occasion.” Cathy closed the oven, smacking Marcus’ hand away from the apple pie cooling on the island. “A few of the neighbors have decided to help out.”

   “Help…?”

   “Our lonely visitor, Marc. Honestly…”

   Marcus paused in his attempt to nab the cherry pie, blinking. Hood was injured, which was none of his business, and was probably hiding from the Batman, which was also none of his business, but a buffet of homemade baked goods? That just wasn’t fair.

   Marcus straightened up. Why the hell are you babysitting my boss, he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t exactly out Peter’s ID like that, so what he asked instead was “All this for him?”

   “Marc,” his wife warned, brandishing a heavy rolling pin.

   Marcus held his hands up. “I’m just sayin’. That’s a lot for one guy.”

   “He shares it with the kids.”

   “I’m sorry… what?”

   Cathy shook out her floury apron, huffing. “He’s been cranky since his injury; he snaps at any adults that try to talk to him, and sometimes just… walks away. He likes the kiddos, though. I’ve seen him talking to them a few times while they play outside.”

   “So you’re sending the pies over… with kids.”

   “He likes ‘em. I mean, the pies, but also the kids. They don’t put him on edge like we do.”

   Marcus heaved a weary sigh. “He could be a pedophile, Cath.”

   “Not for nothing am I good at reading people, Marcus Durelio. That man is as far from a pedophile as a man could get. Have you seen him smile when the kids ask him to play?”

   Marcus blinked a few times in quick succession. Actually, he’d never seen Peter smile period. Sure, the occasional smirk, maybe… “No?”

   “Take my word for it. It’s very wholesome.”

   Marcus collapsed onto a chair in the living room, mournful. “Why’re you doing all this? He’s one guy. There are lots of others ‘round here who would also like some pie. Me, for instance.”

   Cathy paused in the kitchen, gazing over at Marcus with a sad smile on her face. “There’s something about him, Marc. Something kinda broken, but kinda hopeful at the same time. Don’t you think?”

   “If you say so.” Marcus glowered at the coffee table. He wasn’t done being paranoid; his headstrong wife should at least consider the dangers. “… Have you noticed how his eyes glow?”

   “Yes, actually, I have.” Cathy set another pie on the counter. Maybe he’s a meta.”

   “Yeah, it’s occurred to me.”

   “Would that be such a bad thing?”

   “… No. I guess not.”

************

   Hood accepted pretty much all the food gifted to him, which was objectively hilarious, because A, the kids who were sent over by their mothers every other night with full bags were convinced that their super cool neighbor needed some company, and B, Hood never shooed them away. (He never hurt them, either. Marcus kept a careful eye out for anything suspicious, just in case. Besides some new clothes, and maybe a full belly or two, the kids never came out of Hood’s home without a smile on their faces.)

   It was incredible. One of the mothers tried delivering the food herself, one night, and Hood slammed the door in her face. But the kids…

   Not that anyone knew who he was. To the neighborhood, he was just a really helpful, really sweet, really sad looking collage kid who needed a few extra meals under his ribs. To Marcus…

   Hood ignored the situation when he donned the helmet, and Marcus followed his example. Mostly. He couldn’t help a small scoff one night during a stakeout though, when Hood, clearly bored of the waiting, took out a tinfoil wrapped piece of pie.

   The other men hiding around gave Marcus the side-eye. Sure, Hood was a great boss, but laughing at him was a lot like trying to pet a cat. Dangerous at times, harmless at others; always be prepared to have your eyes clawed out.

   Hood ignored them, lifting his helmet just enough to take a bite.

   “Looks like good pie,” Marcus commented innocently, moving his gaze to the warehouse yard below.

   Hood didn’t deign to answer him, of course. Marcus wondered with some amusement how far he could push the envelope before crossing a line.

************

   “Hi,” Marcus greeted cheerfully.

   Peter glared at him with bloodshot eyes. The bags underneath didn’t look great, either, and his tanktop was smeared with oil.

   Marcus nudged the shoulder of the little girl standing next to him. “This is Chelsea, my niece. She’s just visiting, but she heard about you from the other kids an’ wanted a turn to drop off the food.”

   Peter looked down, blinking green away from his teal eyes. “… Hi.”

   Chelsea, a mature nine years old, grinned excitedly as she offered up a bag of hot food. “Here ya go!!! Mom said she overcooked the steak a little, but the pancakes should be alright. They’re pumpkin flavored!!!”

   Peter darted an unreadable glance at Marcus before smiling thinly down at Chelsea. “That’s real nice of your mom; tell her I say thank you.”

   Chelsea clasped her hands happily, the perfect picture of a tiny swooning princess. “I will!!! Oh---” She hopped up on her toes, skipping to the end of the hallway. “I forgot--- Be right back!!!”

   Marcus smirked softly, turning to look back at Peter. “Kids---”

   A fist grabbed his shirt, hauling him forward. Marcus stood on his toes to keep his balance as glowing green eyes stared him down only two inches away.

   Well… Now he knew where the line was.

   “What is wrong with you?” Peter growled at him, a snarl contorting his face. “Hiding behind the skirts of a little girl? What do you want?”

   Marcus raised his empty hands, frowning. He wasn’t afraid of this kid… not here, not now. “It’s my niece, man. She wanted to see you.”

   “Why?”

   “Well, why not? You’re the cool kid on the block, aren’t you?”

   Peter shoved Marcus away, releasing him. He suddenly looked tired instead of angry. (His eyes still glowed.) “You should leave.”

   Marcus kept his hands at his sides, shrugging. “Probably.”

   “What do you want, Durelio?” Peter snapped wearily. “Money? A higher rank? You can have it; just leave me---”

   “Here!!!” Chelsea stumbled back up the stairs, shoving an old Amazon package into Peter’s free hand. “We made ‘em for you!!!”

   Peter glanced at Marcus, then at the box, suspicious. He set down the bag of food to peel the tape of the box open.

   “… It’s art,” Chelsea explained anxiously when Peter didn’t react. “Y’know, paintings and clay sculptures and stuff. Ev’ryone did some… They said your ‘partment is kinda plain. They said I should bring it cause I’m the new kid.” She stood on her tiptoes, pointing. “That one’s from me, the one on top.”

   Peter blinked at her. He didn’t look at Marcus, but the older man could see the plethora of emotions flicking across his face, not to mention the green dimming from his eyes. He looked… sad.

   “Is it alright?” Chelsea asked anxiously, twisting one of her pigtails.

   “Yeah---” Peter cleared his throat, getting to one knee. “This is freaking awesome, Chels. Thank you so much, I can’t wait to decorate.” He blinked rapidly. “May I give you a hug?”

   The kiddo squealed, throwing herself around his neck. “I knew you’d like it!!!”

   Peter hugged her tight, keeping his eyes on the floor. “Thanks.”

   “I’ll tell ‘em,” Chelsea confided shyly, pulling away to twist her pigtail again.

   “You do that.” Pete stood up, a bag in one hand, a box in the other. “And don’t forget to tell your mom thanks.”

   Chelsea dashed off with a parting giggle, disappearing down the stairs. She’d probably reached her limit of mature adult interaction for one night.

   Marcus finally felt safe enough to slide his hands into his pockets. “… Kids.”

   Peter grunted wordlessly, taking a pistol out of his waistband. He didn’t aim it or even flick off the safety. He just tapped it warningly against the frame of the door.

   Marcus shrugged one shoulder, turning to go. He paused at the head of the stairs. Should he say it… or shouldn’t he? “I just wanted to check on you… that’s all. You’re not alone.”

   Silence preceded the squeak of the door closing, then the click of a lock.

************

   Hood disappeared sometimes from regular meetings. That was fine, because A, he probably had lots of creepy crime boss shit to take care of, and B, Marcus saw him around as a civilian anyway. A lot more than Peter probably wanted him to, actually, but when you kept accidentally bumping into a guy outside of the deli and by the library and walking home from the bar one night… What could you do?

   One week after a huge Arkham breakout, however, Hood… and Peter… suddenly vanished.

   “You get word?” the Top Ten chat read. Vague on purpose, because no one wanted to get caught having a group chat.

   “No,” someone else answered, and then the next, and the next.

   “He’s probably out kicking Batman’s butt,” was a commonly texted joke, and it made its appearance now just like it had the last fifteen times Hood had left them hanging.

   Marcus didn’t say anything. He had nothing to offer besides speculation, and he didn’t wanna cause alarm. People got spooked when their boss was AWOL; he’d seen it happen. Whatever this was…

   He shrugged his jacket on, leaving his phone in the hallway. “I’m going on a walk.”

   “Be careful,” Cathy called back. “It’s your night off.”

   “Tis,” he muttered grumpily, locking the door behind him before striding towards the setting sun. He had at least three safehouses to check, two of which he should definitely not know about.

************

   “Fuck,” someone hissed as soon as the light turned on.

   Marcus flipped it back off, giving his eyes a minute to adjust before edging carefully into the front hallway. “Boss?”

   A dark blob of snarling fury surged around the corner, swinging at Marcus’ head. He didn’t have time to duck before a fist caught him in the stomach. Wheezing whilst crumbling to his knees seemed like the most logical course of action. The next was rolling to the right. Fast.

   Green eyes were all Marcus could see when he scanned for an escape, and they looked mad.

   “Boss,” he sputtered, stumbling to his feet just in time to dodge a deadly kick to the ribs. “It’s me, it’s Marcus, you--- fuck---”

   Hood shot at him. Shot at him.

   Plan B, then.

   Marcus rolled behind the couch, grabbed a ratty pillow on his way, and threw it backwards as soon as he had his footing. He didn’t check to see where this distraction had landed before yanking a gun from his waistband, flipping the safety, and firing three times at the lowest mark he could spot.

   Hood’s form dropped like a sack of potatoes, and he swore fluently in another language. Arabic?

   “Jason,” Marcus muttered gruffly, dropping his gun to the floor. “It’s me.”

   “Fuck,” the younger man groaned, rolling around on the floor while cradling his right shin. “You fucking bastard---”

   “Yeah, yeah, I got it.” Marcus dropped to one knee, wrapping the kid’s leg with his buff scarf before securing it with his belt. It was a flesh wound. Promising, but he couldn’t see how bad it bled in the dark.

   “What are you doing here?” Hood hissed at him like it wasn’t obvious.

   Marcus sat back, ignoring the sticky warm blood on his hands as he glared at his boss’s painfully curled body. “Where’s your shirt?”

   “Fuck. You.” Hood ground out, favoring his left side as he struggled to sit up.

   Marcus squeezed the kid’s knee, incredulous. “Did you bust your ribs again?”

   “Oh, gee, that’s what hurts. Silly old me.”

   Marcus shook his head, leaning closer to help the kid up--- What the hell was he gonna tell the doc?--- but the glowing green eyes jerked backwards, widened.

   Marcus shifted his weight back onto his heels, palms up. “I’m not gonna hurtcha.”

   “Likely.”

   “Where else are you hurt?”

   “I’m not.”

   “Then why are you sitting in a stale apartment without the lights on?”

   Hood shivered visibly in the darkness, bowing his head. The green eyes vanished from sight, but the glow didn’t. It was enough to light up the bandages sloppily wrapped around Hood’s chest.

   “Concussion?” Marcus guessed next.

   “Go away,” Hood croaked hoarsely.

   “Uhuh.” Marcus shed his jacket, dropping it in Hood’s lap. “Definitely a concussion, and I’m gonna take a wild guess at fear toxin or some shit. This isn’t normal. You’re not normal.”

   Hood clutched the jacket tightly. “You shouldn’t be here.”

   “The hell I shouldn’t. You need a doctor.” Marcus managed a smirk, trying to ignore the anxious worry pinging around in his ribcage like a damn pinball. “Someone to keep you from a hallucinogen-induced killing spree, at least.”

   “That’s why I’m here, asshole.” Hood went still. It was hard to tell where he was looking through the glowing green. “You’d stop me, though.”

   Marcus froze for a moment, nonplussed. “Yeah--- I would.”

   “You just did.”

   “Well, in all fairness, you were trying to pistol-whip my brains out.” Marcus grimaced sympathetically. “Sorry about the leg, though.”

   Hood just stared at him, eerily quiet. “It was a good shot.”

   Marcus shook his head, firmly stamping down the heebie jeebies. “I left my phone. You got one?”

   “Why?”

   “You need a patch job.”

   “I can do it.” Hood leaned forward, grunting. He batted away Marcus’ proffered hand. Then he froze.

   Marcus glanced around, trying to follow the glowing green gaze across the room. He saw nothing but an empty apartment, barely lit from the lampposts outside. The wallpaper was peeling, and now that he was looking, he saw bullet holes in the ceiling.

   “He’s here,” Hood rasped stiffly, twitching in a really strange way.

   Marcus rested a hand on the kid’s bare shoulder, still scanning the apartment. “Take a breath. Who?” Anyone from Black Mask to Deathstroke could probably cause this level of paranoia in the Red Hood, and Marcus was not equipped for that. If this was just a Rogue chemical, though…

   Hood did the opposite of taking a breath, but he did jerk his chin at the window. “Batman.”

   Marcus’ heartbeat calmed down a smidge, but Batman was barely better, at least for criminals like himself. “Where?”

   “He’s here.”

   “Okay, I got that.” Marcus rolled his eyes as he picked up his gun. “I’ma go check, okay?”

   “He’ll kill you,” Hood muttered darkly.

   Marcus leveled the kid what he hoped was a flat stare. “Batman doesn’t kill.”

   Hood’s shoulders slumped. Defeat? Aw, man, I was hoping he would take you off my case for me by ending your life. No hard feelings. “I know.”

   Marcus sauntered to the windows with a preposterous level of bravado. Being killed was the least of his worries, honestly. Being beaten to a bloody pulp? Dropped off of the third-story fire escape? Those were a little higher on that list.

   But he couldn’t leave the kid.

   Marcus opened the window, poking his head out to take a good look. He still didn’t see anything. Left… down… up. (ALWAYS look up, Hood had taught them at their first group op. You never know what kind of bat or bird might be waiting for you.)

   Marcus finally looked to the right. He came face to face with the narrowed white lenses of a cowl, the soft fluttering of a cape, and froze.

   Fear stared into his soul, gloved fingers flexing on the bar of the fire escape.

   Marcus stayed still for what felt like five minutes. He could feel soft breaths against his face. This would be a horrible way to die, was his first thought, but his second was, absurdly, He can’t see you if you can’t see him.

   It was childish, but Marcus couldn’t help it. He squeezed his eyes shut. He took a deep breath. Then, as steadily as he could, he called, “No one’s out here, kid.”

   “Bullshit,” the kid’s voice shot back.

   Marcus kept his eyes closed as he pulled himself back into the apartment. Slow, but not too slow. Casual. Slid the window closed with more grumpiness than fear. Locked the rusty latch. His fingers trembled. His voice did not. “It’s pretty quiet out tonight. We’re in the clear; you’re okay.”

   Hood didn’t say anything else. He was probably shivering too hard.

   Marcus turned his back on the window, on his one stop trip to the hospital, and tugged his jacket over this dumb idiot’s arms. “You owe me another now, for the record.”

   “Favor?”

   “Jacket. Now let’s get you patched up.”

   Hood’s glowing eyes finally moved away from the window, dimming. He held out his hand with a heavy scowl. “Help me up.”

************

   Marcus’ lovely wife banned him from giving away any more jackets to “homeless kids”. Coincidentally, a brand new one mysteriously showed up on his doorstep with no return address. There was a note in the pocket; a sloppy scrawl that just read “Thanks”.

   Marcus didn’t tell anyone about his near brush with Batman (death), because A, it was no one’s business, and B, he couldn’t figure out whether he was on thin ice or had just gotten lucky. Peter wasn’t around much anymore, even though he kept renting out the same apartment--- Marcus knew because he’d checked--- but business was… well… good. Most of the smaller gangs had already given up their turf, and the bigger ones had seriously cut back on where they did their business. Everyone’s pay kept growing, too, but Marcus didn’t join in on those conversations, because he had a sneaky suspicion that his paychecks were about two grand bigger than the next guy’s, and he still didn’t know why.

   Hood didn’t treat him any differently on their group ops, but Marcus started getting assigned as the head of smaller missions, quieter ones that involved threatening dealers to stop messing with kids and talking teens out of getting into risky business and taking down the odd up-an’-coming gang that only consisted of young men who still had a lot of life to look forward to. The kind of stuff that, inevitably, required a lot of trust.

   Marcus wondered if he was being shown subtle favor for his growing set of skills or as a simple bribe for silence. He got his answer one night when Hood held him back after an explosive sabotage job by the docks. He didn’t say anything until everyone else had left. Then he leaned on a nearby wall, silently pressing into it like he wanted to knock the entire building down. The most he managed was denting the thick tin--- Another point for super strength. Marcus was pretty convinced by now that the kid had powers, whether he used them or not. (Why else would someone’s eyes glow?)

   Marcus realized when Hood punched the wall that he himself was probably meant to keep watch. There was no explanation for it, no instruction, just instinct. He turned his back, clicked the safety off of his rifle, and watched their surroundings with great care as increasingly angry punches rained on the warehouse behind him.

   After about five minutes, the noises of a wall getting the shit beaten out of it fell silent. Marcus risked glancing back, keeping his tone as casual as possible. “Boss?”

   Hood turned to face him, panting. Marcus couldn’t see the kid’s eyes behind that scuffed red helmet, but he had a feeling they’d be glowing right about now. “You’d take me down if I lost my shit, right?”

   Marcus stayed quiet for a second. How did he answer a question like that? How was he supposed to answer? This wasn’t even the first time--- He remembered Peter mentioning a similar plea when he was high on fear toxin in that dark apartment. He wondered if the kid remembered it, too.

   It didn’t seem like a trick question, so Marcus finally shrugged. “‘Course.”

   “You’d kill me?” Hood pressed urgently, close enough now to grab a fistful of Marcus’ jacket. He was taller, so the movement forced the shorter man to stand on the balls of his feet.

   Marcus flipped the safety back on, keeping his rifle pointed to the ground. “I’m pretty sure there are safer ways to take you down. Shoot a leg, for instance. You got that limp when it rains; I’d aim there, then a shoulder. Painful, but not lethal.”

   A heavy silence followed. Hood was a little close for comfort. Fortunately, Marcus had stopped being scared of the kid when he’d realized how lonely he really was. When Hood didn’t move or speak, Marcus risked griping. “Ease up on the jacket. It’s new.”

   Hood finally stepped back, scoffing. His modulator was damaged--- Marcus could hear the catch in his voice. “It’s nice.”

   “Thanks.” Marcus shrugged the garment back into place, sniffing importantly. “A friend got it for me. Pretty good kid. Territorial, bit obsessive. My wife told me I wasn’t allowed to give this one away.”

   Hood went still again, staring. His hand drifted up almost absently to straighten his own bloodied jacket--- The one Marcus had given up after pulling him from flaming rubble. “I’ll bet she has.”

   They didn’t say anything else, but Marcus didn’t even pretend to take a separate route on the way home, and Hood threw him a mock salute before disappearing into the alleyway behind the complex across the street.

************

   “He’s got a real sore spot for the Bat,” Two-Bit muttered as Hood paced out of the safehouse for the fifth time that night. They’d been geared up to perform a drug bust tonight, a big one, before the Batman had arrived at the scene first. Nightwing had even dropped in from Bludhaven, and it was rumored that Robin had hit the streets as well; a slightly rarer occurrence nowadays.

   The boss had all but thrown a tantrum, seething under his breath about “fucking narcissistic showoff” before punching a hole through the apartment wall. He’d gone on a walk after that. Well, five by now. He always returned, because they were hoping that they’d get to corner some of the big players that might book it when the fight died down. That possibility was becoming increasingly less likely by the minute.

   Marcus shrugged one shoulder as he tossed down a colorful card. “Red.”

   Everyone but Sharpie groaned. They’d combined three incomplete decks in order to play this Uno game with so many, and red was a rare color. Marcus had five. (He also had fifteen cards in total, so no one should’ve been complaining. It wasn’t like he’d win.)

   “You don’t think it’s weird?” Two-Bit continued, glancing fervently at the doorway where Hood had just disappeared.

   “I think it’s none of my business,” Marcus muttered sagely, watching Dusty struggle in vain over his hand of cards before eventually picking up a couple new ones. “If it were, I’d say there’s some buried history there that I wouldn’t poke at with a ten-foot pole.”

   “History?” Sharpie scoffed in disbelief. “Like, what, besties? Partners?”

   Marcus tapped one finger on the table, thoughtful. He trusted these guys--- All of them were Top Ten, which meant Hood trusted them, too. He’d also somehow gained their attention; most were trying to look like they weren’t listening. They were bad at it.

   Marcus heaved a sigh, leaning forward. “He’s younger than you’d think under that helmet.”

   “You’ve seen it?” Sharpie whispered with equal fascination an’ horror, tossing down a red three.

   “Yeah.” Dusty contemplated his own cards. “I mean, most of us have, right?”

   Marcus raised an eyebrow. Some of the men looked confused. Most looked way too knowing.

   Hood must not have been as sneaky as he thought.

   “He is young,” Scruffy finally conceded, rubbing the gray stubble on his chin. “but he knows his stuff. I find it hard to believe the Bat’s a real threat. I mean, the guy can’t even find Hood, much less take him down.”

   “Can he not find him?” Dusty broke back in, slapping down a colorful card. “Or has he stopped trying? Green.”

   “Everyone hates me,” Pebble moaned unhappily, picking up three, four, five cards from the pile before coming across a green one.

   “He’s not just irritated with the Bat,” Blue’s voice spoke up over their coms; the only female in the Top Ten besides Peach, who was sick at home but probably listening in just like Blue was. Marcus hoped she’d remembered to exclude Hood’s coms for this. “He’s AFRAID of him.”

   Marcus nodded thoughtfully. That checked out with the fear toxin incident, as well as how jumpy the kid got whenever the Bat was too close to his ops.

   “I wonder why,” Crowley muttered thoughtfully, tossing down a green. The guy was a little younger than average, but he was Hood’s new Second, so he was probably alright. Quiet, squared away.

   “It’s none of our business,” Peach muttered stuffily, coughing. “Our--- job is--- to do what we’re told an’ watch out for the boss.”

   “I’m not confronting the Bat,” Sharpie muttered absently. It went without saying. None of them were quite that loyal.

   Marcus glanced at the dingy window, watching the fire that raged a few blocks down where the Batman--- and his pals--- were supposedly doing Hood’s job. “Maybe we don’t have to.”

************

   “Didja hear ‘bout last night?”

   Marcus glanced up from the wooden floorboard he’d been examining, confused. “Huh?”

   Cathy rubbed a hand over her swelling stomach, swaying in place as they waited in line. Marcus had practically begged her to sit down once they’d gotten inside, but noooooooo, she didn’t wanna spend one minute of their date night letting him off on his own--- “I gotta beat off the enterprising hussies that ignore a man’s wedding ring,” she’d fussed.

   Marcus didn’t wanna break it to her that he hadn’t been flirted with a day over twenty.

   “Word with the girls,” Cathy told him in a conspicuous whisper, “the girls” being the other mothers of the neighborhood that insisted on dropping more pesky advice to Cathy the closer she got to her due date. “is that the Dark Knight is lookin’ for Hood.”

   Marcus did his best not to react, but his words still came out a little flat. “No shit.”

   Cathy slapped his arm. (God she was beautiful.) “I’m not done. He’s narrowed down his search patterns. Started askin’ the kids that are still out at dusk. Stephen, Helanie, hell, even the littles… Lauren’s kiddo had a confrontation with ‘im last night.”

   Marcus narrowed his eyes at the line ahead of them, considering. Cathy had her own methods of information-gathering, and she’d learned on her own, somehow, about their next door neighbor’s nightlife. She was great about keeping that to herself when a haggard Peter dropped by for an occasional dinner, but she wasn’t so great about keeping quiet in public, which was arguably more dangerous.

   “Yeah,” she continued secretively, taking Marcus’ silence as an invitation. “her ten-year-old, Mark.”

   Marcus finally looked at her. “That doesn’t seem legal, interrogating children.”

   “He didn’t even come down from his perch in the alley. Laurie’s kid said that Batman asked her ‘bout any new neighbors, and y’know, the kids know everything before the adults do, so there’s no question about who Peter is come nightfall.”

   Marcus turned his wife to face him, concerned. “The kiddos know?”

   “Yeah, everyone does,” Cathy answered in surprise, but she lowered her voice when she sensed Marcus’ alarm. “The littles are Peter’s favorite people in existence, Mark; of course they figured it out.”

   Marcus took a deep steadying breath. Maybe it was time for a confrontation. Hood was being way too sloppy with--- (Unless… he wanted people to know.)

   “It’s an if-you-know-you-know kinda thing,” Cathy soothed when she got no response.

   Marcus just grunted, rubbing her arm where he’d gripped a bit tight. “So what did Laurie’s kid do?”

   Cathy brightened up, eager as always to gossip. “The kiddo just kept saying ‘I dunno’ to all the Bat’s questions--- And we know full well that Laurie’s kids are the knowers.”

   Marcus nodded along. He did not, in fact, know this about Laurie’s kids, but he supposed it tracked if you did. “And?”

   “The Bat got tired of the same answers an’ left. Can you believe that?”

   Marcus puffed out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Son of a bitch. I wonder what he wants so bad that he’s going to kids.”

   “Don’t let Hood hear about it--- He’d be royally pissed.”

   Marcus disguised a laugh in a cough. “Yeah--- he would.”

************

   It did not take long for Hood to find out on his own about Batman’s interrogation tactics--- Peter got most of his gossip from the kids, so there was no keeping it quiet. The fallout, however, was…

   “FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!!!” Hood’s voice roared, and Marcus snapped to attention so fast he probably displaced a disc. The other men that had arrived early for their weekly meeting practically jumped out of their skins.

   … explosive.

   Hood stalked into the room, violently checking the mag of his right-hand pistol. He wasn’t wearing his helmet--- or a domino. Marcus couldn’t tell if that was because the only people present were members of the Top Ten, or because Hood just--- hadn’t noticed. Everyone was too scared to ask. Hood’s eyes were glowing.

   “Which piece of shit, in question, are we fucking up tonight?” Crow muttered quietly. This was probably why he’d survived as SIC for longer than two weeks--- He knew how to walk the razor edge of Hood’s patience with the words everyone was thinking but no one wanted to say.

   Hood punched the wall--- hard. It left a dent in the metal, but Marcus didn’t flinch like the others did, because yeah, he’d seen worse. (At least it wasn’t anyone skull, right? Right?)

   Hood whirled on his heel, meeting Marcus’ eyes with the focus of a rabid wolf. Marcus stared back, steady. He saw the veiled question in the kid’s gaze, but there there was no easy way to answer it without coming across as an actual threat, so he just nodded. There was a line, and as far as Marcus knew, he was the only one who’d been trusted to stop Hood from crossing it.

   Hood’s jaw tightened before he turned away. No one questioned the passing exchange. It was hard to notice anything beyond the glowing fury, though.

   “Target?” Crow repeated steadily, posture just relaxed enough to look not-a-threat, but just stiff enough to look eager for action. Fuckin’ brilliant kid. Marcus wondered briefly if the two were related before chiding himself. Not everyone in Gotham with a backbone could be related to one guy, and Marcus needed to stop guessing.

   “Arkham,” Hood spit out. Marcus took a minute to run through his mental vocabulary of English swear words before following everyone else to the less suspicious van.

   Time to fuck shit up.

************

   “This is a bad idea,” Pebble muttered quietly.

   Marcus shifted a little to the right on his treetop perch, peering through his scope. It was dark as hell out here, which fit the aesthetic. (Whatever the hell that was.) They weren’t breaking in, though, thank God. Hood had a very reasonable aversion to setting foot on Arkham’s grounds, so it was incredible that they were here at all. A notorious serial killer was being transported from Blackgate to Arkham tonight, apparently, because he liked killing people with spoons, and you only got into Arkham by killing people in really unconventional ways.

   It was an exclusive club.

   “Scopes, check,” Hood’s voice growled.

   “Check,” Marcus muttered quietly, adjusting again. He could see, through the red lense, the road that the truck would be coming down. If he swung in the other direction, he could see Arkham’s first checkpoint, a reinforced gate that had been built a couple years ago when the old one got blown up. Breakouts from this place were always… renovating. (Marcus hoped fervently that there wasn’t one happening tonight.)

   “Check,” Pebble put in.

   “Check,” Two-Bit answered. Three different scopes, as planned.

   “Scout, check,” Hood’s voice continued.

   “Check,” Dusty answered quietly, then even softer, “Dunno why I’M here.”

   “Coms,” Hood ordered next.

   “Closed,” Blue answered him, an edge to her young voice. “You’re all set, boss.”

   “Good. Backup?”

   “Waiting,” Crowley answered briefly.

   “Getaway?”

   “Good to go,” Scruffy confirmed next.

   Marcus peered through his sight again. There it was, right on schedule--- The lights of a truck. Or, more specifically, the type of armored vehicle most banks used to transport cash.

   Not that Marcus had actually robbed any banks or anything.

   “Somethin’ ain’t right,” Two-Bit muttered. Marcus suddenly spotted it, too; a motorcycle escorting the vehicle. It trailed a little behind, no lights, barely any noise, but the yellow fluttering was unmistakable even in the near-dark.

   “Son of a gun,” Hood muttered softly.

   Marcus felt a jarring shiver travel all the way up his spine. He lowered his rifle. “Boss.”

   Hood didn’t answer. A second later, gunfire broke out from the other two frontliners, hitting the bulletproof glass. They didn’t do much damage, considering Armored One’s glass film was explosive resistant, but coupled with the sudden bright headlights aimed at the truck driver from the road up ahead, the chaos caused the vehicle to swerve. Hood dropped onto the roof of it, right on cue.

   Marcus allowed himself a single heartfelt “Shit” as he slid down the tree (grateful for his gloves,) and hit the ground running. The truck skidded to a stop, and Hood dropped down, prying the door open with a crowbar. He tossed the driver to the dirt, shot the guy’s leg, and knocked him out. The hopper made the mistake of exiting the back of the truck; Hood shot him next through the shoulder, then knocked him down with a brutal football tackle.

   Wait, Marcus wanted to shout, but he was too far away, and Hood was too fast--- The motorcycle had only just skidded to a stop. Hood was surging to his feet, lunging, swinging---

   Robin executed a flawless series of backwards handsprings to create distance, but he wasn’t fast enough; Hood was there when he landed, swinging the crowbar hard enough to send Robin flying.

   Marcus threw himself at Hood’s body, sparing a brief second to the thoughts I’m gonna die and I didn’t say goodbye to Cathy and Shit shit shit before hitting the ground. Hard. Hood was stunned enough that he stopped shooting, and Marcus punched the pressure point on his wrist, hoping desperately that Hood had been telling the truth about his weaknesses---

   Hood dropped the gun. Unfortunately, the crowbar was still a problem. Marcus threw the pistol as far away as he could, unholstered the other one, and clicked the safety on before using the gun to block the stick of metal heading for his face. Something clipped his chin. His tongue bled.

   “Shit,” Hood snarled furiously, drawing back to strike again, or maybe to roll over, to gain balance, but Marcus didn’t give him a chance. He flicked the safety back off as fast as he could, lowered the gun, please oh please don’t let me miss, and shot Hood’s leg, the one that limped when it rained. Hood’s strangled “Fuck” was either very good or very bad, and he went in for a headbutt.

   Marcus flattened onto his back, draining the kinetic energy from the movement as Hood’s helmet collided with his chin, (two for two,) and pressed the kid’s pistol against his right shoulder. Marcus’ free hand still held the crowbar away from his face. That left one of Hood’s hands free, and about three-hundred pounds of angry crime lord landing on top of him.

   “Boss,” Marcus wheezed out, tipping his chin down. Yes, it left his fucking nose exposed to more headbutting, but it protected his throat. “I like to go for my knives when I’m disarmed,” the kid had told him once. “I can throw them. Accurately. Your best bet is close range.”

   “Peter,” Marcus wheezed as Hood’s free hand scrabbled for a knife. “Jason.”

   Hood’s movements stuttered to a halt.

   “Hey,” Marcus tried weakly, heaving for breath, because damn this guy is heavy. “Hey. Let’s… Let’s talk about this. He’s a kid, right? Just a kid. A fuckin’ teenager. C’mon, man, this is a bad look.”

   Hood glanced up towards the powerful headlights that were still illuminating the road. There was blood in the dirt. (Marcus didn’t know whose it was.)

   “Hey,” he tried again, flipping the safety on of the gun pressed into Hood’s shoulder, then removing his finger from the trigger. He kept a firm grip on the crowbar. He didn’t want to lose a tooth. “Jay.”

   Hood’s helmet turned, staring him down, and Marcus forced himself to stay unreactive. He’s a kid. He’s just a kid. A teenager. He’s angry, he’s hurt. Don’t shoot him.

   “Marcus,” Hood rasped out, and the audio of the modulator cracked.

   “It’s okay,” Marcus answered firmly. He noted that this was the tone of voice he used when his wife had anxiety attacks. He wondered if that was a bad thing. “Hey. It’s okay. Let go of the crowbar.”

   Hood’s hand twitched. No knife appeared.

   “Give it here,” Marcus repeated lowly. “I’ve got it. It’s okay.”

   Slowly, painfully slowly, Hood’s let go of the crowbar. Then he rolled to his knees, allowing Marcus to gasp in a full breath of air. Finally.

   “Those,” Hood muttered quietly, sounding unhinged. “are MY colors.”

   Marcus’ breath hitched, but he rolled to his feet, refusing to react. To their credit, none of the others reacted, either, even though the com line was still fucking open. “We’re here for the truck, the serial killer. Let’s finish it.”

   Hood turned away, movements jerky, and retrieved his other pistol from the ground nearby before hopping into the back of the truck. Marcus slid the crowbar through his belt, glanced at Robin--- dazed, but breathing--- and picked up his discarded rifle. Both guards were knocked out with minor gunshot wounds. Well, minor enough that the sirens whining in the distance would get here in time.

   A single shot sounded from the truck, and Hood jumped back out, stalking towards Marcus with a demanding sweep of his hand. Marcus offered the pistol back butt first. Hood snatched it, but still he stood there, waiting.

   Marcus knew what the kid wanted. He didn’t give it up. After a long tense silence, Hood turned on his heel, shot a grapple, and disappeared into the trees.

   Marcus’ knees wobbled. “C’mon, gang, pack it up.”

   “The cops are two minutes out,” Blue muttered solemnly. “Get a move-on, ladies.”

   No one spoke they hurried to their getaway. No one wanted to.

************

   “He was Robin,” Dusty muttered solemnly, finally breaking the silence of their favorite warehouse’s loft. It was safe here. No surveillance had been set up, so they usually worked out in the gym downstairs, but the only ones who ever hung out this late were members of the Top Ten. Hood had left hours ago, stopping only long enough to leave his extra gear. Blue was keeping an eye on him from afar, apparently. Hers was the only com Hood hadn’t blocked. (She hadn’t told anyone where he was going, and they were too smart to ask.)

   “He was Robin,” Dusty repeated with quiet awe. “Everything makes so much sense now.”

   “It definitely explains the random attacks against the Bat,” Two-Bit grunted, hitting a ball on the pool table that started up a cacophony of clacking. “Against Robin.”

   “I thought he just had, like, some sort of criminal grudge against ‘em, like the Joker or Two-Face,” Pebble muttered weakly, flopping into one of the hammocks face-first. His words became muffled. “I didn’t guess they were old partners.”

   “He was a kid when he died, right?” Dusty continued urgently. “The last Robin?”

   “Supposedly died,” Two-Bit corrected.

   “People can come back to life, right? That’s a thing.”

   “No one actually confirmed his death,” Sharpie reasoned with a mouthful of burger. “He just disappeared. I heard the kid that took his place was a different size; couldn’t’a been the same guy.”

   Marcus flopped backwards onto one of the huge beanbags, puffing a sigh. “That’s the shit. Pass a fry, Sharpie, huh?”

   “How are you so chill about this?” Dusty’s voice demanded shrilly. “We’re in the middle of a fucking family feud!!!”

   “We are not,” Crowley cut in firmly. “in the middle of anything. We heard nothing, assume nothing, and investigate nothing. Capiche?”

   A few muttered acknowledgments traveled around the room. Marcus caught the half empty box of fries Sharpie tossed at him, beginning to munch as he pretended that he could sink all the way into the beanbag chair. Then, maybe, he would finally get a break from thinking so hard. Be one with the beans.

   “You sure you’re okay?” Dusty ventured uncertainly.

   Marcus waved his fries. “Bruises. I’m a tough guy, Dusty; don’t worry your pretty little mullet.”

   Dusty spluttered indignantly in the background as Two-Bit muttered, “I’ve never seen anyone do something that ballsy an’ come out of it unscathed.”

   “I’m scathed,” Marcus protested grumpily. “My chin an’ tongue are very scathed, thanks for asking.”

   “You said it was only bruises,” Blue pointed out, sounding annoyed.

   “Yeah, well, I could stand a little bit of sucking up,” Marcus shot back. When everyone stayed silent, he sighed, raising his head to look around the loft. “What do you want me to say, guys? He gets mad, you know that.”

   “Green glowy thing,” Dusty whispered secretively.

   “He was gonna kill a teenager,” Marcus continued stubbornly. “I wasn’t gonna do nothin’. He’s got a code; he’d feel like crap if he slipped up.”

   “Yeah, but that was, like, planned,” Sharpie put in suspiciously. “You were ready to take him down.”

   “Marcus’ business with Hood is between them, and them alone,” Crowley interrupted before Marcus could answer. The SIC glared everyone into silence. Funny how intimidating he could look for a guy that young.

   Marcus let his head fall back, groaning. “Fuck. He’s like a son, guys, I dunno. How else are you supposed to feel about a fuckin’ KID? Most of you are fuckin’ kids!!!”

   This statement was met with uncomfortable silence. Well someone had to say it.

   “Yeah,” Scruffy finally muttered, glancing up from the cards he was playing with at one of the tables. “He is.”

   Marcus blinked a few times, trying to back up. His mouth felt lonely, so he chewed on some more cold fries. Eating helped him think instead of passing the fuck out. “What?”

   “He is a kid,” Scruffy explained slowly. “and he does feel like a son.”

   “To you old timers, anyway,” Sharpie muttered around his burger.

   “Oh, get real,” Blue snapped out of nowhere. “You idiots care about him like he’s family, every single one of you; stop beating around the fucking bush about it.”

   “Blue,” Crowley muttered wearily. “You have a real way with words.”

   “Robin,” Pebble whispered into the silence. “a crime lord.”

   “What do we do?” Dusty asked in a slightly high-pitched voice.

   “The same thing we always do,” Marcus found himself answering. “We look out for our own.”

************

   Marcus didn’t see hide or hair of Hood until a week later when he was walking home from a trip to the corner store for Cathy’s daily cravings. The kiddos were playing in the street, even though it was dusk. It looked like some form of Keepaway on steroids. There were a few teens playing too, mostly older siblings. One of the tallest stood right out, distinguishable only by the shock of white hair as he weaved between everyone else.

   “Boys!!!” a mother’s voice called from a lighted doorway. “Dinner!!!”

   “Come on in, girls,” someone else shouted down the street.

   “Aw, c’mon, five more minutes?” one of the kids hollered back.

   “Yeah,” the white-haired teenager called playfully. Marcus watched the dusky figure toss up one of the kids as easy as breathing, perching the giggling boy on his shoulder. “Five more minutes?”

   “Oh, hon, you can say no to these hooligans,” the first mother tried cheerfully. “We know you work nights.”

   Marcus couldn’t see the teenager’s face, but he could see the body language still for half a second before resuming its rowdy pace with the rest of the kids. “I can spare five more minutes. C’mon, gimme that ball!!!”

   Marcus slipped into his complex before he could be spotted. Hell, maybe it was too late for that. “I got your Neopolitan, Cathy--- Answer me this; how the hell do the kids an’ ladies around here know so much?”

   “This is the way, dear,” Cathy called back airily.

   Marcus ducked back into the living room, indignantly lunging for the clicker. “You’re watching without me!!!”

************

   “I got a Bat sighting,” Pebble’s voice muttered over the relative silence of the coms.

   Marcus glanced to his left, where Hood was briefing a couple of newbies on a light drug bust. They were deep in the Narrows tonight, so they were probably okay, but… “Where?”

   “Fifth. Looks like he’s scouting.”

   “That’s further than last time,” Two-Bit muttered. “They’re getting bolder.”

   “Kid’s not with him.”

   “That’s not great.” Marcus hefted his rifle, glancing back down the dark street. He kept his voice low, even though this was a closed channel for the Top Ten that Blue had conveniently left Hood out of. “He’s pretty far out. We’re probably good.”

   “I’ll keep you updated. Over an’ out.”

************

   Hood stalked back into the warehouse, threw his helmet against the nearest metal object, and disappeared into the gym.

   Marcus leaned over the railing of the loft, disgruntled. “Hope no one’s already training down there.”

   “What the hell?” Dusty whispered from the table where they’d been studying schematics for next week’s heist.

   “Bat sighting,” Blue murmured lowly. “I wasn’t there. No one was. I didn’t hear fighting, but maybe something was said. He’s probably just blowing off steam.”

   Marcus ran a hand over his face. “Ignorance is as ignorance does. We gotta be clumsier.”

   “I just so happened to accidentally switch places with the new guys for tomorrow night,” Crowley put in casually, glancing up from his stupid yoga stretches. “Y’know, on the job he’s running in Gotham Proper.”

   “What do you know,” Two-Bit huffed grumpily. “So did I. Crazy world we live in, two veterans messing up the schedule.”

   Marcus just smiled.

************

   “Where is he?” a voice growled from the shadows.

   Marcus did an admirable job of not jumping out of his skin. Sure, this was only a routine patrol of the southside on the Narrows, so maybe Batman wasn’t supposed to be nearby, but then again… They’d done a good job of redirecting Hood from the stalking shadow for three weeks. Of course Batman would get impatient.

   Marcus barely glanced up from the circuit box he was examining. He could sense the other three behind him; Pebble, Two-Bit, and Peach. Crowley was watching Hood tonight. (Watching Hood was usually Marcus’ job. He didn’t get snapped at as much.)

   The shadows by the piles of scrap metal didn’t reveal anything bat-shaped, or even human-shaped for that matter, but that was where the sound had come from, so that’s where Marcus directed his response. “Sorry?”

   “Hood,” the voice growled dangerously. It was higher now, somewhere near the roof. Unnerving, but not unexpected. “Where is he?”

   Marcus hummed quietly, returning to his examination of the box in front of him. Knowing or guessing something about Hood’s… backstory… added a layer of understanding. The threat was, at worst, coming from an embittered justice-driven mentor, and at best… from a father.

   Marcus took too long to think of a good answer, apparently, because something heavy landed to the right, yanked him around, and raised him to his toes by his jacket’s collar.

   “Hey,” Marcus complained despite the way his heart shot into his throat. “Ease up on the jacket, boss. It’s new.”

   The Batman himself stared Marcus down only inches away. His white lenses almost glowed in the darkness, and his pointy ears stood out against the dock lights to the east. (There was a snarl on the Bat’s grizzled face. Marcus had never seen him this close before. He’d never noticed the crooked nose.)

   “He’s out there,” Batman rumbled angrily, shaking Marcus by the jacket. “He’s still active, he hasn’t gone to ground which means you’re hiding him.”

   Marcus narrowed his eyes. Desperation. The good thing? It looked like they were dealing with a frantic father. (The bad thing was that they were dealing… with a frantic father.) “You gotta make an appointment, boss. He’s a busy guy, Hood. Reduced the collective crime in Crime Alley by seventy percent this winter.”

   Batman finally pushed him away. Marcus stumbled as he found his footing, already tensed for an attack. The other guys, so calm until now, (they’d talked about this, planned for it,) shifted away as well.

   The attack never came. The Bat was gone.

   Marcus glanced around, then up at the roof. He couldn’t see anything, but that meant very little in this business, so he decided to risk it. “You ever think, boss, that the kid might not wanna see you?”

   A batarang sliced into the stack of crates to Marcus’ left. Welp. That was enough antagonizing for one night.

   “Wow,” Peach muttered approvingly. “I thought for sure he was gonna punch you in the face.”

   Marcus shrugged his jacket back into place with a heartfelt sigh. He was getting too old for this shit. “Yeah… lucky me.”

************

   It was a tricky game, keeping Hood away from Bat sightings. Tricky because he was a really smart kid, and no one knew exactly how pissed he’d be if, or when, he found out. He did tend to stay focused, though, when he had any of the Top Ten at his side. He practiced shooting. He hired some new hands. He acted more like a boss instead of a lost kid. More like a leader of a ragtag family.

   Not that he knew it, of course, and there was an unspoken rule to never point it out to him. No one said squat when he played more with the street kids or took an extra day off to deliver food to the homeless or stayed up so late that one of his neighbors went to knock on his door, reminding him to turn his light off. No one pointed out that he was looking stronger, taller, less… haunted. The circles almost disappeared from under his eyes.

   Peter showed up at their home more often than not to deliver groceries, ask gruffly after the expected baby, and cook with Cathy. His mother’s name had been Catherine, he confided once, when it was so late at night that they’d all drifted towards sleep in front of the TV. (Marcus had kept his eyes closed, but he knew Peter’s head had been in his wife’s lap. He knew she’d been petting the white streak in Peter’s hair. He knew the kid had felt vulnerable. Safe.)

   “He’s so lonely,” Cathy confided solemnly. “He’s just looking for family, y’know?”

   Yes, actually, Marcus did know. He’d seen the way the kid paced after a bad bust, and even, on occasion, the night terrors he woke up from after drifting off during a late stakeout. Crowley made sure those stakeouts only included Top Ten, because after the first time dodging deadly half-asleep punches, the first ten minutes of talking the kid down with simple words and empty hands and soothing tones, they’d collectively decided that just making sure their boss got sleep… wasn’t enough.

   Hood really sucked at keeping his face hidden. Maybe it was because he knew they were too scared to really look. (Maybe it was because he trusted them.)

   Business was getting good, but Marcus braced for the other shoe to drop. It happened in the middle of a drug bust, unfortunately. Everyone was so busy shooting down the last of the runners that they didn’t notice the looming shadow until it had landed in the middle of the fight.

   “Fuck---” Hood yelled hoarsely, tripping backwards with pistols raised.

   Marcus dropped his last body before stepping into the would-be crossfire. All he could hear was his frantic heartbeat, but he felt himself saying distantly, “What can we do for you, Bats?”

   Crowley backed up towards Hood, who had frozen. (Which was never a good sign.) Pebble perched on top of the dumpster to the right, eyes sharp, and Two-Bit wiped blood from his Bowie knife on his cargo pants as he closed in on Marcus’ left. The other three--- Sharpie, Scruffy, and Peach--- stayed where they were near the mouth of the alley, guns pointed down, but ready.

   “Hood,” Batman growled lowly, but it sounded… fragile. (He’d never sounded like that before.) “Let me help you.”

   “Fuck off old man,” Hood spat out, but a sharp feedback whine almost drowned him out. (Hyperventilating. Shit.) “You had your chance.”

   Marcus stepped forward, cutting off Batman’s line of sight, and hopefully Hood’s. “We’re a little busy tonight, Bats. You’re gonna have to beat it.”

   Pebble shifted on the dumpster. Yeah… Marcus heard it, too. Telling Batman to beat it? Geez. They’d lose a fight to him in five minutes flat. It’s the principle of the thing, dammit.

   “Move,” Batman growled at him, shoulders lowered.

   It was a threat.

   Marcus settled onto the flats of his feet, let his rifle hang by his side, and crossed his arms. “No.”

   The silence went stiff with shock.

   “We’re all booked tonight,” Two-Bit put in.

   “You’ll have to make an appointment,” Pebble piped up.

   “He doesn’t wanna see you,” Peach growled under her breath, bristling like a pissed cat.

   Marcus stared Batman down, ignoring his trembling fingers, and pretended he couldn’t hear Crowley whispering behind him, “Breathe.”

   “This is none of your concern,” Batman finally snapped, but he seemed disarmed somehow. Wrongfooted.

   Marcus shrugged one shoulder, arms still crossed. “Yeah, it is. He’s ours now.”

   Hood made a strangled noise that might have been emotional, but also might have been the beginning of a threat. Marcus didn’t turn around, and he didn’t step back, and a moment later---

   Batman was gone.

   “Shit,” Hood muttered furiously.

   Marcus turned around, glancing briefly at the boss--- shoulders heaving, head turned frantically towards the sky, hand on Crowley’s chest, which was rising, falling, rising in a measured pattern--- and then flicked his safety on. “Just another Tuesday, fellas. Pack it in. Go in pairs.”

   “You got it,” Two-Bit muttered, and “See ya Thursday,” Pebble answered before trotting off. Peach grabbed what weapons she could from the fallen bodies, stalking away with Sharpie on her tail, and Scruffy took off in the opposite direction with Pebble.

   Marcus took his place at the mouth of the alleyway, waiting. Only when Hood stalked back to his hidden bike did Crowley join Marcus’ side.

   The walk home was quiet. It didn’t need to be anything else.

************

   “You ever wonder why?”

   Marcus glanced up from his list of diaper-bag necessities. (Yes, they were only a couple of weeks from delivery. No, he was not nervous. At all.) “I wonder why about a lot of things.”

   Hood stared down at the building they were watching. It had been three hours. No one knew exactly when the buyer was gonna show up; they only knew he was coming tonight. It required a lot of sleeplessness. A lot of boredom.

   Hood wasn’t elaborating, but Pebble, apparently, was bored enough to bite. “What do you wonder why about, boss?”

   Hood shook his head, gaze still downward. He only wore a domino tonight, revealing the wild hair that he kept running a gloved hand through. (The white patch had grown.) “Why they don’t just… kill them. The ones that murder, rape, traffic. The monsters.”

   “Probably cause it’s illegal to kill someone without a fair trial,” Crow muttered calmly, sitting criss-cross on top of the AC unit.

   Marcus went back to his list, writing down “comfort snacks” before venturing, “That’s why we’re here, right? To do the dirty work.”

   Hood didn’t answer, but his weight shifted. “There are so many convicted that are protected by deep pockets, by fear. Abominations that will continue to ruin people’s lives.”

   “What, like the Rogues?” Pebble asked curiously, oblivious to the “Abort” motions that at least three of them were giving him.

   Hood’s hands tightened on the ledge of the roof. “Like the Joker.”

   Marcus glanced away, puffing his cheeks. This was getting dangerously close to what they’d collectively agreed was private territory. “He’s locked away pretty good, at the moment.”

   “Yeah, and people do keep trying to kill him, by the way,” Dusty piped up. He was the one running coms tonight. Unfortunately, that also meant he was the one who couldn’t see the others’ nonverbal warnings, and he’d always been too nosey for his own good. “The only reason he’s not dead yet is cause he’s, I dunno, lucky? Y’know how you keep tryin’ to kill cockroaches, but they, like, refuse to die?”

   “You have a lot of experience killing cockroaches, Dusty?” Two-Bit quipped.

   “Why don’t we take him out?” Pebble wondered aloud, as if the idea had just occurred to him. “I mean, if it’s a matter of personal interest, I don’t see why---”

   “It’s not personal,” Hood cut in, dangerously low. “He’s just ruined far too many lives--- that’s all.”

   Two-Bit slapped a hand over Pebble’s mouth as Crow spoke up. “Do you guys know what the newbies are callin’ us?”

   “What?” Marcus responded amiably, filing away the fact that the Joker was a big “Why” to Hood’s mysterious past. (They’d be revisiting that later. Alone. When Hood wasn’t standing five feet away.)

   “The Old Timers?” Two-Bit guessed, giving Marcus a significant look.

   “Nope.” Crow allowed a grin to creep onto his clean-shaven face. “Hood’s Merry Men.”

   Everyone shut up for a few seconds. Two-Bit muffled a barked laugh into his elbow.

   “No, I like it.” Marcus grinned amusedly. “Like the Robin Hood, right?” (Ah--- He probably should have thought about that before it came out of his mouth.)

   “Yeah,” Hood finally muttered, breaking the horrified silence with an annoyed growl. “Like Robin Hood.”

   Scruffy, silent until now during his intense staring contest with the half-moon above, shrugged one shoulder. “It fits.”

   “Merry Men it is,” Pebble announced cheerfully as soon as Two-Bit stopped muffling his mouth.

   “It’s a stupid name,” Hood rejoined with no real bite.

   “It’s a brilliant name,” Marcus countered firmly, crouching lower on the roof. “and there’s our guy. Let’s get movin’.”

************

   The next time Marcus saw Robin, he almost didn’t realize what he was looking at. One minute he’d arrived early at the designated loading yard on the docks, ready to scout the groundwork for next week’s trafficking bust. The next minute he was dodging into the shadows as two grappling bodies flew past him, one caped, one with a flash of chrome red.

   Hood broke free of the struggle, slamming Robin up against the side of a shipping container as Marcus hid from view. What was Robin doing here? No, more importantly, why was Hood throwing down with Robin again?

   “You don’t know when to quit, do you?!” Hood demanded furiously, shoving Robin further up the wall until the kid’s feet had stopped touching the ground. “Are you stupid? We die in these colors!!!”

   “This isn’t Crime Alley,” Robin snapped back, fear lacing his voice as he struggled. He wasn’t trying very hard to escape, come to think of it. He was just… wriggling. “We’re east of Staley, asshat, and I’m not in your fucking colors!!!”

   Marcus blinked rapidly. That’s why he’d been so confused. Robin wasn’t wearing traffic light colors anymore--- He was dressed largely in black with a bigger cape, a full cowl, and a deep red torso. The only yellow on his uniform was the muted metal of the bandoleers strapped across his chest.

   Hood paused for a second before muttering a monotone “Why?”

   “I never wanted to replace you, Jason,” Robin muttered quietly, subdued. “I just wanted to help. You can have your colors; why do you think I’m not wearing them? They were never mine anyway.”

   Hood’s arms lowered a few inches. “All grown up with the black, huh? What’s with the red, then? A convenient target?”

   Robin stared down at Hood through that eerily blank cowl. “Better to hide the blood.”

   Hood stepped back real fast. Robin dropped to the ground, barely keeping his feet, and booked it. A half-second later, he was gone. Hood didn’t give chase.

   Marcus took a deep breath, chanting “what the fuck” under his breath until he figured he was able to properly mind his own business. Then, donning a cheery grin, he stepped out into the crappy dockyard lights. “Top of the evening, boss. Thanks for waiting. I scouted the warehouse already, and the upper levels are not too promising, but the one on the edge of pier number dos---”

************

   “It hurts.”

   Marcus considered the chess board for a minute. His king was in mortal danger. He sucked at this game. “Yeah?”

   An absent hum was the only answer offered, so Marcus took the time to look up. Peter sat across from him on the couch, elbows resting on the knees of his torn jeans. His shoulders looked heavy, and the circles were back under his eyes. Still, it was a far cry from the stiff posture he’d adopted when he’d first visited. (Read: First blackmailed into staying by Cathy.)

   Realizing that there would be no more elaboration, Marcus chanced a quiet, “What does?”

   Peter shrugged one shoulder, eyes on the board. “I dunno. Everything. Life.”

   Marcus frowned at his king, then moved his bishop to intercept. “Life is like that. You gotta learn to roll with the punches.”

   Peter made a guttural scoff, moving his knight. “Check.”

   Marcus swore under his breath before moving his last rook into the line of fire. “That’s why there are healers in the world. Not everyone’s born a fighter. Look at Cathy. Don’t listen to all that big talk; she apologizes to bugs she happens to squish on the windshield.”

   That got a smile. “I’ve seen that.”

   Marcus leaned across the coffee table, nudging Peter on the shoulder. “Healers make the world worth living in, kid. Surround yourself with healers.”

   Peter finally looked up, raising an eyebrow over dark teal eyes. “There aren’t a lot of healers around here.”

   “Bullshit,” Marcus announced firmly. “The only guy in Crime Alley that doesn’t have any healers in his circle is the Hood, an’ that’s cause he’s an asshole.”

   Peter’s eyebrows both disappeared into his white-streaked hair. “Yeah, I’ll bet. You work for him, right? Pay is probably crap.”

   Marcus thought of the three-hundred thousand dollars sitting in his savings account. “Could be worse.”

   “Ass,” Peter muttered almost too quiet to hear. He moved his queen. “Checkmate.”

   Marcus stood up to claim the consolation prize of a ruthless noogie. Peter was too fast on the uptake, dammit, so Marcus gave chase through the hall, out the door, and down the street. “Get back here you little shit!!!”

************

   “Mark--- Mark. It’s time.”

   Marcus tumbled out of bed, fumbling for the light switch. “Holy shit are you--- Are you serious? Now?”

   Cathy blinked owlishly at him when the light went on. “My water broke.”

   “Shit,” Marcus breathed again, flinging the closet open. “Okay, alright, stay calm. Take deep breaths, we got this--- You got this, you are completely ready. Let’s go to the doc--- She said she’d be on call for this; course she’ll be up at ass-o-clock--- It’s fine, don’t panic.”

   “I’m not panicking,” Cathy told him, sounding faintly amused.

   “Yeah, that’s alright, stay calm--- the fuck are my pants? Okay, deep breaths---”

   “Mark.”

   “You’ve got this, we’ll be okay, let’s just---”

   “Mark?”

   “Yeah?”

   “Are you panicking?”

   Marcus shouldered the diaper bag, scowling. “I am perfectly fine, thank you. C’mon, upsy-daisy.”

   One careful trip to the car, tense drive, and chaotic parking job later, there they were at the steps of the clinic.

   Doctor Thompkins greeted them with a smile, gesturing Cathy inside. “Let’s do this upstairs. You’ll have more privacy in one of those rooms.”

   “Uh---” Marcus’ brain buffered.

   “Thanks, doc, but I don’t think I can make it up those stairs,” Cathy sighed amiably, patting Marcus’ arm in some semblance of pity.

   “You want some help?” a questing voice spoke up. Marcus frowned when he realized he was shaking someone’s hand. “Name’s Thomas. I was just stopping by---”

   “to reset your shoulder,” Thompkins finished firmly, swatting the stranger’s arm with a glare. “which you dislocated for the third time this year during that spelunking hobby of yours. Now you’re offering to carry my pregnant patients up stairs?”

   Cathy leaned on Marcus, looking the man over with a tight smile. “I’d believe this gentleman could carry two of me if he wanted.”

   The dark-haired stranger (who was jacked as fuck) shrugged amiably, tugging at the collar of his turtleneck with an embarrassed chuckle. “Genes. I absolutely understand if you’d rather---”

   “No, that’s alright.” Cathy sighed again, looking more tired than pained. “A private room is much preferable… I’ve never done this before. If you’re offering…”

   The man moved to touch Cathy, then paused, glancing at Marcus. “May I?”

   Marcus passed a hand over his face, offering a nervous smile. “Whatever the lady wants, guv’nor. I fucked up my ankle last week--- Can’t carry jack-shit. Not that you’re heavy, Cath.”

   “Bullshit. This baby weighs a metric ton.” Cathy held her arms out. “Come on then, buster.”

   Thomas bent down, gently grasping Cathy behind the shoulders and under the knees and with a single effortless lift--- the woman was airborne.

   Marcus shook his head as he followed everyone upstairs. Some people had all the genetic luck.

************

   An agonizing three hours later, the sky was looking gray instead of black outside, and Marcus was allowed back into the room. (He’d been banished the second time he’d leaned against the wall for support. Apparently being sleepy counted as losing his nerve, which he definitely had not.)

   Cathy gave him a tired smile. Besides her pale face, she looked--- damn. Beautiful. And a second later, Marcus laid eyes on his tiny baby girl.

   “Meet Carmen Eleanor Durelio,” Cathy laughed as Thompkins placed the bundle in Marcus’ arms.

   “Close your mouth,” the doc whispered as she helped him into a chair, winking.

   Marcus did so. The baby was so small and wrinkly and fragile. She yawned as her slight weight settled in his trembling arms. Her fluffy hair was dark, like his, and her puffy eyes weren’t even open.

   Marcus blinked the stupid fog out of his eyes. “She’s perfect.”

   “She looks like you,” Cathy quipped at him. “Adorable button-nose an’ all.”

   Marcus crossed his eyes to look at his slightly crooked blob of a nose, then up at his wife, grinning. “Cath, you are badass.”

   Cathy gave him a sleepy smile, relaxing back into her many pillows. (This room was really nice, come to think of it. Marcus understood why so few people got access. He wondered why they had.) “She cried until we wrapped her up. Got a little attached to her tiny heated chamber, I guess.”

   Marcus ran a gentle finger over the baby’s hair, then pressed a feather-light kiss to her tiny forehead. Her skull fit into the palm of his hand. How the fuck. “Hi Carmen. Hi. I love youuuuuuuuuu.”

   “Wow,” Peter’s voice chuckled, and the man himself peeked through the crack in the door with a sharp grin. “He’s a big softie after all.”

   “Pete.” Cathy waved her hand. “Come on in. What are you doing here? It’s so late.”

   “Early,” Peter corrected her. His voice was gruff, but he was rubbing the back of his neck the way he usually did when he was embarrassed. “I keep an ear out for any friends at the clinic. Heard the news. Are you alright?”

   “I’m tired,” Cathy informed him, sporting a pout that would probably have been a glare were she any more awake.

   “Yeah, I’ll bet. Birthing a whole new human is no joke.” Peter shoved his hands into his pockets, still standing in the doorway with a shy grin. “I know you’ve got everything handled, but I figured as long as I was here, I’d check in. Anything I can get you?”

   He’s so young, Marcus found himself thinking, but what came out of his mouth was “I’m perfectly perfect, kid; ask the lady.”

   Peter raised an eyebrow at Cathy. “He fainted, didn’t he?”

   “Almost,” she answered with a mischievous grin.

   “How far is ‘almost’? Was he on the ground?”

   “Nope. Pay up.”

   Marcus clutched his fragile infant a little closer, glaring as a couple of twenties changed hands. “Are you shitting me? You made a bet?”

   “You lost me forty bucks, Mark,” Peter complained as his eyes crinkled with mirth. “Be better at fainting next time.”

   “This,” Cathy tapped her money, smirking. “is going towards a spa day when I’m outta here.”

   “That’s not enough for all the works,” Peter protested immediately, pulling out his wallet, counting out four more twenties, and handing them over.

   “Hey,” Marcus protested weakly, because the little shit was showing him up. “You can’t just--- She’s MY--- We have enough---”

   “Sure you do, but c’mon, Mark, you’re gonna be there for every sleepless night after. Let me do a little spoiling.” Peter winked at Cathy, backing towards the door. “What’ll it be, guys? McDonald’s? Five Guys? I’ll get you Batburgers if you swear not to show the doc; Heaven forbid grease ever set foot in her territory.”

   Marcus opened his mouth to answer, but he caught a movement in the hallway outside, or maybe the window barely visible through the cracked door. He steamrolled on, deciding to switch track. “Why don’t you sit down a minute, kid? I gotta talk to Thompkins.”

   “Oh, yes, you have to hold her,” Cathy put in, much more energetic all of a sudden. “You’ve been waiting so long, Pete.”

   “I’ve been waiting?” Peter laughed awkwardly, but he edged closer anyway. “You’re the one who’s done all the work.”

   “C’moooooooon, Carmen will love you,” Cathy coaxed excitedly. “I already have you on speed dial for babysitting.”

   “Oh, I see how it is. Give you money an’ suddenly I’m the new favorite,” Peter chuckled as he took Marcus’ place in the only chair. His hands were steady as the baby bundle was handed over, almost casual, even, but his joy was betrayed by the sparkling in his eyes.

   Weird… His irises were bright blue.

   Marcus drew back with some reluctance, because that was his baby, dammit, and he hadn’t held her nearly long enough. Peter looked right at home, though, as he held her--- All slow movements and soft cooing and gentle hands. A sharp contrast to the explosive dramatic violence everyone had come to expect of Hood.

   Marcus shook his head, finally taking his leave. “Be right back.”

   “Yeah, don’t hurry,” Peter called after him. “I might actually be okay with this situation.”

   Marcus rolled his eyes as he closed the door. He walked down the hall, taking a right into the stairwell. Up, up, up--- to the roof.

   He shut the door behind him, testing the knob to be sure it wasn’t locked, and turned towards the shadows. “I know you’re there.”

   Two faint white eyes narrowed at him from the shadows across the roof. “Congratulations.”

   “I’m gonna stop you right there.” Marcus crossed his arms, breathing deeply. He didn’t wanna make this sound like a threat. He wasn’t scared of the Batman, not anymore, but there was a difference between bravery… and plain stupidity. Some discretion was always advisable.

   The eyes didn’t move, which, presumably, meant that the Bat was listening. It could also mean that Marcus was about to get tackled. “You need to back off.”

   “You don’t know what you’re---”

   “Listen.” Marcus took another deep breath. It was the protective instincts. It was the fact that he’d just met his baby girl. This wasn’t about Peter or Jason or Hood--- This was about professional respect. (Right?) “I get it. This is your job, your mission. You’re chasing the wrongdoer, right? Tryna draw a line between good an’ evil, dark an’ light; tryna save everyone you can. Maybe that includes Hood, maybe it doesn’t. You’re doing what you’re supposed to as a crime fighter, a mentor.” Marcus took another steadying breath. “As a father, you need--- you need to back off.”

   The eyes shifted closer. “You could never understand---”

   “No, y’know what? I sure as fuck couldn’t.” Marcus uncrossed his arms, flexing his fingers. Stay calm stay professional this is not about--- “I have no idea what it’s like to have my kid taken away from me and beaten to hell an’ back by the world outside an’ spit back at my feet with fire an’ blood. I don’t know, and I pray to God that I never do, but I’m not dense enough to miss fear when I see it, Bats, and that kid is afraid of you.”

   A heavy silence followed Marcus’ words. The eyes were gone, but the dangerous voice wasn’t. “Why?”

   “I dunno. Maybe he’s scared a’ Arkham.” Marcus rubbed a hand down his face. “Y’know what I think? I think he’s just afraid of confronting what he’s lost.”

   No one answered this time. Was the Bat gone? Was he still listening? (Had he even been there in the first place?)

   Marcus deflated tiredly, placing his hand back on the doorknob. “I don’t understand, alright? I never pretended to. Just… try to see past the grief. You’ll never get to takin’ steps forward if you don’t take a few back.”

   The silence remained absolute, so Marcus turned his back on the roof, locked the door behind him, and headed downstairs. (He was still in one piece, anyway, despite the sweaty palms. Score Number Three, probably. Or was it four?)

   “Took you long enough,” Peter snorted as Marcus re-entered. “Now what’ll it be, McDonald’s or Batburger? I’ll throw in some ice-cream if you ask nice.”

   It had been a hell of a night. Marcus only wondered later why Batman’s voice had sounded vaguely like Thomas’.

************

   One month later…

   Marcus lowered his rifle, rubbed his eyes, and allowed himself a heartfelt groan.

   “Dude,” Sharpie snickered aside. “How’d you miss that?”

   “Perp was thirty yards,” Two-Bit added. “There’s no way you missed.”

   “No harm done,” Crow grunted tiredly. “I got him.”

   “Look,” Marcus grouched back, flipping the safety before slinging the gun across his back for his creaky fire escape descent. “you try getting up every two hours every night to stop the sounds of bloody murder.”

   “Just admit it,” Dusty cackled from his comfy vantage point on coms. “You’re getting old.”

   “Yeah, man, that was a pretty easy shot,” Peach spoke up, sliding down the fire escape with just her gloved hands. (Showoff.)

   Hood dropped from the shadows to the alley below with a mechanized laugh. “Your dad is showing, old timer.”

   “Yeah, yeah,” Marcus grumped back, fending off a few well-meaning shoulder jostles from Pebble. “You guys can talk when we trade places, aight? Old timer my ass.”

   “Yeah, maybe we should,” Hood responded airily, avoiding everyone’s roughhousing with the fluidity of practice. “You might finally get a chance to shave.”

   Marcus rubbed at his stubble, making a face. “What you see before you is the best working model you’re gonna get. There’s this homeless lookin’ college kid keeps stoppin’ by to pitch in, eat me out of house an’ home; he looks old.”

   “Ooooooooooo,” Scruffy mocked lowly, and scattered laughter filled the com.

   “You got some competition?” Dusty poked humorously as the group peeled off, each heading in different directions down the street.

   “From a scruffy teenager?” Marcus scoffed loudly. “You’d better believe it. Cathy likes him more than me, an’ I’m pretty sure it’s cause he’s ‘starving, poor thing’.”

   A mix of chortled laughter died out on the coms, each voice eventually falling silent as they hopped off the channel, disappearing into the shadows. Marcus stashed his gear in their getaway vehicle before shoving his hands in his pockets, meandering down the street towards home. It was only a half-hour walk. He’d save the cab fare.

   “See you at home,” Hood’s voice muttered when everyone else had signed off.

   Marcus didn’t have time to answer before a huge shadow landed silently in his path, blocking out the stars.

   It took every ounce of self-control not to jump out of his own skin. Marcus removed his empty hands from his pockets, stopped walking, and waited. They stared each other down for a minute before a gravelly voice asked, “Is he safe?”

   Marcus puffed a breath through his teeth, shoving his hands back into his pockets. The temporary tension had finally dissipated. “‘Bout as safe as it gets out here, I guess.”

   Batman’s silhouette jerked a nod, then put a finger to his ear. Marcus could hear the faint chatter of a tiny voice over a comlink. A second later, the shadow was gone.

   Fine. Good. Perfect. Marcus shivered as he picked up his walk in a different direction. It was a longer route this way, and Batman probably already knew where he lived, but better safe than sorry. (The dude had no sense of personal boundaries. He was probably socially inept or something.)

   By the time Marcus reached his apartment, there were already voices inside, and the door was open, spilling light into the hallway. Marcus stepped in with a token glare for the kid gently bouncing his baby in his living room.

   “This,” Peter greeted cheerfully, tickling at Carmen’s chubby cheeks. “is why I’m the favorite.”

   “Neither of you are the favorite,” Cathy scolded them, bustling into the room as Carmen started fussing.

   “We don’t make the food,” Peter admitted meekly, handing the baby over with a bow. “Your Highness.”

   Cathy slapped Peter’s cheek on her way back into the kitchen, and Peter’s affronted glare was coupled with gleeful cackling from down the hall. Another man skidded past--- messy red ponytail, green tattoos, and a delighted grin--- forcing Peter to dodge away from an ass-slap like his nonexistent reputation depended on it.

   “Who---” Marcus threw his hands up as the kid disappeared into the kitchen. It sounded like he was congratulating Cathy on her face-slapping skills. “More hooligans in this house; that’s all I need.”

   “Yeah, Roy,” Peter called grouchily. “Hooligans.”

   “Boss,” Marcus murmured wearily, scrubbing at his stubble once more. “Who the fuck?”

   Peter crossed his arms with a smirk. “That’s Roy. He’s here for the food.”

   “I resent that,” the stranger called back.

   Marcus glanced at Peter’s expression, softening. “A new friend?”

   The kid glanced away, evasive. “A healer.”

   Marcus nudged Peter’s shoulder, trying not to smile.I told you so. “Good.”

   Peter grunted at the floor, then glanced up at the doorway. Sure of their solitude, he asked casually, “Trouble on the way home?”

   Marcus shucked his jacket, hanging it up next to the first one he’d given away--- scuffed, worn through on one elbow, and sewed up where a pocket had split along a seam. He stared at it for a second, fond. “Regular Gotham shit, kid. Nothing I can’t handle.”

   Peter snorted behind him. “Y’know, say that enough times, old timer, and I might actually start to believe you.”

   Marcus almost made a quip about kicking the kid’s ass--- He’d done it once, he could do it again. Remembering the pain of an injured nose, however, he decided to play it safe by shoving Peter’s shoulder. “You get to set the plates, Mr. Favorite.”

   An indignant squawk rewarded him, and Cathy’s laughter filled the room as Peter lost his balance, tumbling into the couch. The newcomer was already setting the table, it turned out, so Marcus went to wash his hands. He glanced out of the tiny kitchen window. The only shadows that stared back were normal ones. The night outside was quiet; the peaceful kind of quiet that happened after a long day at the job.

   Satisfied, Marcus put his boss to work. If college kids were gonna keep crashing his pad in search of food, they were gonna have to put in some elbow grease, dammit.

   The petty thieves didn’t even eat two servings. They ate three. (Well… Cathy had been wanting a new fridge.)