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No one in Gotham lives a safe life, least of all the Red Hood.
A few more injuries than what seem normal go unnoticed.
It starts simple, small. He blocks a hit that he could've dodged, but the enemy goes down all the same.
Nobody comments on it-- why would they? It's just a hit, one that they probably didn't even notice.
There's a blooming ache on his forearm that's almost nostalgic. It's just a hit.
He barely holds in a cough of his blood, and shifts away from Bruce in a manner that he's practiced enough to know comes off aloof.
The man clicks his tongue and tersely questions, "Status?"
They're not touching, not even close to one another. Bruce has been leaving him alone more often than not lately-- something akin to guilt behind his motions.
But the bruised rings around his neck, where one of the stronger goons had gotten "lucky" are big enough that he can imagine it was Bruce's hands that made them.
So, despite the careful breath to hide the blood behind his teeth, he's not a liar answering, "Good."
His arm is broken, shattered most likely. He uses it to knock another poacher out-- the blinding agony is a thrill behind bloodstained glass.
When he's done with the last of them, swaying on his feet and gut roiling, there's a tap of a landing behind him.
It's not quite turning around at the drawling pace he does it. More like adjusting his posture, coincidentally facing Tim-- staring at him blankly.
"Hood," it's said in that trained toneless manner. It irks him, makes him wonder if rushing Tim with an attack would cause some kind of emotion. "You're injured."
His lazy smirk is in full view-- helmet abandoned much earlier to allow a few knuckles across his face. "Aw, you noticed," he croons.
Tim grows more tense, and his smile gains a sharper quality to it. But then his eyes catch onto the twitching of Tim's hands and he falters.
A quiet sliver of longing is tucked into his voice and he asks, "You'd like to make that observation a little more true?"
"What?" The sharp tone forces his eyes back to Tim's now bewildered expression.
He shrugs and makes his way out of the warehouse.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Dick is shaking in rage, and it makes his smile all the brighter. His brother is so tired these days, a sense of weariness threaded into his very fiber and weighing down on his every step.
The mindless fury possessing him now is much better. He mourns a bit while dodging a kick, but it's necessary to keep the illusion of a fight, to make sure Dick doesn't stop.
The man lands a harsh jab in his side and the air he gasps in for it tastes like home.
"You're just fucking insane? Is that what it is?"
He giggles, trying for a half hearted counter and letting Dick get him with an uppercut.
It's not long until his collar is held in a trembling grip, Dick is staring at him with a scrunched up expression.
His brother lets go and the loss of choking feels like everything he's been so desperate to hide from. He's scrambling to grab Dick's wrist before he knows what he's doing.
The whites of a domino narrow and Dick's face falters before closing off again. He rips his arm out of the grasp it's in and bites out, "Next time you beat someone like that in my city, I'm not letting you off this easy."
"Why wait until next time," he almost says. "Come back, you can do more, please," he nearly begs.
But it's a careful balancing act to get what he wants. So he licks the blood on his lips and croaks, "Sure."
He turns away from his handiwork and stills at the sight of Cassandra looming in the doorway.
She tilts her head slightly, considering what he's done, and he can feel hope fluttering in his chest.
"Alive," she comments in a manner that's oh-so familiar. It makes the hope beat its wings even more wild.
"Ah, but just barely," he informs before pouncing.
Cassandra dodges his knee at light speed and takes his ankle in a hold. He manages a kick to her jaw anyways, as his body crashes down. They trade blows back and forth, and he relishes every burn from her absurd strength.
Suddenly, at the sound of a ragged breath from inside the room, Cassandra's entire demeanor shifts. He barely has time to process the fact that she's been playing with him between the skull-rattling hit she lands and her move to go rescue his victim.
His vision is blurry and shaking as he watches her carrying the broken man through the doorway, and his hearing is muffled beyond belief.
But there's an unmistakable sensation of a hand ruffling his hair, and he hates that it's worth so much more to him than any bruise marked into his skin.
Cassandra finds him again, she wasn't supposed to.
He has everything meticulously planned, making sure that none of them notice what he's doing-- but it just figures that she'd be the first one to make him out.
He's pinned under a goon before she knocks the man out and stares at him expectantly.
He has to take a few strangled breaths before he can answer, "Got hit. With some kind of paralytic. S' still wearin' off."
Despite her faceless cowl not allowing him to interpret her expressions, she gives the distinct impression of being unimpressed.
"You could've dodged."
He snorts and looks away. "Not everyone can avoid bullets like you do."
They are silent, then, save for his heavy panting.
Eventually, he manages to stumble to his feet and makes to leave. A hand gripping his arm stops him short.
Cassandra takes a few steps back when he faces her, and tenses for a fight.
"What?" he can't help but mumble blearily.
She simply flicks her hand in beckoning. He stares at her for a moment longer and thinks, fuck it.
The fight-- and for some reason it is a fight-- lasts far longer than it should. She's lighter and more excessive with her hits than she usually is, and he knows the bruises won't last more than a day or two.
It must be an hour, at the very least, until he hears the faint crackle of her comm and he's suddenly flat on his back.
"Coming soon," he hears her mumble before hovering over him. "Jason," she says.
He feels the world slow down around him, and wills away the tears building in his eyes. "Yeah?"
"Next time," Cassandra informs while reaching a hand to ruffle his hair, "find me. I'll beat you, dig it?"
She gets up and moves out of his vision silently. He's not sure how long it takes him to make sure his words won't come out as a sob.
But regardless, he feels like she hears his near inaudible whisper of, "Thanks."