Welcome to the first ever DREAMTONE progress report.
…What have we been doing? We’ve been makin’ VOLUME 1!
"What have you guys been doing? IT’S BEEN A YEAR!"
Well… Game development… Yeah… Game development.
In all seriousness, it really does take a while! No idea comes out of the metaphorical brain womb fully formed. While we’ve been mostly silent, we can assure you that we’ve been developing DREAMTONE almost every day for the past year! We’ve been working on VOLUME 1, the first episode. It serves as an introduction to DREAMTONE, introducing its world and characters. Here’s a snippet of the writing:
We’ve been revising DREAMTONE’s art to fit with the comic book aesthetic we envisioned. Specifically, we’ve gone back and replaced a lot of the minimally animated cutscenes with actual comic book styled panels. Here's an old version of a cutscene on the left with the new version on the right:
Oh, and we also changed Nathan’s hair color from blue to black, look!
"So, how playable is it?"
The prologue is playable from start to finish, but isn’t fully polished. Since the prologue is half of VOLUME 1, that means VOLUME 1 is 50% done!... But, again, not fully polished. We’re not going to preemptively toss out any numbers or promise anything, but we’re confident in where we’re at. Sorry!
"...Oh...Really?"
Please take this writeup as an apology!
STEP INTO THE STRANGE WORLD OF DREAMTONE!
DREAMTONE is an episodic traditional RPG that whimsically harkens back to the long-gone days of the mid-1980s. Join our protagonists Nathan Bloom and his older brother Neil. After Neil drags Nathan to a party in the woods gone wrong, they find themselves caught in the throes of a conspiracy that’s rocking America! Forced to make friends with a rotating cast of weirdos, they road-trip across Michigan. Our accidental misfit heroes will encounter bombastic gangsters, ancient demons, and creatures straight out of your Saturday morning nightmares!
Simply put, DREAMTONE is a turn-based RPG packed with old-school charm, brain-bending battles, and a heavy dose of the unexpected.
Think you’ve seen everything? Think again!
PUMPED-UP BATTLES!
DREAMTONE throws you into complex battles where timing is everything. For example, if you press X just as the enemy flashes, you can launch a counter attack! Counter-attacks negate all damage the enemy would've done, and even allow you to hit back!
And not every move is a one-tap trigger pull. Special attacks will give you unique mini-games. The one down below is Nathan’s Zap ability. Tap repeatedly to charge, and then watch it spin up! The more you tap, the more powerful the attack will get, but also the more ENERGY it’ll use!
Sometimes, you’ll get lucky and your attacks will strike critically and deal extra damage! But don’t think you’re the only one who can get lucky ‘round here! Even the enemies can strike critically, and if you’re super unlucky, they’ll throw a chain of critical attacks your way!
Chain together attacks, unlock new abilities, and swap out strategies on the fly. Don’t forget, it’s brains over brawns! Trick your opponents and even sidestep battles altogether if you’re clever enough!
SWITCHIN’ IT UP!
Have you ever wanted to walk a mile in another person’s shoes? Great! In DREAMTONE, you can switch between your party members to get a different perspective on the world. Every character has their own dialogue and little interactions, so leave no stone unturned if you want to see everything a character has to offer! When you switch it up, you gain access to a party member’s overworld ability. This allows you to perform a special action exclusive to that character.
Want to break a log? Switch to Neil.
Want to charm an NPC out of the scene? Also try Neil! (Almost) everyone’s vulnerable to his charming personality!
INVENTORY!
Hey, wait, no, stop! I see what you’re doing! Stop hoarding every item, you’ll become encumbered! When you carry too many items, you become over-encumbered. You’ll lose some speed in the overworld and perform badly in battles while overencumbered. So, make sure to tidy up every now and again!
Fret not though, not every item will take up a slot in your inventory. Items in DREAMTONE can stack on top of each other.
…
Yes, yes, I hear you! The locations! The people! Where will we go? Well…
KNOWHERE & SUMPLAICE… plus HIERE FOREST
Knowhere — A town out on the prairies, remarkable for being… Unremarkable.
This is Neil and Nathan’s humble hometown. It’s a little rundown but hey, home is where the heart is!
Sumplaice — The city on the bay!
Located in Sum County, once a booming Industrial hub, now home to aging hippies causing mellow mayhem. It’s seen better days, and the mayor’s counting on you to “gently” keep the peace.
SO WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?
If you’re into RPGs, urban legends, or UFOs, then this game is just for you!
Grab a bat and pack your bag, ‘cause DREAMTONE is coming to your dreams!
"Will you do these blogs often?"
While it would be cool, no. We’re too focused on developing the game! When you hop in for the first time, we want it to feel new and exciting. If we showed off too much of the game, you’d know way too much - you wouldn’t be excited at all! As a parting gift, please accept this humble yet ominous screenshot!
And alongside it, two music tracks by the talented Supabubba and Dim Widdy respectively.
Remember that previous answer? I lied. VOLUME 1 will be released this November, free of charge! Alongside it will be the launch of our Kickstarter. We’ll put out the pre-launch soon after this blog.
For now, we appreciate your patience. And we hope to see you again soon!
lil bit of context: i like the headcanon that in the beginning of do2 they weren't yet in any sort of official "relationship". it started developing closer to the middle and end of do2 and in season10. this applies to my previous art too. (mostly bc that's when i got into slabtek. super self indulgent haha ya <3)
QUESTION: [Last Life] While throwing the poison potion in session 6, did you realise that Bdubs was also there? How do you feel about what happened?
joined a characted ask a while back, and now im finally getting around to posting the stuff i drew for it!
a bit of context for the comic: during session 6, etho (the boogeyman) suggested everyone to stand in a huddle to prove their trust, and then threw a poison potion under their feet. mumbo (the second boogeyman) used this situation to blow up an end crystal, killing only bdubs (the third boogeyman).
Summary: One year after you crashed your Christmas work party with the Red Hood, you seem to be caught up with yet another evil CEO: Tim Drake. You and Hood are on the case. But why does it feel like you're missing something?
Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!reader
Word count: 11.6k
Warnings/tags: christmas/holiday special! anxious reader (but she's in therapy! huzzah!), sweet jason who acts like a crow with a crush, more silly vigilante antics, a healthy suspicion of tim drake, romance, fluff, galas.
happy new year!! first fic of 2026 :)
the divider
“Do you know how to make salt dough?”
You look up from your computer. Jessie is in front of your desk, somehow in a chair even though you have no spares. She has Pinterest pulled up on her phone.
“Huh?” is all you can say.
She’s scrolling through what looks like Christmas crafts. “My nephew Ben is three and I want to do crafts with him but I have to make sure they’re toddler-safe. He puts everything in his mouth.”
“Why don’t you make cookies?” You type some code and test it. Fail. You curse and delete the section, then retype.
“That’s what I said! But apparently her MIL is a total bitch.” She says MIL like ‘mill.’ “She’s making gingerbread with him, so if I also make cookies with Ben, she will somehow know and give my sister shit for it. How crazy is that?”
You nod, eyes glued to the screen. “Pretty crazy.”
Jessie sighs. “I told her to marry an orphan. In-laws are almost never worth it. Now look where we are.”
Jessie Bromlin is a marketing analyst who works on your floor. She’s the second friend you made at Wayne Enterprises since you started working here almost a year ago. She’s pleasant, chatty, and has been here long enough to show you the ropes.
She also is almost never at her desk. You have no idea how she gets her own work done.
Fail! says your computer. You frown. “That should’ve worked.”
“What should’ve?” Jessie asks.
“Just some code. I don’t know why it’s not working.”
“You should take a break. Let’s go to Penny’s. They’re doing special roast sandwiches for Christmas. Ooh! Are you going to the gala in two weeks?”
“There’s a gala?”
“Of course! It’s Bruce Wayne. All the WE employees get in free. It’s a lot of fun. Good food and music. And alcohol.”
You grimace. “I don’t really do Christmas work parties.”
“No, trust me, this one rocks. You’ll have fun. Oh my God! We need a Santa. I have to go find one. You wouldn’t happen to know a Santa, would you?”
You smile, glancing up from your screen for a second to look at Jessie. “No, sorry.”
“What’s so funny?” she asks.
“Nothing. I’ll catch up with you at Penny’s.”
“‘Kay. Peace.”
You try the code again. This time, there’s an error message you’ve never seen before and the monitor flickers. Weird. You google the error message, but there’s no results. You send it to the IT group chat.
You: hey, anyone know what this means?
[img_5.png]
Sasha: doesn’t look familiar
Toby: did you google?
Mikey: idk. run it again with a different input and see if you get the same msg
You ignore Toby, because Toby never has anything helpful to contribute, only the glaring obvious. You’re new to back-end work; at Emerson Corp, you mostly did front-end design stuff concerning the user interface. But this position at WE has given you a chance to practice more back-end work, and you work extra long and hard on projects as a result, trying to prove yourself. You do Mikey’s suggestion and run the test again with a different input. This time, the program automatically quits, the window closing. You smack your desk in frustration.
Maybe Jessie’s right. You need a break. So you turn off your screen and grab your wallet and coat, heading to the elevator. You pull out your phone.
Unknown Number
You: hi. can you meet tonight? after work
?: What’s up?
You hesitate. This is probably just your paranoia from last year’s situation with Emerson. Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You scroll; the last message you sent is from five months ago, when there was a news report about a fire by the docks, caused by Black Mask.
[August 24th, 2025]
You: oh my god I just saw the news are you okay??
[August 25th, 2025]
?: Hey. I’m okay.
You start to type I think there’s something weird happening with the work computers when you see shoes in your peripheral vision. You freeze and barely avoid colliding with a security guard. He turns around and smiles. You smile back.
“Hi, Peter,” you say, pocketing your phone.
“Hey,” he says. “Y’okay? Did I swipe ya?”
You shake your head. “All good. I haven’t seen you in so long!”
Peter adjusts his shades, grimacing. You’ve never seen him without his nondescript, red baseball cap or his shades. They’re black. You can’t even see if his eyes are light or dark.
“Yeah, been on the late night shift more often than not,” he says. “How’s it goin’?”
Peter is tall, and big. You’ve only seen him a few times with his sleeves rolled up, but you can tell he’s muscular. Which makes sense, considering he’s a security guard, but you’ve never seen one who looks like they bench press cars on their lunch break. Peter was your first friend—first anything, really—at Wayne Enterprises, when you started in January. He’d carried your box of stuff to your new desk and had shown you where the restrooms and vending machines were, all without you asking. It’s like he’d sensed your anxiety. When he first approached you, you feared the worst, wondering if maybe you’d brought in a gun without knowing. But he’d merely introduced himself, and asked if he could help you get to the floor you needed to go.
Peter’s not always around, because the security assignment changes, according to him. But somehow you bump into each other when he’s on your floor.
“It’s okay.” You sound mopey to your ears. You know Peter will pick up on it.
“Rough day?”
You shrug. “Just some code I was fiddling with. It’s been giving me a hard time. Almost like it’s—”
You stop, catching yourself. You like Peter, but this isn’t a conversation for him. You don’t trust him like that.
“Like…?” he prompts.
“Nothing. Anyway, do you know about some Christmas gala? Jessie was telling me about it, but I haven’t heard anything about it.”
Peter leans against the wall, sending a waft of his cologne in your direction. You can’t place where you’ve smelled it before, but it’s nice. Spicy and woody. He smells like a man, and if you weren’t such a nailbiter, you’d probably shoot your shot. As it is, you don’t want the reason you leave this job to be because you had a falling out with a security guard.
“Sure. Pretty spectacular, if you’re into that. The big boss and his kids attend. There’s food, drink, dancing. He doesn’t spare any expense.” Peter snorts. “Not when it comes to work, anyway.”
Your eyes widen. Peter has, for the most part, never had a bad thing to say about the company, or Bruce Wayne, who you’ve only seen once at work.
“Is that derision I hear?” you ask.
Peter smiles a little. “Maybe. I just hate parties. Bruce makes such a to-do out of ‘em.”
You nod. “I hear you. Jessie said it would be fun, but I’m not so sure. I think I’d rather stay home. Too much excitement for me.”
“Well, no one would fault y’for it, if you did. This isn’t that kinda company.”
You blink, surprised. “Oh. Good to know.”
He looks at his watch. “You should eat something. ‘S way past lunchtime.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re worse than Jessie. I’m going, alright? She said there’s Christmas special roast sandwiches at Penny’s. Want me to bring you one?”
He smiles. “Nah, that’s okay. I ate. Thanks, though.”
“We should eat lunch together sometime,” you say, pulling out your phone and opening your messages. You start to type again. I think someone is hacking the… but you delete it. You have no idea if any hacking is going on. You can hear his voice in your head. Gotta ease those nerves.
You look up, realizing how rude you’re being. “Sorry. Did you say something?”
“I said sure,” Peter says. “Y’seem glued to your phone today. Got a hot date?”
You make a face. “Not at all. Sorry. Work is distracting me. I’ll catch up with you later?”
He nods. “Count on it.”
You continue your trek to Penny’s, stepping onto the elevator. Employees get a monthly lunch allowance, which can be used at the company cafeteria or at neighboring restaurants. You’ve never worked for a company that cares so much for its workers. Wayne Enterprises provides full healthcare coverage, including mental health services that you don’t have to pay a dime for. Emerson barely provided healthcare and dental. He couldn’t have cared less about his employees.
Why he’s in jail, you think, putting your coat on and bracing yourself against the cold air as you sweep through the revolving doors and onto the pavement. Gray slushy snow is clustered around the curb, and you sidestep it neatly as you cross the street to Penny’s, a local cafe. You open the door, the bell overhead ringing. Penny’s has been around for decades, according to the locals. It mostly attracts nearby workers at lunchtime, and plenty of WE employees can be found here throughout the day. You wait on line, scanning the cafe for Jessie. She’s sitting with some people from her department. You still aren’t keen on sitting with people you don’t know at work. It’s part of every job, but at Emerson Corp, you would alternate between eating at your desk or on a bench across the street when it was warm.
The little sign that says Christmas Sandwich Special has an empty row behind it. The woman in front of you asks about the sandwiches.
“Sorry, no more today,” the chef says. “We’ll have more tomorrow. We didn’t know there’d be such a high demand.”
So you order a tuna fish sandwich instead and a cinnamon roll. Sweet treats are an important part of your work day. You wonder if Peter likes cinnamon rolls. You purchase another, on impulse, to bring him.
“Hey!” Jessie waves at you, calling your name. “Come sit with us!”
Well. Here you go.
You sit next to Jessie, who scoots over to make room for you. She goes around the table and introduces you to the five other people. Three work in Marketing, one works in Finance, and one works in PR for the company, Marisol. You say hi and keep your coat on due to how often the door opens and heat rushes out.
“Marisol was just telling us about the conference she covered with Tim Drake last week,” Jessie says.
You raise your eyebrows. “Wow. Tim Drake. How’s he?”
“Not bad, actually,” Marisol says. “And I’ve worked with a lot of CEOs. You’d think he’d be unbearable because he grew up with Jack Drake and then immediately was invited to the Wayne fortune, but he’s actually decent. He never misses a Xanax dose, which helps.”
Dennis, one of the Marketing people, nods soberly. “Sometimes my anti-depressants are the only thing that gets me through the day.”
“Marisol soft-launched Tim and his boyfriend last year,” Jessie says proudly. “Best press I’ve ever seen.”
“We were worried about that one,” Marisol admits. “Not everyone’s as forward thinking, even in Gotham. But, um…” She leans in, and gestures for you all to do the same. “Okay, you obviously can’t tell anyone. It’ll probably come out soon, but I don’t want it to come from here. I… I think Tim might be cheating.”
Jessie, a great lover of theatrics, gasps. “No!”
“I’m not surprised,” says Bianca, the finance worker. “He’s lived with Bruce Wayne since he was fifteen. What do you suppose a boy learns being around him all the time? No morals, that’s for sure. I’m sure all of his kids are screwed up in some way or another.”
Marisol rolls her eyes. “Bruce Wayne would have to be in a relationship longer than a day to get a chance to cheat.”
“I still think all his flings are a cover for his long-term relationship with Batman,” says Dennis.
“No one wants to hear your crackpot theories, Denny,” Bianca says. “Anyone with eyes can see that Batman’s with Catwoman.”
“My throuple theory! Batman, the cold, stern lover. Bruce, the—”
Bianca holds up a hand. “Please, spare me.”
“Anyway,” Marisol says, and delicately sips her ginger ale. “Back to my gossip. Tim Drake disappeared from his hotel like five times. He wouldn’t tell anyone where he went. In my experience, that’s classic affair behavior. And he’s been doing this for about three months, you know, dipping from meetings, working later, having long lunches and not putting them on the company credit card so no one can see what restaurant he was at. It’s definitely suspicious.”
“I hope he’s not cheating,” Jessie says. “They’re such a cute couple. And when they settle down and have kids? Adorable! Although, I don’t agree with nepotism. I support class consciousness.”
“If you caught him, are you sworn to secrecy?” you ask.
Marisol shrugs. “Probably. I mean, he wouldn’t want an Instagram post about it, that’s for sure. My own morals aside, this is the job, you know? It sucks but it is what it is.”
You shiver, biting your sandwich. You wouldn’t want to be on either side of that. Secrets stress you out. Doubly so if you’re keeping them for someone else.
A glob of tuna suddenly plops onto your coat collar. Another lands on a button. A third on a pocket.
“Shit,” you say, putting the sandwich down with too much force. Jessie instantly passes you a wad of napkins, and you try to dab the mess up as best as you can. But you can already tell your coat will smell like tuna, onions, and pickles for the rest of the day.
“Poorly constructed sandwich if you ask me,” Marisol says.
“Well, at least tomorrow’s laundry day.” You shrug off your coat. You abandon your sandwich for the cinnamon roll. Jessie pats your shoulder consolingly.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m sure no one on the train will notice the smell. It already smells so bad!”
You snort. “Thanks, Jessie.”
****
There’s no way the train will mask the smell.
You stare at your coat, debating. It was a mistake to keep it under your desk; you’re pretty sure the heat from the computer has made the smell a hundred times worse. A janitor was kind enough to give you a recycling bag for it so no one rioted over the smell. But still. You’re hesitant to take it out of the bag now. You don’t know if you can handle dirty looks for a forty-minute train ride. And you don’t want your other clothes to smell.
What’s worse? Peter left early, so you can’t give him his cinnamon roll.
You go outside. It’s cold, especially now that it gets dark at practically noon. But if you walk fast, it’ll be fine, right? You pull your scarf tighter around your neck.
“What are you wearing?”
You spin around, clutching your chest. Red Hood is leaning against a streetlamp, arms crossed. Half of him is shrouded in shadows, which would freak you the fuck out if you weren’t more irritated than anything.
“Don’t do that!” you say. “Jesus Christ.”
“What did I say about that Lexapro, huh?”
You roll your eyes. “You said Xanax. And I’m in therapy, okay? She wants me to try this before committing to meds. Have a little faith in me.”
“Oh, I’ve always had faith in ya. Except now, ‘cause you’re not wearing a coat when it’s fuckin’ thirty-three degrees out.”
“I spilled tuna on it. Tuna, onions, pickles… the tuna essence has seeped in.”
“Tuna essence is better than pneumonia.”
“Nag,” you mumble.
“What was that?”
You look up wearily. “Nothing. I didn't know you were coming. I never texted you back.”
Hood takes off his brown bomber jacket and takes your coat bag and purse. He puts his jacket on you, holding it steady while you dazedly stick your arms through the sleeves. Then he zips it up to your chin. What the fuck.
“Tell me now,” he says.
“Hood, you’re cold!”
“Talk fast.”
“Dude.”
“Oh, you don’t have anything to tell me? Alright, then I’ll just head out.”
“Wait!” You shimmy your hands through his ginormous sleeves. “Okay. I think something shady’s happening at work.”
Hood crosses his arms. You’d think that he’d look less intimidating with your yellow purse over his shoulder and a recycling bag with your coat in his opposite hand but, unsurprisingly, he doesn’t. His gray tac suit is skin-tight, outlining every curve of muscle and fat. His pecs look obscene.
Oh no. No, don’t look at that. Think of something else. Toby’s hyena laugh. Tuna juice smell. Santa Claus… Hood as Santa Cl—no! Nope.
Hood seems to take your silence as anxiety. “Okay, I know we’re gettin’ close to when the stuff happened with Emerson last year, but—”
“Come on,” you say exasperatedly. “Do you think I’d want to ruin such a great job?”
“No, but I think the mind’s a funny thing and you get nervy sometimes.”
“This isn’t that. Can I tell you my evidence?”
He holds a hand out. “Go ‘head.”
“Okay, so I’ve been working on this piece of code for, like, months, and it won’t let me finish this program. And I’ve worked on difficult code before, so that’s not the problem, but it’s like now there’s a firewall installed that’s preventing me from accessing stuff. And it only happens when I work on the security part of it, but no one else is experiencing this problem. Today, I tried again and it closed me out of the program! Just shut off! That’s not normal.”
Hood sighs. “Look—”
“Wait! Another thing is that when I returned to my computer after lunch and tried to work on the program again, I saw that Tim Drake had edited some of my code. The CEO, Hood! That’s totally weird. And…” You take a deep breath. “This woman from PR told me about how Tim keeps disappearing from meetings and stuff and how she thinks he’s cheating, but what if it’s something more nefarious? What if he’s messing with the company’s security system?”
“If Tim Drake was doing some shit like that, there’s no way Bruce wouldn’t know about it,” Hood says.
“How do you know? Bruce Wayne doesn’t really seem all there.” You point to your head.
Hood snorts. “Looks can be really deceiving, trust me. I checked him out. He’d know.”
“But—”
“Hey,” he says softly. “I think it’s fantastic you’re so alert about this stuff, but everything’s fine. I wouldn’t have suggested you work here if it was dirty.”
“You aren’t listening to me!” you say, balling your fists. “Hood, I really think there’s something happening. Why don’t you trust me?”
“I do trust you.”
“Then why won’t you even poke around? You love to poke.” And shoot, but you hope he won’t go there.
“I’m not gonna break into Wayne’s company just ‘cause of some weird code. That’s not enough. And maybe Timbo really is cheating. That’s a moral failing but it’s not a crime.” He rubs the chin of his helmet. “‘Course, his boyfriend would kick his ass if he knew…”
You scowl. “It isn’t a coincidence. There’s no such thing as coincidences.”
“You sound like me.”
“Someone has to!” you say, throwing your hands up. “Apparently, Red Hood no longer operates on a reasonable amount of suspicion and paranoia.”
“Alright, alright. How ‘bout this: we’ll do a stakeout tomorrow night. I’ll set up cameras and everything. But if nothing’s out of the ordinary, you drop it. Capisce?”
“Yes,” you say, spirits lifting. “Yes, that's very good. Thank you.”
“Yeah, sure. How’s work, besides that?”
“It’s good.” You smile, thinking of Peter. “Security’s nice.”
“Oh, yeah?”
You look up, remembering yourself. You and Hood do not have that kind of relationship. You’re not sure what relationship you have, but it’s not that.
“Yeah. A-anyway… do you like cinnamon rolls?”
If you could see Hood’s face, you imagine he’d be raising an eyebrow. “Huh?”
“Cinnamon rolls,” you repeat, going to your purse, which is still over Hood’s shoulder. He obediently holds it while you take out the box from Penny’s. You hold it out to him.
“What’re you—”
“It was for my friend, Peter,” you say. “But he left early, I guess. He didn’t tell me he would, I don’t know why he wouldn’t but…” You shake your head. “Anyway. Do you want it?”
“You have it,” Hood says gently.
“I already had one. It was my reward for enduring tuna essence. Please take it, Hood, I want you to have it.”
So he takes it. You smile.
“They’re best warm. You have an oven, right?”
He snorts. “What, y’think I’m some miscreant who squats in abandoned warehouses?”
“No! No, I just… I don’t know anything about you. I don’t know if you cook. Most guys your age don’t.”
“I cook,” Hood says. “Quite a bit, actually. I make a mean lasagna.”
You grin. “Really?”
“Sure. Peer-reviewed. I’ll make ya one sometime.”
That flusters you, and you clear your throat, fidgeting to take your purse from Hood. He takes it off and puts it over your shoulder.
“I should go,” you say. “Um… oh! Your jacket—”
“‘S a long walk to the train,” he says, backing up, holding your coat. “Just keep it. You can give it to me when we meet for the stakeout.”
“Hood, I’m not gonna take your jacket,” you say, beginning to take it off.
“Seriously. ‘M fine. I got Pit water in me. Helps insulate.”
You try to hand it back, but Hood’s faster. He dodges you, darting away before you can throw his jacket at him.
“See ya tomorrow!” he says, and disappears around the corner. With your coat.
“You have my coat, man!”
Nothing. You huff, shoving your arms back through the sleeves. Vigilantes. There’s no reasoning with them.
…His jacket really is warm. You wonder what the lining is made of. It’s so soft.
****
“Where’d you get that jacket?”
Jessie is already at your desk when you walk in. You look up, frightened. Your heartbeat slows as you realize Jessie’s genuinely curious. She slides around your cubicle and touches your sleeve. The leather is taken care of. You don’t know much about clothing that’s not made of cotton or polyester blend, but from what you understand, real leather jackets require upkeep. It’s clear that Hood does that. It’s obviously worn—aside from the fact that it smells like man cologne, there are scratches and patches from God knows what. Probably bullets and knives. But it’s soft, warm. Well-loved.
“I think this is real leather!” Jessie says, impressed. “What’s it lined with? Wow. I didn’t know you wore that. Pri-cey.”
“I don’t,” you say quickly. “It’s from my—” What? It belongs to a crime lord you’re sort of friends with? You grimace. “Uh, I found it thrifting.”
“Oh, I love thrifting!” Jessie gushes. “Do you think Ben would like thrifting?”
You unravel your scarf. “I don’t think three-year-olds care much about clothes. Like, at all.”
“True. Ugh! I have no ideas on what to do with him. They’re coming this weekend.” She rubs her temples. “And her husband has, like, very high expectations. High expectations? Fuck him! Did he push Ben out of his fucking va—”
“Jessie,” you say, widening your eyes. “Why don’t you take Ben to the community theater’s showing of A Charlie Brown Christmas?”
She claps her hands, pointing at you. “You’re a genius. That’s why they pay you the big bucks!”
You watch her sprint away, presumably to do anything but her work. You glance behind you, where Toby and another coworker is trying to see how much balled up paper they can land in the wastebasket. You roll your eyes.
Well. You can do your job.
You type your login and wait for it to load. You take off your—Hood’s—jacket. This is terrible. Where could he have possibly taken your coat?
You pull out your phone. You’ve considered changing his contact name, but it feels weird having Red Hood as a contact. My close, personal friend Red Hood. You don’t want to call him Todd, because that’s probably not his name. And anyway, it’s too normie for a guy who wears a helmet and shoots people on the daily.
Maybe not on the daily. Weekly, at most.
You: can i have my coat back today?
?: I would never hold your coat hostage. :)
You: could’ve fooled me. don’t be surprised if yours has tuna juice on it.
?: Ho-ho, ha-ha, comedy! Your coat isn’t warm enough for this weather anyway. Be grateful.
You won’t win that argument, so you don’t try.
You: sooo grateful. are we watching pineapple tonight?
?: Tf is pineapple?
You: that’s you know who’s code name… aren’t u supposed to be a super experienced vigilante?
?: Pineapple is a terrible code word. You’re supposed to replace the whole action, like “I’m taking out the trash.”
You: okay man whatever. are we taking out the TRASH tonight?
?: Yes. 7pm. Parking garage across the street. I’ll call you.
You put your phone in your bag, exhaling. This isn’t even that good of a jacket. Yes, it’s warm, and soft, and smells good but… your coat has character! And not the ballistics kind. You’re pretty sure that the mended hole on Hood’s jacket sleeve isn’t because he snagged it on a fence.
You open the program you’ve been working on for months. The screen freezes, the code glitching. The cursor moves on its own, flicking around the screen. Your eyes bug out of your head. You perform an emergency override, something you were taught when you first started working for Emerson. When you work with sensitive information, being able to pull the plug is crucial.
You force-quit the program. The screen goes dark.
Well. Shit.
****
“Have a good weekend!” Jessie calls after you. You flinch, not realizing anyone was behind you.
You tuck your scarf tighter, smiling. “You too.”
“I got the tickets for Charlie Brown,” she says happily. “I dare that prickly mother-in-law to top that!”
“You’ll be his favorite aunt for sure.”
Jessie reaches to give you a half-hug. “Thanks. Have you given any more thought to the gala? You can bring a plus-one for free!”
Like you have anyone to bring. “Well…”
“We can go together. The party favors are so good, too.”
“Maybe,” you say. “I… I’ll think about it.”
Jessie shrugs. “Okay. See you Monday!”
She heads off in the direction of the company parking lot. You wait until she’s out of sight before you cross the street. Your phone rings. You answer.
“Fourth floor,” comes Hood’s voice. “Left side. Black Jeep.”
“Isn’t a black Jeep kind of an obvious stakeout car?” you ask, following his directions. You step onto the elevator and press four. “Isn’t that what the FBI drive?”
“You watch a couple of cop movies and suddenly you’re an expert, huh?”
The elevator doors open. You walk down the parking lot. You’d be terrified if you weren’t on the phone with Hood. “There must be some truth to those, right?”
“Ha, not really. ‘Cept the fact that they make cops a lot smarter in the movies than they really are.”
“The police are stupid in Die Hard,” you say, opening the passenger-side door of the black Jeep. There are no other cars on this floor.
Hood hangs up, watching you as you get in and close the door. He’s wearing a black leather jacket. “Die Hard is unrealistic for other reasons. Who could take out twelve guys barefoot?”
You could, you don’t say. You decide not to mention that John McClane was also shirtless and barefoot for the last third of the movie, making his kill count extra impressive. Hood could probably take out thirty men barefoot and shirtless. Hmm…
“Your coat’s back there,” he says, pointing to the backseat. “Had it dry-cleaned.”
“Oh.” You blink. “It doesn’t need to be.”
“Helps it last longer,” Hood says. “Preserves the insulation.” He tilts his head, presumably eyeing his jacket on you. “Y’don’t have another coat? Yours is wearin’ thin.”
“What’s next? Eating steak five times a week? I don’t have money for two coats, Mr. Moneybags.”
He hums, resting one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the back of your seat. He lifts his hips to sit more comfortably. You look straight, focusing on a lit window across the street. Your cheeks are hot.
“I’ll getcha another coat for Christmas,” he says casually, and it wouldn’t fluster you so much if you didn’t think he actually meant it.
“You don’t have t—”
He holds up his hand on the steering wheel. “Can’t let my best informant freeze.”
“I’m your informant?”
Hood looks at you, helmet eyes glowing. “No.” He pauses. “You’re my… I dunno what.” He clears his throat. “The cinnamon roll was good.”
You smile. “Yeah? It was from Penny’s.”
He hums. “Never been. I’ll have to try. You cold?”
You shake your head. “I’m fine.”
“Sure?”
“I’m sure. Your jacket is really warm. My friend Jessie asked what it was lined with.”
“Alpaca. I got it on a job in the Andes.”
“With Roy?”
“Wow, you remember that. Yeah, actually, with Roy. He was the friend I had to break out of prison.”
“Does he also do…” You gesture. “This?”
“He does more international jobs these days, but yeah. Great guy. Better than me.”
“I think you’re good,” you say quietly.
“Mm. Most people wouldn’t agree.”
“Then most people would be wrong.”
Hood doesn’t say anything. He reaches behind him and pulls out a set of binoculars. He gives them to you.
“You’re in charge of those, ‘kay?”
“Okay.” You put them to your eyes, finding the WE building. Some of the windows are lit, which isn’t weird. Some floors work later than you. “When I was working on the program today, I couldn’t even get on. It crashed and logged me out.”
Hood’s quiet. You pull the binoculars away and look at him.
“What?” you ask.
“That’s strange, I gotta admit.”
You perk up. “So something could be going on?”
“Don’t get excited. Let’s just see.”
You wiggle in your seat. “Vindication!”
“‘F I didn’t know better, I’d think you want a corrupt CEO.”
“It’s our Christmas tradition,” you say, grinning.
Hood laughs. “Jesus, I hope not.”
You put the binoculars back to your eyes. You pan up, up to the thirtieth floor, and…
“Hood!” You put down the binoculars. “The light is on in Tim Drake’s office. I saw him leave! And I asked his receptionist if he was available to make sure, and he said Tim had a business dinner.” You unlock your door.
“You did all that?” Hood asks. “Hey, hang on!”
“It’s smart, right?” you say excitedly, happy that your suspicions seem to be confirmed. “I’m terrible at lying, though. When his receptionist asked me why I wanted to speak to Tim, I got so flustered I blurted out that I had a personal surgery for him to green-light.” You thump your head. “Stupid.”
“Takes practice, lyin’ on your feet,” says Hood. “Try exhaling as you say the lie. Your voice levels, your breathing regulates.”
You smile. “I’ll keep that in mind. Sometimes I think, ‘what would Hood do?’ And I knew you would’ve questioned the receptionist first.”
“I dunno if I should be flattered or worried that you’re thinkin’ ‘bout what I’d do.”
“What do you mean? You have good advice sometimes.”
You wait for him to get out. Hood closes his door and locks it.
“Just sometimes?” he asks.
“Other times, your advice is scary. And illegal.”
He shrugs. “Fair enough.”
You start to walk to the exit.
“Hey, slow your roll,” Hood says, catching up to you. “What exactly are you gonna do?”
“If Tim’s up there after hours and he lied about leaving, then surely he’s doing sketchy stuff, right?”
He sighs, glancing at the WE building, then at you. “I want you t’be careful. I mean it.”
“I’m always careful, Hood. More than you, remember?”
“Well, lately, you’re like a fuckin’ Black Widow, so I feel like y’need a reminder.”
“Have you met a Black Widow?”
Hood nods. “Once. Nice lady. Scary as hell. And she was careful.”
You preen at the comparison. If she scared Hood, she must be one hell of a woman.
Reluctantly, Hood leads you out of the garage. He makes you stay three steps behind him the whole time. You enter Wayne Enterprises through the back entrance with your key card. Hood promises that he’ll erase the log, at your insistence. You take the elevator to the twenty-ninth floor, then walk up the extra flight to the thirtieth, so that the elevator sound won’t alert Tim Drake. That’s your idea. Hood is impressed.
You sneak to the hallway of offices. Sure enough, light peeks out underneath the door. But what can you do? It’s not like you can just kick the door down.
“Let’s get closer,” you whisper.
“Let’s not,” Hood says, holding you back by the collar of his jacket. “Stakeouts take patience. You gotta wait for an opportunity.”
The door opens, light spilling out into the hallway. Tim walks out, away from you and Hood. You run. You don’t think about it. If you did, you’d probably better digest what a fantastically dumb idea it is to run into Tim Drake’s office alone.
“Wait!” Hood hisses. “Stop! Son of a—”
You quietly open desk drawers, flick through files, anything you can. Nothing. Tim’s desk is unusually clean. And then it hits you. Duh. A CEO in their twenties is going to be digital. So you move the mouse and override Tim’s login. You go straight to the program you’ve been struggling with for months, and sure enough, you’re able to get on. The edit history shows that Tim was indeed the one who removed your and others’ access to the program.
Your phone buzzes.
?: Hide.
Your fingers fly over the keyboard as you log out and turn off the screen. Frantically, you search for a place to hide. There’s only the tiny closet. You run in, pulling the door shut. A coat in a plastic dry cleaning cover hangs on the end, and you have to bend your head to stand without bumping your head. The door has Venetian blinds cut into the wood, and you peer through the slats. Tim walks in, followed by two men. One you recognize as state senator Brian Osborne, who’s trying to run for governor this year. His face is plastered all over the conservative towns in New Jersey. He’s in his thirties, and housewives of right-wing voters adore him. You don’t trust anyone with perfectly white teeth. Or someone who’s too orange. The other man seems to be a bodyguard, which is smart. Why doesn’t Tim Drake have a bodyguard?
“Please sit,” Tim says. He looks perfect even though it’s nearly nine o’clock at night. You’ve never seen him not look perfect and put-together. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind his ear.
Your chest hurts.
“I have to say, I didn’t expect your call,” Osborne says, sitting across Tim’s desk. “Considering who your father is.”
“Bruce doesn’t represent me,” Tim says coolly. “Anyway, I know a good deal when I see one.”
“Fantastic. So where will the exchange happen?”
“Wayne Enterprises is having a Christmas gala next week, at the Gotham Gallery. I have a private collection room where no one will bother us.”
You shift, your shoulders stiff with pain from how you’re hunched over. Your movement causes the coat on the hanger to rattle. Shit.
Osborne turns his head, looking at the doorway. “Is someone else here on the floor?”
Tim Drake looks in your direction, and you swear he locks eyes with you through the slats in the door. Your heart stops.
Something clatters down the hallway, much louder than you were. Tim gets up, following Osborne out the door. “There shouldn’t be anyone else. I checked.”
They leave his office and you listen for their fading footsteps before you slip out of the closet. Your hands are clammy with adrenaline. Blindly, you go the same way you came, eyes peeled for Hood’s helmet. Someone grabs your wrist and you open your mouth to yell. It’s quickly covered by a gloved hand. You thrash, but another hand pats your waist, and you relax, relief nearly making your knees buckle.
“Un-fuckin’-believable,” Hood hisses in your ear. “Was I speakin’ in tongues when I told you to wait?”
He drags you backwards, pushing the stairwell door open. He lets go of you when the door clicks behind you, and you turn around.
“That was so scary,” you say, breathless.
“Oh, yeah? I couldn’t tell with the way you charged in like a bull! What the hell has gotten into you?”
“I knew you’d cover me,” you say.
“Don’t ever do that again. I’m so fuckin’ serious. That could’ve gone so wrong and—”
“He’s working with Brian Osborne!” you blurt.
That blessedly makes Hood stop ranting about your safety.
“Are you sure?”
You scoff. “No, Hood, it was some other orange conservative freak with sink porcelain teeth. I thought you said you trusted me!”
“I do, I do, ‘s just…” He groans. “Shit. What else did ya find out?”
“They’re going to meet and do the final exchange at the Wayne gala next week. Something about security technology, I’m not really sure. That must be why I couldn’t log on today!” Your mouth forms an O, gears in your mind turning. “Hood! You have to come to the gala. Then you can take down Tim Drake and Osborne in one go. It’s perfect!”
“Oh, is it? I’m so glad you got my Friday night plans all set. Wayne’s gala is extremely high-profile. ‘S not like Emerson’s Christmas party. I can’t sneak in as Santa this time.”
“I can be your eyes,” you say. “And you’ll just stay in the shadows until you can catch them in the act.”
He puts his hands on his hips. “I don’t like the idea of you gettin’ so close to them. Tonight almost went to shit. Osborne’s no joke. His PR is so good ‘cause he’s so damn bad. He’s been on my list for a long time.”
“Well, this is your chance to get him,” you say. “And it’s not like I’d gun him down. As soon as I find out when he and Tim are meeting, I'll text you, and you’ll do the rest.”
“You get a new job and all of a sudden you’re Butch Cassidy,” Hood mutters.
“Isn’t this the best way to take down Osborne? Catching him in the act?”
“Yes.” He sighs. “Yeah, it is, but…”
“But what?”
Hood shakes his head. “Nothin’. You’re right. If you’re really sure about this, then fine, we’ll do it. Or… I could go alone.”
“I can do it, Hood, honestly. My anxiety is a lot better.”
He hums. “‘S not what I meant, sweet. I know y’can do it, I just… this stuff is dangerous. Seriously.”
“I helped you last year,” you say.
“Yeah, and y’did a great job. But that was under dire circumstances, y’know? I pretty much peer-pressured you into it.”
“I wanted you to dress up as Santa.” And be my fake-boyfriend, you don’t add.
He groans. “I remember. That beard shed everywhere.”
You laugh, then turn, suddenly remembering where you are. “Shit. Will they find us?”
“Nah, they left. I saw ‘em get on the elevator before I found you.”
You sag in relief, then tense again. “What about the cameras?”
“I put ‘em on a loop. What kinda operation you think I’m runnin’ here?”
You smile. “A good one. Obviously.”
He lightly taps your shoulder with two fingers. “C’mon. Think that’s enough spycraft for one night, yeah?”
You go to the elevators and go out the side exit this time, on the opposite corner. As you wait for the light, you point at a billboard advertising The Mighty Crabjoys.
“I love them!” you say.
Hood follows your finger. “Yeah?”
You nod. “I tried to get tickets for their concert next month but they sold out in, like, fifteen seconds. Same thing happened to me with Hozier.”
“Hozier’s cool. I like him.”
You cross the street to the garage. “You do?”
“Well, sure. It’s Hozier. I dunno much about Mighty Crabjoys, though.”
“Their music is fun.”
“I’ll have to try it.”
You ride the elevator up in silence. Tonight was scary, but not nearly as much as last year’s events. You’re getting good at this!
“My therapist suggested doing things that scare me, to help with my therapy,” you say as you get into Hood’s car. “She said she thinks exposure will help me the most.”
“Doubt she meant this stuff.”
You shrug. “I dunno. I think I’m getting better at facing my fears.”
Hood turns the key in the ignition. “‘M such a bad influence.”
“You’re not,” you say, but you don’t expand. You don’t point out that before last year, you were terrified of Red Hood, of what he stood for, but now you understand that he’s more on your side than any grubby-handed politician who swears to stand for you. For all of his hard violence, Hood is fair, and kind, and really fills out those pants. You’ve had the occasional dream since last year’s party, where Hood is still your Santa boyfriend, but not because you’re chasing a criminal. And all you see are those blue-green eyes, boring into you like he knows your heart races when you’re around him, and it’s not because of any anxiety attack.
The drive home is quiet. You gave Hood the address and it’s been silent for minutes. No music. You wonder what kind of music Hood listens to. You wonder all sorts of things about him.
“Thanks for believing in me,” you say, while you wait at a light.
Hood nods. “Yeah, well, you called it ‘bout Drake, so—”
“No, I mean…” You flatten your palms over your pants. “For helping me with WE.”
“You helped yourself.”
You shake your head. “You helped me and you didn’t have to. You were really nice, Hood. No one’s ever been so nice to me before. I think… I think meeting you was the best part of my year.”
“Yikes,” he says, maybe trying to release some of the tension. It’s not a bad tension, but it’s heavy nonetheless. Like Hood doesn’t know what to do with your honesty.
You laugh, watching downtown Gotham pass you by. “I guess getting my new job was pretty good too.”
“Well, I’d hope so.”
You fold your hands in your lap. This feels like a moment you’re going to replay over and over in your head tonight. “Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks.”
“Thank you too,” he says. “Not just for helpin’ me take down one dirty CEO at a time. But thanks for, uh, bein’ a friend.”
You look at him. He keeps his eyes on the road.
“We’re friends?”
He shrugs. “‘F y’don’t mind bein’ friends with the bastard Red Hood.”
You smile and think of your coat in the backseat. “No. I don’t mind at all.”
****
Friday, gala night, comes sooner than you expect. Miraculously, the program at work doesn’t give you any more trouble. But you worry about working on it, conscious that it might be part of a dirty deal and Brian Osborne’s campaign for election. So you twiddle your thumbs and call out sick once, which you never do. You let Jessie distract you with pictures of her nephew. And above all, you do not contact Hood.
Not that he told you not to, or anything. It’s just a personal rule you’ve set for yourself. You felt jittery when you got out of his car last week, your dry-cleaned coat in your arms. You thought about it all the way up to your apartment, and then you stared at it while you made dinner and watched Die Hard.
Maybe this will be the last time you meet up with Hood. At least for a year. A part of you is sad that soon, you won’t see or speak to him regularly, after he nabs Tim Drake and Brian Osborne, and the fact that you’re disappointed terrifies you.
“Hey.”
Peter’s standing in front of your desk. He has a bag with Penny’s logo on it. He sets it on your desk. You look up at him.
“Hi,” you say, staring at those black, black shades. “Happy holidays!”
“Happy holidays,” he says. “D’you like cinnamon rolls? They had a special this morning. Two for one.”
You laugh. “Oh my God. I actually was gonna bring you a cinnamon roll last week.”
He grins. “Yeah? We must be psychically linked.”
“Definitely. Are you sure you don’t want it?”
“‘M sure.” He watches you pull out the cinnamon roll. There’s a plastic fork and knife in the bag too. How nice.
“You got a fork,” you say, opening the container. “How’d you know I hate getting icing on my fingers?”
He shrugs. “Intuition. Psychic connection. Take your pick.”
“Thanks,” you say. “Seriously. I needed this.”
He nods. “I figured. I saw your name on the list for tonight. Changed your mind?”
“Oh.” You lick icing off your lip and swallow hard, pretending to chew for longer than you need to. “Yes, actually. Jessie wore me down. And I thought, why not? You’re working security, right?”
“Yeah, probably, but you might not see me. I’m s’posed to stick close to the Wayne heirs all night. Timmy and Dickie.”
“Dick Grayson will be there?”
Peter nods. “Yeah. Pretty much the whole family. Bruce takes his galas very seriously. This one is the biggest one of the year.”
Maybe you should text Hood that he’ll need to be wary of all those Wayne kids. You don’t need Hood’s involvement—or yours—splashed across page one on the Gotham Gazette next week.
“Do you have any plans for the holidays?” you ask.
Peter shakes his head. “Not really. I’m not a believer or celebrator of much.”
You blink, pursing your lips. Peter tilts his head.
“What?” he asks.
“No, nothing, just…” You laugh. “I don’t know, I feel like someone’s said that to me before. Deja vu.”
“Huh. Maybe I got that from a movie or somethin’.”
You smile. “Like Die Hard.”
“They say that in Die Hard?”
“No. Sorry. I was thinking of something a friend said. So, no plans? Are you working?”
“Pretty much all break,” says Peter. “Actually, ‘s kinda unfortunate. I got tickets to see The Mighty Crabjoys next month, but I can’t go ‘cause of work. Been tryna unload ‘em so they don’t go to waste, but no luck.”
“Really?” You sit up in your desk chair. “I love them, actually. I wanted to see them.”
“Did ya? Shit, that’s perfect. I’ll email ‘em to ya.”
“Are you sure you don’t want them?” you ask. “You could make a crazy resale profit.”
“Oh, don’t cha know? They pay me the big bucks to protect Wayne’s secrets.” Peter grins. “‘M retirin’ in a month.”
You laugh. “Did you find out you’re a secret Wayne heir, or something?”
Peter runs his tongue along the edge of his teeth. “Mm. Somethin’ like that. Nah, don’t worry ‘bout the money. Think of it as a one-year celebration of your survival at WE.”
“Ah, well.” You shrug one shoulder, suddenly bashful. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Peter.”
He clicks his tongue. “Now that’s not true. You made your own way.”
You smile, small and proud. “Maybe.”
“Definitely.”
Chatter from the hallway draws your attention. Tim Drake walks onto the floor, flanked by three people you don’t know, and Dick Grayson. Peter clears his throat.
“I’ll see ya ‘round,” he says, gently tapping your shoulder. “Break’s over.”
“Oh, okay. Happy new year if I don’t see you.”
“Happy new year,” he says. “Y’deserve a good one.”
Peter leaves through the stairwell door on the opposite side. You stand when Tim walks to Toby’s desk, which is three desks down from yours. You don’t know why you stand, but you feel like you should. You notice he’s wearing the coat you bumped into last night in his closet. Your heartbeat ratchets.
Tim says something to Toby, who looks terrified. Good. You hope he said something along the lines of do your fucking job.
But then Tim looks at you. And so does Dick Grayson. You nearly swallow your tongue.
They walk to you. Tim shoos everyone but his brother away, instructing them to “find something constructive to do.” They scatter.
“Who was that you were talking to?” Tim asks.
“W-what? You mean Peter?”
“Peter,” Dick echoes. He’s smiling, but it makes you nervous. He’s studying your face like he’s trying to pick you out of a lineup. “Do you know Peter very well?”
“He’s—I mean, we’re friends. He’s a security guard.”
Dick nods, no longer looking so intense. “Hmm. Okay.” He sticks out his hand. “Dick Grayson.”
You wipe your hand in what you hope is a discreet fashion so you don’t rub sweat on Dick Grayson’s palm. “Nice to meet you.” You say your name.
“You too,” Dick says. “Finally.”
When they don’t say anything else, you start to fidget. Your gaze darts between them. “I’m sorry, am I in trouble or something?”
“No trouble,” Tim says. His eyes narrow at you. Shit. Shit! “Everything’s fine. There were some bugs in the program your team’s been working on, but Toby figured it out.”
You highly doubt Toby has ever figured out anything of importance: code, the female body, normal responses to a funeral announcement. And the way Tim and Dick are staring at you feels like an interrogation.
“Oh, great,” you say, taking a deep breath and exhaling as you speak, like Hood taught you. “I hadn’t noticed anything amiss, but if there’s anything I can do, please let me know. I’ve been working on the program for months. Mostly front-end work.”
Tim’s smile is polite but frosty. “I appreciate it. I know you all work extremely hard.”
“A company would be nothing without I.T.,” Dick chirps.
You laugh nervously. “Thank you, that’s kind.”
He smiles knowingly. Dick Grayson is reported to be wholly pleasant and friendly. Right now, you feel like you’re being hunted for sport.
Tim checks his watch and nods crisply. “I have a meeting.” He sweeps a glance across the office. “Keep up the good work!”
They leave. Air fills your lungs once more. You sink into your chair. Then you pull out your phone.
You: oh my god oh my god
You: hood
You: hood
You: please
?: What’s up? I’m working.
You: TIM DRAKE IS ONTO ME
You: are you SURE he can’t tell i was taking out the trash?
?: Excellent use of code. Yeah, I’m sure. Take a breath. What do you mean he’s onto you?
You: okay well he fucking came to my floor and he asked if i knew this security guard which isn’t part of it but he had this LOOK hood. and dick grayson was there too and his smile was so freaky, it’s like he knew exactly what i was thinking
? is typing…
You watch the speech bubble pop up, then disappear, then pop up again.
?: He asked if you knew a security guard? Who?
You: peter. he’s my friend. hood i think my cover’s been blown
?: You don’t have a cover. Your identity is literally a programmer at Wayne Enterprises.
You: oh my god even worse!!!!
?: Please try to relax. None of that means anything. I’ll check on Drake when I finish what I’m doing.
You: THIS COULD BE LIFE OR DEATH
?: Warhead
You’ve been gnawing on a fingernail this whole time. The text annoys the shit out of you, but you obediently open your drawer and take out a Warhead from a party-size bag and pop it into your mouth. You’ve been on the hunt for a candy that’s even more sour for the bigger panic attacks, but the Warhead works today.
You: maybe i shouldn’t go to the gala
Your fingers hover over the keyboard. Wait. If you don’t go, you’ll be home. You’ll be unaccounted for. That’s exactly how people go missing. No, it’s better to be at the gala, close to Hood. Tim Drake can’t assassinate you if you’re at the same event as him on the night of his exchange with Osborne.
You: nvm that’s how ppl die. i’ll go
?: Are you eating the Warhead?
You: yeah
?: Eat another one.
You do.
****
You: does this look okay?
You: [img._6]
Jessie: you look great!! I love that color :) dark red is perf for xmas
You look at your reflection, smoothing down your dress. You wanted something glamorous, and you sifted through three different discount sections at three different Macy’s. You lucked out with this dress: dark red, long-sleeved, long skirt but not too long that you’ll be tripping all night. And you can run, if need be. Not that you think you will. But still.
You: i’ll be in a red dress btw
?: Okay. How do you feel?
You: fine. Are u already there?
?: Almost. Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.
You pocket your phone and grab your purse, heading out the door. It’s luckily not snowing, or you’d take a taxi. But the walk to the train isn’t too bad. You’re back to wearing your coat, which is good, because it goes better with your dress than Hood’s would. But you kind of wish you could’ve worn his. It’s admittedly warmer.
The gala is held at the Gotham Art Gallery this year. Bruce Wayne had made a statement that all of the proceeds from tonight’s event would be donated to the local orphanage. He’s Gotham’s biggest philanthropist. You don’t have any particularly strong opinions on him. He seems decent enough, for a billionaire. His son, however…
Well, whatever. That’ll be over soon enough. You have the utmost faith in Hood tonight.
The gallery is hosting the party in its main hall. The roof is made entirely of class, so clear it looks like the night sky is bearing down on you all. The moon is an inky dot of cream above you, almost but not quite full. Waiters circulate with appetizers and alcohol. You take a flute of champagne when it’s offered, but you only take a few sips. You need to be sharp to help Hood.
Bruce and Dick go on stage to talk about the gala, but you’re not listening. You look around. You don’t expect to see Hood, of course, but your eyes are peeled for Peter. He said he’d stick close to Dick, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
…Then again, neither is Tim. Huh.
You take out your phone.
You: have you found the trash?
?: Lol. Not yet. Stay put. Relax. I’ll let you know when I take care of it.
You take a deep breath and try to do as Hood says. It feels weird to not be directly involved. Your phone buzzes.
?: Pretty dress.
Your face immediately goes aflame. What do you say? If you were being honest, you’d say that you didn’t wear red just because it’s Christmas. But you feel that that’s too bold. Bolder than you’re willing to be.
You pocket your phone, too alarmed to say anything. You gulp more champagne, forgoing your rule. Hood told you to relax, right?
The night goes on. Jessie lures you to the dance floor. She introduces you to more people at the company.
And then you spill champagne on your dress.
You sigh. “Great.”
Jessie is sympathetic. “No! Oh no, not again. Want any help cleaning up?”
“No, it’s fine.” You wave her away, a little uncoordinated from the alcohol. “Be right back.”
You start your hunt for the bathroom. It’s only a little champagne, but it’s right on your neckline, and it’s uncomfortable. At least you won’t smell like tuna.
You pull out your phone.
You: spilled champagne :P
You finally find the bathroom and carefully dab the champagne with a wet paper towel. Then you check your phone again. Your message remains unread and unreplied to.
A cold, sinking feeling pools in your stomach. You tap Hood’s contact, about to call. You pause. What if he can’t answer the phone?
This is just your anxiety talking. That’s why you avoid drinking; your anxiety always gets worse. But maybe you have a right to be worried now. Hood always responds quickly. If not in depth, then a simple yes. Why wouldn’t he respond now?
You throw away the paper towels and leave the bathroom. What did Tim say? His private collection room.
There are some staff, but they clearly don’t give a shit about wandering guests, too busy catering to demanding one percenters. You’re not the next 007, but it’s easy enough to find the private collection room. The door has been left slightly ajar, and you carefully pull it open. There are wooden crates piled everywhere, so you duck behind the nearest stack.
There’s a pause. You cringe. Did you make too much noise?
“I didn’t hear anything,” Tim says.
You crawl on your hands and knees, shuffling so you can peer around the crates. Osborne has his bodyguard from last night, as well as three other men. Tim is alone except for—
Oh God. Peter?
Your lips part in shock as you take in the sight of your formerly favorite security guard. Your mind races. Is this why he was so evasive about his schedule? Why he didn’t care about selling the tickets? Yes, you’re sure that being a massive jerk-off and helping billionaires commit crimes is very lucrative.
You scowl. He can’t see you from this angle, but you sort of wish he would, even though you can very clearly see his holstered gun. Would he even care, seeing you? Or would you be another body to dispose of?
You lean back against the crates. Your reaction time is a little slow from the champagne. You pull out your phone and text Hood again.
You: security guards suck ASS
You put it away and watch Tim take out a briefcase. He opens it for Osborne. You can’t see what’s inside. Osborne opens his own briefcase, and those contents you can see. Stacks of cash.
“Committing election fraud has never been easier,” Tim says airily.
Osborne laughs. “Fantastic. You’re my inspiration, Mr. Drake.”
Maybe you should be recording this. You open the camera app and press record, trying to be steady as you zoom in. Peter is on his phone.
Ding!
?: Where are you?
“Shit,” you whisper, trying to mute your phone.
Peter looks up and sees you. You shoot him what you hope is your meanest face.
“What the fuck is this?” Osborne asks, snapping his fingers. One of his goons wastes no time in going and hauling you up by your arm.
“Let go of me!” you shout, swatting at him. He holds you firmly.
Tim looks at you icily, blue eyes wide. You fear he’s going to order Peter to kill you right then.
“Who are you working for?” Osborne asks you.
You lift your chin, feeling more confident than you feel. Damn champagne. “The Red Hood. And he’s gonna kick your ass.”
Tim glances at Peter, chewing his lip. He nods at you. “Take care of her.”
“No,” Osborne says. “Let’s see if this Red Hood character does show. He’ll be looking for his partner, no doubt.”
His confidence makes you queasy. Did Osborne already get to Hood?
You find it hard to believe. Hood can handle himself, no doubt. But he had to sneak around tonight, didn’t he? If he is somewhere, like a basement or shoved into a dusty sarcophagus, no one will be looking for him.
“I can handle her, sir, honestly,” Peter says, and you hiss at him.
“Traitor,” you snap. He ignores you.
But Osborne doesn’t. He squints at you, then Tim, then Peter.
“Do you know her?” he asks.
“Of course not,” Tim says. “Let him take her into a back room so we can get on with this.”
Osborne shakes his head, closing his own briefcase. "No, this is fishy. Red Hood’s partner happens to stumble onto our deal? …You almost got me that night at the office, explaining away the noise. Well, not tonight. I smell a rat. And I take care of rats immediately. Finish it."
The guard pulls out a gun and cocks it against your temple. But you’ve barely felt the press of cold metal before it’s gone, your arms free. He's on the ground, blood gushing from both legs. Peter’s gun smokes.
Gunfire erupts. Peter dives for you, dragging you behind crates. You fight him all the way.
"You asshole," you snap. “You fucking asshole! How can you do this? Tim Drake is—”
"Stay here," he says, angrier than you've ever seen him. "Un-fuckin’-believable."
You peer around the crates. Tim is wrestling with one of Osborne’s goons who has a gun. Peter goes for the other two. They fire and you duck back behind the crates.
“Should’ve known not to trust a Wayne!” Osborne shouts. “Especially one who beds men! Just like your filthy father!”
“You fuck men too, Brian,” Tim says, heaving the guard over his shoulder in a very impressive takedown. Since when does Tim Drake know MMA? “Does your fanbase know that?”
Peter fires and Tim snaps, “Don’t shoot, dumbass! The art is on loan!”
“I’m the dumbass? Meeting here was your bright idea!” Peter snarls, and that voice sounds very familiar…
Osborne’s bodyguard punches Peter and cracks his shades, which fly off his face. Peter instantly knocks him out cold. Seafoam eyes, such an unusual col—holy shit. Holy shit.
“Hood?” you blurt, so surprised, you forget to hide.
This time, Osborne fires at you. Hood shoots at Osborne, who flees. He wastes no time in grabbing you, swinging you back behind the crates. You peek over and see Tim follow Osborne out, with the remaining two goons at his heels.
You whip your head to look at Hood. Peter. “What the f—”
“Shush.” He scoops you up, hoisting you over his shoulders like you're a sack of potatoes. You writhe in protest.
"What the hell! Put me down, Neanderthal!"
“You’re unbelievable, y’know that?” he says, carrying you out of the collection room and down the hallway.
“I’m unbelievable? Exactly how many identities do you have, Peter Todd Red Hood?”
Hood sighs and sets you down. You’re in the main part of the gallery, which is currently closed to guests, but you doubt Hood gives a shit about that. It’s empty, and that’s what matters. He holsters his gun and rests his hands on his head, like he just ran a marathon.
“Guess you want an explanation,” he says.
You put your hands on your hips. “That would be nice, yes.”
Hood smiles a little. You frown.
“What?” you ask, aggravated.
“I dunno. You used to be so skittish ‘round me. Now you’re, like, hm. My friend, I guess.”
You drop your arms, startled. “I…” You look away. “You’re working for Tim Drake. You’re no better than Osborne.”
Hood scoffs. “Even if I was dirty, you wouldn’t catch me dead working for Timbelina. No, sweet, ‘m not. I’m the same Red Hood you’ve always known. Still after the bad guys. But Tim Drake…” He pauses. You look at him. “Is Red Robin.”
“What?”
He raises his right hand. “Swear it. And, uh, my name is Jason. Jason Todd.”
Your mouth falls open. “You’re Bruce Wayne’s s—”
“Ward,” Jason cuts you off. “Yeah. But trust me, I wouldn’t be here willingly. See, uh, you’re actually a spectacular spy. Like, better than the FBI.”
“I am?”
“Sure. Tim’s not really a corrupt CEO. He was just playin’ the part to lure Osborne. We’ve been after him for a while. No one was supposed to detect anything ‘cause nothing’s public, to protect Tim’s image, but…”
“I’m really good at my job,” you say breathlessly.
Jason grins. “Y’sure are. I couldn’t deter you, and I couldn’t tell you the truth. Didn’t wanna endanger you. I tried to make y’drop it, but you wouldn’t quit. Could go into the detective business, honest.”
“Wow.” You lean against a pillar. “Sorry.”
Jason shrugs. “‘S okay. Was fun.”
He edges a little closer. He probably thinks you won’t notice but you’re a detective.
“So you were Peter this whole time. You were… watching over me?”
Jason licks his lip, mouth forming shapes. “I mean, officially, I was makin’ my identity legit so Osborne wouldn’t get suspicious. I saw you when you came in, and I guess I couldn’t help but say hi. I thought you’d recognize me, but those shades were worth their money.”
“I remember those eyes,” you say quietly.
He clears his throat. “Right. So, um, I guess I just… wanted to make sure you were okay. And then we kept talkin’ and, I dunno. Sorry.”
“For what?”
“For everything, I guess. For enterin’ your life and stayin’ in it. I get it if y’want me to leave you alone.”
“No.” You take Jason’s hands, so his fingers rest on the insides of your wrists. “Hood—sorry, Jason. You make me less nervous. And I’m relieved that your alter ego isn’t a bootlicker.”
Jason’s face is disgusted. “No way in hell.”
“Can I make a confession?”
“Oh, well, I’ve already made about three, so evening it up would be great, yeah.”
You swallow. "Okay. Well, last year when you pretended to be my Santa boyfriend, I kept thinking about what if it had been real."
Jason's pupils are enormous. "Yeah?" he whispers. "Was it a good thought?"
You nod. "I felt so conflicted, thinking about you and also thinking about Peter. And now…"
“Mmhm?”
You look at Jason’s lips. He has a scar that cuts through his Cupid’s bow, but it’s quite pretty. The Red Hood has a pretty mouth. Huh.
“Is my pulse steady?” you ask, looking at him through your lashes. You lift your wrists slightly.
Jason’s eyebrows lift in realization. “Yeah. Not one lie told.”
“I wish you’d kiss me.”
He leans in, and you meet him halfway. He’s taken off his gloves, so when he cups your neck, hot, rough skin sears you. Oh, you like him. Lightning shoots down your chest and back. He’s a shy kisser, and that pleases you even more. There’s something thrilling about the fact that you can make him moan first. Just from a kiss.
Footsteps echo on the marble, and you pull back, fearing Osborne and his men. But it’s much worse: Tim Drake is ten feet away, holding a bo staff.
"Really?" he asks, annoyed. "This is why you couldn't follow us?" He nods at you. "Hey."
"Hi," you say, utterly mortified. "I am so sorry. Please don't fire me."
Tim raises an eyebrow. "What, for sucking face? Please. Bruce will be thrilled to know that Jason isn't nearly as maladjusted as he thought."
"Fuck off," Jason says, pulling you closer by your waist, almost subconsciously.
"Crowbar victim."
Jason’s gaze is steely. "Ninety-nine. Failed. Clone attempts."
Tim looks impressed. "Wow. Dug deep for that one."
"I've been reading B's files to fill the gaps."
"There’s some fucked-up shit in there."
"Seriously." He looks at you, and it’s like his entire expression changes. You wonder if he’s been looking at you like that the whole time. He turns to Tim. “Gimme a minute.”
"Fine, whatever. I'm gonna track down his bodyguard. I think one of them hacked my computer last week.”
“Actually, that was me,” you say. “I overrode your firewall.”
Tim's eyes widen slightly as he looks at you. "For real?"
"Yeah, I was looking for your edit history on the project. When I, you know, thought you were on Osborne’s side.”
Tim doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that you thought he was evil for several months. "Wow. Wanna come work for me privately?"
Jason grunts. "Back off."
Tim grins with all of his teeth. "Okay, I'll spare you. Hurry up.”
Jason flips him off. You turn to him after Tim's gone. "So he’s your brother?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“But… legally?”
He sighs. “Unfortunately. And the one you met a few days ago, Dick? That one’s mine too. Legally. He’s on different meds, though.”
“Oh.” Your eyebrows rise. “Oh. So when Dick asked today if I knew Peter very well…”
“He did not mean in the coworker way, no. They all think we’ve been secretly dating for a year.”
You frown. “But we haven’t.”
Jason throws his arms up. “Tell me ‘bout it! World’s greatest fuckin’ detectives. Psh. I told them to butt out, for the record. Told them they didn’t know what was goin’ on. And do they listen? Does anyone listen to me in this godforsaken family? Nope!”
“I listen,” you say.
Jason immediately softens. “Yeah, you do.”
“I think you should probably go help Tim, though.”
He waves a hand lazily. “In a minute. He’s fine. Tryin’ to figure something out first.”
“What?”
“Whether I believe in Christmas miracles or not.” Jason pushes his tongue under his lip, smiling. He leans in to kiss you again. You meet him in earnest.
Summary: Stuck at a shitty office party for your shitty job on Christmas Eve Eve, you’re at your wit’s end. The last thing you expect is to play vigilante for a night with the Red Hood.
Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!reader
Word count: 7.2k
Warnings/tags: panic attacks, reader has anxiety, creepy coworkers, office party shenanigans, canon-typical violence, jason being both a menace and a sweetheart, attempts at humor, fake relationship, silliness!
the divider
You’re grateful for a reason to escape. Someone announces that the lights on the obnoxious eleven-foot Christmas tree are burned out and you’re already on the elevator, volunteering to find spare lights.
You hate these office parties. They’re just a way to play politics, show off fiancés, and reaffirm cliques. You wanted to skip it all together. But Mr. Emerson, your boss, had insisted that attending tonight’s party was mandatory.
Alma had told you about a hundred times to skip tonight, but Alma’s worked here since the Reagan administration and has too much pull to be fired. You, conversely, have been here eight months, and if you get fired, your next job is going to be as a henchman for a B-list Gotham villain.
Being painfully ordinary and anxious is a toxic mix. Your doctor still thinks all your worrying is because of your menstrual cycle. He doesn’t believe in work-related stress.
So anyway. You’re just trying to get through tonight. And find some tree lights that work.
You unlock the spare office where all the holiday junk is stored and turn on the light.
The motherfucking Red Hood looks at you, one leg dangling outside of the window and one leg inside the office. He unclicks his harness.
"Oh my God,” you say, hand frozen on the light switch.
Red Hood pulls his leg in from the window and steps into the office. He puts the harness in a duffel bag and roughly zips it, then tosses it unceremoniously onto the floor.
"Oh my God.”
He glances at you, helmet eyes glowing. "No God here, just me.”
"Oh my God," you say again, near hysterics. "Oh my God, Red Hood."
"Always nice to meet a fan," he says irritably, brushing snow off of his jacket, flashing his holsters. Oh, fuck. That's a lot of guns.
"What, um—" You close your eyes, lick your lips, try to find your sanity. "To what do I—why—are you gonna kill me?”
"The fuck? You think I'd sneak into an office and kill someone in cold blood? What kinda operation you think I'm running?"
Your mouth opens and closes in horror. "Wh–I... I don't—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you, Mr. Hood."
"Please, Mr. Hood was my father."
He laughs. You taste bile in your throat.
Hood sobers. "Damn. Tough crowd. Look, sorry to freak you out, but I got shit to do. If you'll just point me to Hershel Emerson's office, I'll be on my merry way."
"That's m-my boss. Are you gonna kill him?" You can’t handle murder tonight. You’ll have a breakdown for sure.
"Literally, what did I just say?" Hood throws his hands up. "Not one minute ago. I'm not killing anyone!"
"Yet?" you ask weakly, mind inundated with too many mob movies to watch your manners. You know what the Red Hood is all about. Everyone does.
"No. I'm not killing Emerson. But he is a bad dude, so I gotta take care of business. Actually, I should kill him. He deserves it."
You squeak in horror. He raises a hand.
"But I'm not!" he says gruffly. "Respectfully, get a grip. You live in Gotham."
You swallow. "What're you gonna do to my boss if not kill him?"
Hood shrugs. "Eh, maybe scare him a bit. Mostly get intel to take him down. He's currently sitting on five million dollars of stolen life savings from clients."
You blink. "What?"
"Yup. What I really wanna know is which of his employees are in on it. He didn't do this alone."
Hood takes out a small roll-up pouch of what looks like lockpicking tools. You release your sweaty death grip on the doorknob, causing it to squeak. Hood doesn't look up.
Five million dollars is ringing in your head. That happened here. Where you work. Your boss is even scummier than you thought.
“Is that a lockpicking kit?” you ask.
“Yup. Good eye.”
"This seems... illegal.”
"Well, I won't lie to you, most of what I do is. You won't be implicated though.”
He looks at you. You flinch. Even with the lights on, the Red Hood is scary as shit.
"Yeah..." he says, shaking his head. "You wouldn’t do well in prison. I can tell."
Your chest hurts. "I don't think anyone does well in prison," you say, eyebrows scrunching. "Have... you been to prison?"
"Only to break out a friend. You ask a lot of questions."
"Sorry. Um, Mr. Red Hood—"
"Ah-ah. Call me Red. Or Hood. No Mister-ing."
"Okay.” You lick your lips, hoping he doesn't go back on his temporary no-kill policy. “Hood, do you think you could come later? After the Christmas party?”
He tilts his head at you. You keep talking.
“Not that I don't admire what you're doing! Because I think taking down my boss for stealing money is great, eat the rich and all that, but, um, I came up here to get lights to replace the ones that burned out downstairs because that's a normal thing that happens and now you're here, at my job, and I'm freaking out. Oh God, oh my God—”
You grab the wall for stability, feeling like you've been rocking on a boat for hours. Sweat beads on your forehead. This time, you really do feel like you’ll throw up. Throwing up in front of the Red Hood would be humiliating.
“Look, I got shit to do, okay? I'm sorry you're freaking out but your boss is gonna cash out in a few days and then I lose him and that five million. It's now or never."
You should've just stayed home and baked cookies. Fuck being social! This is what happens when you're social: you meet morally gray vigilantes who force you to be complicit with their crimes.
Your cheeks feel wet. Are you crying? Maybe it’s sweat.
Hood points to the hallway. "Is there a camera outside?"
"Y-yeah.” Your voice is weak. “I think I’m having a heart attack. Can you call security on your way out?"
“Does your left arm hurt?”
“No, but—”
“Are your limbs stiffening?”
“No, but—”
“You’re not having a heart attack. Your speech is fine.”
Hood takes out a few more things from the duffel, then kicks it under a desk with his foot. You wheeze and grab onto the doorknob again.
It’s quiet for a second. Then—
“Shit. You're having a panic attack,” Hood says.
"Mm, probably," you say, hunched over like an armadillo. Fuck your stupid doctor.
There's silence as you wheeze quietly. Then something small hits your head. You flinch and squeal.
"You don't need to throw things at me!" you say, beyond defeated, near tears.
"No, I wasn't—sorry. It's a Warhead. I have one when I'm feeling… not my best. They're s’posed to help occupy your other senses so the panic disappears."
You stare at the candy, confused and suspicious at once. "Is it spiked?"
"Again, what sorta operation do you think I'm running? It's not drugs. Look." Hood unwraps a Warhead and sticks it in his mouth underneath his helmet. You hear him suck on it. "Eesh, that's sour. Okay? No drugs."
So you take the candy from the floor, unwrap it, and pop it into your mouth. The sour taste immediately overwhelms you. It's like your brain resets. You pant through the sour.
"Ough," you say, face scrunching from the taste.
"Yeah, right? Life changing hack."
You suck on the candy desperately and close your eyes, trying to find your breath.
“It’s okay,” Hood says, stilted and awkward. “Just, uh, focus on your breathing. Exhale longer than you inhale. Breathe through your nose.”
It takes another few minutes, but the feeling passes. Your chest lightens. It’s the quickest you’ve ever recovered from a panic attack.
“I was just kidding about the prison thing,” Hood says. “You’re not gonna go to jail ‘cause of this, I promise.”
Yeah, but what if you lose your job?
You spit the Warhead into a trash can and smack your tongue a bit. “Are you sure you can’t come back tomorrow night?”
“No can do,” Hood says. “Your boss will be gone by then.”
“It's just that I'm really bad with keeping secrets and according to Google, that's how ulcers form and I really can't afford any sick days off, so—"
You yelp as the door suddenly swings open, hitting your shoulder. You spin around.
"Hey," Bill says, squinting at you. "Where have you been?”
"No!" you yell, and turn off the light.
Bill stares at you, illuminated by the hallway light. “Uh…”
You clear your throat. "Ahem. I'm fine. It's just taking me a moment to sift through all these decorations. Please return to the party.”
You hate Bill. He’s a sleaze and doesn’t do any work. More than once, he’s trapped you by the water cooler in a conversation about his “smokin’” imaginary lawyer girlfriend.
“If you wanted me to come help you, you could've just said so," he says, reaching for the light, way too close. You don’t like his tone either.
"No!" you yell, blocking the light switch with your hands.
"What the hell? Why not?"
"Because—"
There's a creak from the back. You wince.
Bill immediately whips his head toward the sound. "Is someone here? Hello?"
He reaches for the light. Again, you block him, swatting his hands away.
"Would you stop—is someone here?"
"My boyfriend!" you blurt.
Bill stops, looking at you. "Your boyfriend? You've never mentioned a boyfriend."
"Well, I have one and he's here."
"Okay. Why can't I turn on the light and see him?"
"Because he's... um..."
You spot the red Santa suit out of the corner of your eye.
Oh, this is a terrible idea.
"He's changing! He's our Santa for the party. Surprise!" You make weak jazz hands.
Bill looks into the dark where you're pretty sure Hood is hiding. You hope, anyway. Otherwise Bill is going to tell everyone that you're making up boyfriends. "Really?"
"Yeah, really," comes Hood's unmodulated, deadpan reply, and you jump. "Don't turn on the light. I'm naked."
"Oh..." Bill looks queasy for a moment. "Uh—" He looks at you and suddenly grins. "Oh, I get it. You two were having fun before going to the party, huh? Didn't know you were such a wildcat."
"That’s disgusting,” you say. “I would never do that in the office.”
Bill wiggles his eyebrows. "Me-ow. Does the Santa thing turn you on?"
"I'm right here, Bill, and naked or not, I'll kick your ass," Hood says.
Bill pales and quickly backs out of the room. "Right. Sorry. Uh, carry on."
He closes the door. You push your back against it and exhale, heart racing.
"Bill is a shithead," Hood says.
“How… do you know his name?”
“Employee background check,” Hood says mildly.
"Oh… yeah, he's been written up a bunch of times for inappropriate behavior, but he's close with Emerson, so he never gets fired."
"Want me to kill him for you? Free of charge."
"What? No! Hood—"
"Oh, relax. I was kidding."
"Uh-huh." You turn on the light. Hood has his helmet on, and his voice is modulated again. "What're we gonna do?"
"Well, I'm gonna go make sure Hershel doesn’t fuck off to Bermuda. The lights you wanted are here, by the way."
Hood tosses you a box of multi-colored tree lights. Then he walks toward you. You plaster yourself across the door.
"Wait! You can't leave. I said that my boyfriend is going to be Santa. Bill will tell everyone. They’ll expect you.”
"I appreciate your quick thinking, but that's a hard pass,” Hood says.
"You can't leave now! Bill's gonna tell everyone I'm a liar and they'll think I was up to something worse in here, like snorting coke."
"I mean this gently: I think you should look into anti-anxiety meds. My brother swears by Xanax.”
“My doctor won’t prescribe it to me,” you say glumly. “He thinks my anxiety is made up.”
“Huh. Want me to kill him? I know a better doctor.”
"Well…” You hesitate, then shake your head. “No! No. Hood, please. They’re all gonna expect a Santa. And when I don’t show up with Santa, they’ll remember that I didn’t participate in White Elephant or any of that other office nonsense that I don’t want to waste my money on. I need this job!”
“They’re not gonna fire you for not doing White Elephant,” Hood says.
“You don’t know them! It’s a popularity contest.”
But Hood is indeed disinterested in the fact that you'll be the office pariah. Probably because he’s never worked in an office.
Instead, he ushers you aside without a struggle. Then he turns the doorknob.
"Wait! Wait, listen. If you dress as Santa, you'll have access to the party and offices. You won't have to sneak around. And people get really drunk at these. They'll talk. You can figure out who's helping Emerson steal money."
His hand pauses. He looks at you. You look back, wringing your hands.
"You're pretty crafty," he says.
"...Thanks?”
Hood releases the doorknob. "Alright, fine. I'll do the Santa shtick.”
“You will?”
He tilts his head. “Should I not?”
“No! No, you should. It’ll be a good disguise.”
He hums. “Sure. But we're in this together now, got it? You blow my cover and we both go down."
"Y-yeah, got it."
Hood heaves a gusty sigh. "Next time, I'm sending Roy in to do this shit."
"Who's Roy?"
"Ah." He holds up a finger. "Too many questions."
He makes a beeline for the Santa costume and then looks at you expectantly.
"Yo. Boyfriend or not, you're not watching me change. Guard the door, Mrs. Claus."
"Oh, right. Sorry."
You turn off the light and go into the hall, shutting the door behind you. It's empty, luckily. You rap your fingers on the box of lights, leg jiggling.
This is insane. You should just tell Hood you can't do this and let him figure out his own plan.
But then... this would make it easier to find Emerson's crime partner. And you're really sick of Bill being a jerk. You don’t want to be called a liar, or get iced out for the rest of your time here because you didn’t bring Santa. Maybe having Hood be your Santa-boyfriend would make people leave you alone. Which is a crazy reason to stick to this plan, but still. You're trying to find the bright side.
And all those people that Emerson stole from... surely, you have a responsibility to help get their money back and bring him to justice, don't you?
The door swings open. You turn around.
“You wear a mask under your helmet?”
“As a precaution.” He sounds defensive. “Lots of people in my profession do it.”
You doubt that. “Don’t you think it’ll be weird if Santa has a mask on?”
He hesitates, evidently debating between protecting his identity and arousing suspicion.
“Fine.” He carefully peels off the mask and tucks it into his pocket. The surrounding skin is slightly pink from irritation. His nose and cheeks are dotted with freckles.
And wow. The Red Hood has beautiful eyes. So vibrant and clear, like seafoam. And young! How old is he, anyway? He doesn’t look much older than you, if at all.
His eyes are framed by thick, dark lashes, and it makes sense, Hood being a brunet.
“What?” he snaps, glaring.
“Nice eyes,” you blurt.
His brows furrow. You remember the guns.
“Um, anyway. Should we go?” you squeak out, backing away.
Hood huffs through the beard. It flutters. "We need to have some ground rules."
"Okay."
"First, you should know that I will shoot if there's a physical threat at this party. Two, you're gonna call me Todd at the party. Three, if you try to tell anyone that I'm Red Hood or that I'm taking down Emerson, I will make your life hell. And if you're his partner, you'd better tell me now or I'm gonna be a lot less jolly."
"I'm not!" you say. "I would never do that. And I won't tell anyone you're Red Hood."
"Good. Let's go. Keep your ears open for hints about Emerson's partner."
He takes off in long strides. You hurry to keep up. The Santa costume doesn't slow him down.
"So how did you find out that Emerson's stealing?" you ask.
"Got a tip. You really didn't know he was stealing?"
“I don’t have access to the finances. I work in user interface. Website design.”
"Yeah? That's pretty cool. I got a brother who's into that stuff," Hood says.
"The same one who takes Xanax?”
“Would you believe it?”
You try to picture Red Hood with a regular family. With a brother or a sister or a father. It's hard to imagine.
“How come you don’t take anti-anxiety medication?” you ask.
“I have Pit Madness Syndrome, and it has a weird chemical reaction with that stuff.”
“Oh.” Subject change. Quickly! "Do you celebrate Christmas?"
"Not really. I'm not a believer or celebrator of much. You can see what my plans are two days before Christmas."
"Your family doesn't celebrate?"
Hood just grunts, eyes suddenly stormy. You take the hint and stop talking.
The room where the party is isn't particularly special. It's big enough to fit about a hundred people. For all the money the company makes, you'd thought that they could afford to splurge a little and rent an actual hall. Now you know what the profits have been going toward. But the decorations are decently lavish.
"Oh, wait." Hood leans in to speak in your ear. Lightning shoots down your spine. "I don't know your name."
You give it. He repeats it, and you shiver, like your boyfriend just said your name.
"'Kay. Stay in this room. We don't know how much Emerson or his partner knows, but assume they’re willing to do anything to get away with the money."
You nod. “Got it.”
“Hey, it’s Santa!” Bill shouts from across the room. “He made it!”
You smile tightly. “As promised.”
A few people wave. Others cheer.
“These people really like Christmas, huh?” Hood asks.
“You have no idea,” you say, hyperaware of his hand brushing your back.
“Don’t think I got your name, man,” Bill says as he approaches. He sticks a hand out. “Bill.”
“Todd,” Hood says, taking his hand and shaking. Bill winces at the handshake. You hide a smile.
“Ah, Todd. Right.” Bill looks at you, trying to subtly soothe his hand. “You’ve never mentioned him.”
You shrug. “Never came up.”
“I’m pretty private,” Hood says, putting an arm around your shoulders. “But we’re very much in love. Ain’t that right, baby?”
“Th-that’s right… honey,” you say, face going hot.
“So what do you do for work?” Bill asks. “My girlfriend’s a lawyer.”
You roll your eyes. Hood snorts.
“There’s no way you’re dating anyone. You look like you got dressed in the dark, Billy.”
You cough your laugh into your arm. Bill’s eye twitches.
“Enjoy the party,” he says icily. He glares at you, then stomps away.
“That was amazing, but I think Bill might retaliate,” you say.
“Don’t worry ‘bout him,” Hood says. “I’ll take care of it.”
You look at him with big eyes. “Hood—”
“Not like that. Just… it’ll be handled. Okay?”
You nod. Maybe it’s insane, but you trust him. “Okay. Want some punch?”
Hood hums. “No alcohol. Thanks.”
You go to the punch bowl, a little relieved to escape Hood’s piercing ocean-eyed stare. He’s intense. Whoever dates him for real is in for a ride.
Then again, you can’t imagine Hood meeting someone for coffee or dinner. You giggle at the image of him showing up with his guns and helmet.
“Hey, IT.” A woman in a white sweater you’ve seen maybe once waves at you. “Cool idea, bringing a Santa.”
“Yeah, Emerson’s too cheap to,” the man next to her says. They laugh.
You smile. “Glad you like it.”
You serve yourself two cups of the alcohol-free punch. Then you turn.
Your smile falls. Across the room is Hood and Tanya Donaldson, resident shit-stirrer. She’s trying to cozy up to him. You sigh and walk over, bracing yourself.
“Hey, baby,” Hood says, practically dragging you into his side. He takes a cup of punch. “Just met Tanya.”
You can guess exactly how he feels about that.
"Oh, is he your boyfriend?" Tanya asks, eyeing Hood like he's a slab of steak. “I had no idea!”
"Uh-huh," you say. "This is Todd."
She wiggles her fingers, grinning. “So how often do you go to the gym, Todd?” She rests a hand on Hood's arm. "I didn't know Santa was so big and broad."
Your gaze drifts to where you're pretty sure Hood has a gun strapped to his ankle, and the temptation does appear, you won't deny.
But you need this job and it's going to be really hard to explain why Santa's armed and dangerous, so you just grit your teeth. Tanya's the worst for this kind of behavior and she doesn't respect you, so bringing your hunky boyfriend is like dangling a bunch of carrots in her face.
And it’s not like Todd is actually your boyfriend.
"Are you flirting with me in front of my girlfriend?" Hood asks, prying her hand off of his arm.
"Flirting?" She claps a hand over her mouth, the movement slightly delayed from all the wine. "No, oh my God! I was just saying—"
"That's really pathetic," Hood says. "Don't do that."
He walks away and you follow, leaving a wobbly Tanya on her own. You smile to yourself.
"Thank you for that," you say.
Hood gives you a thumbs up. "I can plant evidence on her and get her fired if you want."
"No, I don't want to feel damned for eternity. Thanks anyway."
"You have a lot of assholes at your job," Hood says. "But you're not one. I admire that.”
You sigh. "They're not all bad. Alma is cool. She keeps me from quitting.”
"And where is she?"
"At home. She's a sixty-two year old accountant who doesn't care about these parties. Her hip aches when it's cold."
"Mm. Maybe you should follow her lead," Hood says.
"But then who would help you with your spycraft, Hood?"
He allows himself a tiny laugh at that. You wonder how often he laughs. If ever.
“Well, suffering Tanya wasn’t in vain. She said this whole party cost twenty grand.”
“So?”
He gestures grandly. “Does this look like it cost twenty grand to put this together?”
It's true. The alcohol is the most expensive thing here. No food, except for some people that participated in the potluck, but you don't trust anybody's food here. The decorations are old. Not to mention the Red Hood as your Santa. Your boss might have spared a thousand for tonight. No more.
“So where did all that money go?” you ask.
Hood snaps his fingers. “Bingo.”
“That is so shitty. I got a chocolate-covered pretzel as my Christmas bonus,” you say.
“A bag of ‘em?” He shakes his head. “Pretty cheap.”
“Ha, no. No, I got one big pretzel. In a box. The box cost more than the pretzel, I think.”
His eyes widen. “Jesus. Even I give more than that to my guys.”
“Got any openings?” you ask, half-joking.
Hood snorts. “Don't think you'd like what we do. Why d’you stay?”
You shrug. “Nowhere else to go. I have to eat somehow.”
“Crappy boss, crappy coworkers, no Christmas bonus. Hell, I feel sorry for ya.”
The Red Hood feels sorry for you. Perhaps you've reached a new low.
He drinks the punch and coughs. “Ahem, wow. Did you make the punch?”
“No, some people mixed it here.”
“Oh, then I'll be honest. Tastes like a flavor that's not found in nature.” He throws his cup away. You trust him and set your still-full cup on a table.
“I won't even mention the potluck,” you say.
“Yeesh. Can't eat at everyone's house.”
“That's what I say!”
He winks at you. You look away, flustered.
The crazy thing is, you could get used to this. Well, not specifically Red Hood, but having a boyfriend to bring to these functions, who’ll warn you against gross punch and defend you against Tanya.
And Hood is surprisingly good at this. If you forget the past hour, you can almost pretend that this is just another office party that you happen to be spending with your new boyfriend.
"Hey, look! It's Santa! Dude, check me out with Santa!"
One of the finance guys who's very drunk—you want to say that his name is Matt—bounds up to you and Hood. Hood tenses, reaching for his hip (gun!) and you touch his elbow, reminding him to relax. He drops his arm.
Matt reeks of alcohol, the front of his shirt stained with bourbon. He laughs, forehead shiny with sweat.
"Santaaa, hey, Saint Nick, take a pic with me, man!"
Matt throws his arms around Hood. Hood does not like that and shoves him off accordingly. But Matt doesn't seem to notice and holds up his phone, camera facing front. Hood slaps the phone out of his hand.
"No pictures," he says.
You wince. The guy stares and blinks, taking three to five business days to process what just happened.
"What the fuck, man? That was my phone!"
"Sorry. I'm drunk." Hood sighs like he's physically in pain, then leans back and makes drinking motions with his fingers. "Fuckin' wasted! Did you try those rum shots? Lit, dude!"
The guy cheers up, forgetting all about the phone. "Oh, yeah, for sure! I'm gonna go get one right now! Thanks, Santa!"
"You do that!" Hood says cheerily.
As soon as the guy leaves, Hood returns to his resting scary face.
"Wow," you say.
"I know. I threw up in my mouth a little."
You laugh. Hood grins. Then it fades.
"Damn it. We're getting no closer to finding Emerson's partner. I should just interrogate Emerson until he tells me."
Interrogate makes you feel woozy. You're pretty sure you know what Hood's idea of an interrogation is.
"Wait! We just need to lure them out. If they think their money might be in jeopardy, they'll sneak out of the party to go check on it, right?" you ask.
"Potentially, yes. But how do we lure 'em?"
"There's an alert if someone withdraws more than ten thousand dollars from the company. But I don't have access to the accounts," you say.
Hood smiles slowly. "You don't need it. Remember I mentioned my computer whiz brother?"
"Yeah…” You grimace. “This sounds illegal again.”
"Hell yeah it is. He owes me a favor too. Lemme call him."
You two go off to the side while Hood dials.
"Yeah?" comes a voice on the other end. He doesn’t sound at all like Hood, more like a one percenter from the Diamond District. This is Hood’s brother?
"Aliases only. I need you to withdraw fifty grand from Emerson Corp,” Hood says.
"Why?”
“‘Cause you owe me a favor. Just do it.”
“Zombie breath.”
“Shortass,” Hood says, voice taking on a distinct older brother tone.
“You’re such an asshole,” the voice says. He yawns. “B’s wondering if you’re coming tomorrow.”
“I’d rather die again,” Hood says. “And you can tell him I said that.”
“The broody emo bullshit is getting old, dude,” the voice says.
You giggle. Hood looks at you sharply. You press your lips together, properly chastened. Sorry, you mouth.
"Who's that?" the voice asks.
"No one," Hood says. "Did you do it?"
"Chill out. I'm getting past their firewall. So who is that?”
“It’s the TV,” Hood says.
“No, it’s not. That was a lady's laugh, IRL. And you wouldn’t lie if it was someone we know…”
“Mind your damn—”
“I’m helping him with a case,” you blurt.
Hood throws his hand up, glaring at you. It’s silent on the other end of the phone for a solid ten seconds. Then…
“Holy shit,” Hood’s brother says. “You do have a girlfriend. Wait. Hold on. This is wild. You don’t even have a social security number.”
“I do not have a girlfriend!” Hood snaps, drawing the attention of some coworkers. You nudge him. He exhales through his nose.
“I don’t have a girlfriend, you little fucker,” he says, quieter. “She’s telling the truth.”
“Can I ask your girlfriend a question? Respectfully, what were you thinking? You can do so much b—”
“Text me when it’s done,” Hood growls and hangs up.
You look at each other for a moment.
“You didn't hear any of that,” Hood says. “Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good. Let's see who gets scared. He should do it right about…”
His phone beeps. You look around the room.
Soon, your culprit reveals himself. Matt!
Holy shit.
"He didn't want a picture," Hood says slowly. "He was frisking me! Motherfucker."
"But isn't he drunk?" you ask.
"No." Hood sighs in disgust. "How did I miss that? Br—someone I know does that all the time, spilling alcohol on himself so he smells like he's been drinking. God. Oldest trick in the book!"
"Do you think he knows you're the Red Hood?"
"No. But he might suspect something. Let's go.”
You follow Matt out of the party. He's walking fast. Yeah. Definitely your guy.
Down the hallway, Matt turns around and makes direct eye contact with you. You panic.
“Hood!” you whisper.
“I know,” he says. “Follow my lead.”
Loudly, he laughs and puts an arm around your waist. “C’mon, baby, no one’ll know.”
And then you're being herded into a janitor’s closet.
You stumble in, confused and reeling from how easily Hood plays the affectionate boyfriend role. He follows you in, shuts the door, and pulls the chain dangling from the ceiling. The single light bulb turns on.
You take care to not knock over any cleaning supplies. You don't see the mop on the floor, however, and you trip backwards on the handle.
Hood's reaction time is impeccable. He jerks forward to catch you, tugging you back on your feet with his hands on your arms.
“Y’alright?” he asks.
“Uh-huh,” you say, mildly mortified. “Thanks.”
He lets go. You shift on your feet.
“How long are we gonna stay here?” you ask.
Hood checks his phone. “Well, he should've moved on by now. Let's—”
The doorknob jiggles. You look at Hood in fear. His expression is similar.
“Pretend!” you whisper, and that's all he needs to understand and move.
You're expecting your arms around Hood, maybe exaggeratedly feeling him up. You are not expecting Hood to hoist you up by the backs of your thighs and press you against the wall. You squeal, arms shooting out to hold onto his neck. Hood's beard ends up in your mouth and you spit it out.
The door swings open, revealing a very tipsy couple.
“Oops!” the woman says, grinning. “Sorry. Carry on.”
The guy gives a thumbs-up. “True love.”
You smile awkwardly. Something is pressing into your hip.
“True love,” Hood deadpans. “Rock on.”
As soon as the door closes, you're squirming.
“What is that?” you hiss.
“My gun! Oh my God, it's my gun,” Hood says, quickly setting you down. “It's not…”
He trails off and backs away. You stand there, processing what just happened.
“That wasn’t—”
“I didn’t—”
You both stop. Hood adjusts his beard.
“You're really strong,” you say, wringing your hands.
Hood nods. “Sorry about the, uh…”
“Yeah, let's just not talk about this.”
“Yup. Find Matt?”
“Absolutely.”
You open the door and peek out. The hallway is empty. Glory be.
“All clear,” you say, and Hood is on your heels as you sneak out.
“Any ideas on where he'd go?” Hood asks.
“Matt works in a cubicle like the rest of us. Emerson’s office is on the twelfth floor.”
“Fine. We'll hit Emerson's office first. More privacy, and maybe they'll both be there. Two birds.”
“Emerson's office is protected by a password lock. He changes it every night,” you say, scurrying to keep up with Hood.
“That's fine. I got a key right here,” he says, patting his holster.
“Wait! If the lock is tampered with, it sets off an alarm and security will come. You can't shoot it, Hood.”
He stops and sighs. “Why is everything so goddamn complicated? Alright, new plan. I'm gonna get my stuff from where we were and I'll break in the old-fashioned way.”
Fifteen Minutes Later.
“This seems really unsafe!” you say, watching Hood dangle outside a three story window on a wire. He's attached to a grappling hook but still. Still!
“Eh, I died once. Didn't stick. Hold the hook.”
“I am!” As if you'd do anything but. You don't want the Red Hood to become Red Goo.
Chilly December wind makes your eyes water and your nose cold. Still, you hold on.
“Almost there!” he says.
“Hey! What're you doing?”
You whirl around and close your eyes due to the flashlight shining at them. Even though the lights are on.
An elderly security guard glares at you. It's a good thing you're not an actual criminal… though after tonight, you're not so sure.
“Um.” You try to hold onto the hook while hiding it behind your back. “Bird watching?”
The guard turns off the flashlight and tucks it into his belt. He slowly walks to you.
“If you're doing something illegal, Miss, you're in big trouble.”
Well, this is fantastic. Of course it would be you that gets caught.
The guard is getting closer. Your grip is sweaty. He peers over your shoulder. You let go of the hook, praying to every spirit out there that Hood is as good as everyone says he is.
The guard looks around and scratches his head. You shrug, heart in your throat.
“See?” you say. “Bird watching.”
He frowns at you. “I've got my eye on you.”
“And I commend you for that.”
“Are you sassing me?”
Are you? You might be. You've been spending too much time with Hood.
Hood! You turn and look out the window. You don't see any red goo below, but it's also cold and foggy. Shit. You hurry to the elevators.
“Okay, happy holidays, bye!”
The elevator doors open. You press twelve and close the door before the guard can consider getting on with you and shooting you a hairy eyeball all the way down.
You hurry out and run down to Emerson's office. The door has been left ajar, which is good, right?
Bang!
You throw yourself against the wall. Shit. Maybe not.
Ugh, you told Hood no shooting! Son of a bitch.
“We're doing this tonight!” That's Emerson's voice. “I don't care if I have to shoot my way out.”
Shoot? Oh no.
You carefully peek through the crack. Hood is standing with his hands behind his head. His beard has blood in it. Emerson is in front of him, gun to his head.
Hood catches your eye. He gives you the tiniest head shake. You swallow.
You can't just leave him there.
Okay. Think. Emerson's back is to you. You can't see Matt, but you figure he's far enough away to not immediately shoot you. Hopefully.
Anyway, what's your other option? The feisty relic upstairs? You can't risk any civilians getting hurt.
Technically you're also a civilian but not tonight. Tonight you might as well be Batman.
You slowly pull the door open further. You sneak in, then hide behind the secretary's desk.
“Is it done?” Emerson snaps.
That's when you see Matt in the corner on a laptop.
“It takes time,” Matt says, obviously stressed too.
“Well, hurry up!” Emerson looks at Hood. “Then we'll dispose of Santa here.”
Hood shrugs. “You can certainly try. Many have. ‘M still here.”
“Lots of bravado for a man in a costume,” Emerson sneers. “What are you, police?”
Hood groans. “As fucking if! I'm not a cop.”
He hums. “Perhaps not. Otherwise this place would be crawling with them already. But you're alone.”
“How d'you know I'm alone?” Hood asks.
You're glad he's calm because you're feeling the beginnings of another panic attack. But you can't panic, not now. The adrenaline pulsing through you is the only thing keeping you from going catatonic.
You have no weapon, no plan. How the hell are you supposed to help Hood?
“You're bluffing,” Emerson says.
“He has a girlfriend,” Matt says. “Some IT girl. She might come looking for him.”
“Then we'll take care of her too.”
Matt looks uncomfortable but he doesn't say anything. Hood is still cool as a cucumber.
“She won't look for me. We had a fight. I forgot to buy the candy she likes.”
Candy? Why would—oh!
On the secretary's desk is a glass bowl filled with mini candy canes. You wrap your hands around it.
“She knows my favorite,” Hood says, locking eyes with you.
You throw the bowl with all your might. Emerson is too slow—Hood grabs the bowl one-handed and swings it, knocking the gun from Emerson's hand. The candy explodes into pieces. Hood swings again, this time into Emerson's head. The bowl cracks. Emerson crumples to the floor.
“Are you o—”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
In a blink, Hood wraps one arm around your waist and yanks you to the floor, covering your body. You curl into him on instinct.
“I got you, I got you,” he says, patting your shoulder. “You okay?”
You nod, words not coming right now. You squeeze his hand. Hood seems to understand and he scoots you both behind Emerson’s desk. Then he loads his gun and cocks it.
“Stay here,” he says, then fires six shots.
“Goddamnit!” Matt yells across the room. “This wasn't the plan! You're not supposed to be here!”
Hood laughs, which is absolutely terrifying. “Don't talk to me about ruined plans, buddy. I've been waiting all night for an excuse to shoot somebody. Please make my night.”
Matt fires four more shots.
“Fuck you, cop!”
“What the fuck? Fuck you more! I'm not a fucking cop!”
“Maybe it's the way you stand,” you say, teeth chattering from anxiety.
Hood squeezes your shoulder comfortingly. “I stand like a cop? Gross. I gotta work on that.”
“You're somebody!” Matt yells. “You're not just some guy, Todd, don't lie to me. You and that chick from IT are in cahoots.”
You huff. “He knows your name but not mine?”
“I’d take it as a compliment.”
Matt fires again. Hood tucks you behind him.
“He won’t kill anybody,” he says, with way too much confidence, in your opinion.
“Oh, is that why he's peacefully shooting at us?”
“He's scared, sure. But he can’t kill. Trust me, I know. Hey, Matt!”
“What?”
Hood stands up. Your eyes bug out of your head.
“Hood!” you hiss. “Hood!”
He ignores you, of course.
“You won’t hurt anyone,” Hood says. He starts walking toward Matt. “You're not a killer, Matt.”
And all this time you thought Hood was sort of sane. Nope.
“I will shoot you!” Matt warns.
“Aw. You wouldn't shoot Santy Claus, would you?”
Matt pulls the trigger. You gasp. It clicks. The magazine is empty.
Hood closes the distance between them and grabs the gun, then elbows Matt in the face. Matt sprawls onto the floor.
“Yeah, I don't risk my life on human emotion,” Hood says, loud enough so you can hear. “People can be so unpredictable. I will take a chance on a gun that only fires seven rounds, though. For a guy in finance, you're not very good with numbers, Matty.”
You sigh in relief, slumping against the desk. After tonight, you're retiring.
“Y'okay over there?” Hood asks.
“Yeah.”
It's quiet for a bit. Then Hood returns and offers you a hand to help you stand. You do so on shaky limbs.
He's got a cut on his eyebrow and a bruise on his cheek. You frown.
“I'm sorry I let go of the hook. I thought—”
“You let go of the hook?”
You stop. “Um. No?”
Hood squints at you. “Choosing to forgive you for that.”
“I knew you were inside the office!”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I'm not the only one taking risks,” you say. “Matt still fired at you.”
“Eh.” Hood shrugs. “He’s a crap shot. And I counted the rounds. I maintain my point. Factually, he could not shoot me.”
“You could've told me the gun was empty,” you say.
“I wanted you to think I was cool and brave.”
You laugh. “I already think that.”
Hood looks at you for a moment, like he’s trying to see right down into your soul. Intense. You cross your arms.
“So, um, ready to ditch this party?” you ask.
“With pleasure.”
“What about them?” you ask, pointing to Matt.
“I have backup arriving soon. Let's get your coat.”
You get your things while Hood changes back into his usual garb. He meets you at the back exit, the one that leads to an alleyway, Santa suit gone. The party's winding down and most are getting into their cars. You're grateful no one stops to ask where you disappeared to.
There's police outside, but they're not here for Emerson. It's Bill that's being questioned by Commissioner Gordon. You stop short at the sight.
“Hood… what did you do?”
“Hm? Oh! There might have been some discrepancies in Bill's finances and he might have committed fraud to pay off his gambling debts. All circumstantial, though.”
“Please don't tell me you framed my coworker because he's a jerk,” you say.
“No, but I'm not above that, for the record. I recognized Bill from when I was casing the Iceberg Lounge. That's where he racked up all that debt.”
You nod slowly. “That's how you knew his name.”
“Yup. He was a nobody, so I didn't bother with him. Had I known he was such a menace at work, well…”
You grin. “It's okay. I appreciate it now.”
Hood nods. The silence is awkward for a few seconds.
“So—”
“You don't have to keep working here,” he says. “You can leave if you wanna.”
“Hood…”
He puts up a hand. “Hear me out. I have a contact at Wayne Enterprises. I can get you an interview. Hell, I can get you the job.”
“And what would I owe you?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. Think of it as a thank you for tonight. You didn't have to help me but you did.”
You open and close your mouth. “I don't… I don't know what to say.”
“Don't gotta say a thing,” Hood says quietly. “If anyone deserves a new year, it's you.”
“Oh.” Your throat feels tight suddenly. “Oh, Hood, that's really—that's nice of you.”
“It's been known to happen. Don't spread it around though.”
“But I don't want the job without interviewing!” you say. “I want to get it on my own.”
Hood nods. “Deal.”
You want to hug him but that seems like too much, even with all you’ve done tonight. So you take out a candy cane instead.
“I salvaged one from the bowl,” you say. “Merry Christmas, Hood.”
He takes it, tucking it into his pocket. “Merry Christmas. Need a ride?”
You shake your head. “I'm fine. See you around?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Stay safe, alright?”
“Oh, I will. Will you?”
He laughs. “No promises.”
Then you blink and he's gone. You shove your hands into your coat pockets.
In each pocket, there's a handful of Warheads. You smile.
vaporwave
jimmyeatworldofficial
2087
stormborns
