Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

—

When he decided to willingly and purposefully go into the evil coffin that eats people, Jonathan Sims had expected one of a few possible outcomes.

One: He gets eaten by the evil coffin that eats people, fails to find Daisy, and is never seen again.

Two: he successfully makes his way into the Buried and finds Daisy, but fails to make his way back out, and is never seen again.

Three: maybe, just maybe, all his work to tip the scales in his favour are enough; he goes into the Buried, finds Daisy, and returns with the both of them more-or-less in one piece, if you ignore Jon’s missing ribs. 

What he had not expected, not even considered, was that the two of them might emerge from the Buried somewhere else.

They were so close.

“Daisy!” The lid of the coffin, heavy and solid above him as he pushed and heaved but it was raining, it was— fingers sliding and scrabbling, the earth squeezing— “just… hold on, don’t let go— Daisy!”

They were so close. Their freedom was right there above them, taunting them, but Jon Knew that to open the coffin, he needed both hands; and he knew, without needing any input from the Eye, that if he let go of Daisy, he would lose her. Even then, he could feel the earth pulling her down and away, his grasp on her hand slipping; wet mud sliding down to fill the space above his head, pushing him away from the open air that waited just out of reach. 

Past the mud filling her mouth, Daisy choked out a single “Jon!” 

He made a choice.

Jon pushed away from the coffin lid, reached down, and held tight to the person he’d come here for.

“I’ve got you, I’ve— nhg-!”  

The earth fell in on top of them, and yet again, Jon was choking on it . He held on to Daisy, but did not know whether he was pulling her up or pulling himself down. I can’t breathe. I can’t, I can’t—

He couldn’t See. He couldn’t feel the connection to that part of himself left behind, that compass showing him the way. But still, miraculously, he knew which way was up, and when he reached and dug and pulled through the wet earth— making sure to keep his grip on Daisy strong— his fingers again met solid wood. 

He pushed, and it did not budge. There was some air here, though, the earth around them more solid than it was before, and so with Daisy’s help he tried again; they managed to shift it up, heave towards freedom—

More dirt poured in through the coffin lid the moment it had been pushed open the slightest crack, and they let it fall shut again with a heavy, dull, thunk. 

“No,” Daisy moaned. “No.”

Jon coughed and pushed again— same thing. Wet dirt spilled into their air pocket, but after a moment it settled, with the lid propped partially open to reveal…

More dirt. 

No. No no no no no …

Jon shifted to look at Daisy. “We have to… to dig,” he said, breathless. The air smelled of rain and mud and old, neglected fabric.

“How far?” She asked.

“Uhm, ah…” Jon looked up. Up, up through the dirt, pictured it…

“Six feet.” Barely a whisper, but Daisy heard it. Of course she heard it. And, really, that wasn’t all that bad, after how long they’d spent packed away into the earth. 

“You sure there’s air up there?” 

Jon swallowed. “Yes.” Yes, there was air. That was about all he could tell— he couldn’t begin to guess at where it was. Or why.

There was nothing for it. They dug.

It became clear rather early into their journey upward that the earth here was… different. More real, perhaps, in that they couldn’t hear the singing anymore, didn’t feel the weight of the earth equally on all sides— there was direction, there was up, and the soil fell predictably downward and predictably attempted to suffocate them. It was a challenge to keep their heads inside their meagre air pocket; But, bloodied and scraped as they were, they made it. 

They made it. 

When they broke the surface, Jon could have cried. Okay, fine, maybe he did cry, but the only person who saw was Daisy, and could you really blame him? It would be stranger had they not cried, given the circumstances. They pulled themselves up out of the damp earth, and for a very long moment the two of them lay there, heaving for breath and letting the light midnight rain land on their skin in tiny, icy pinpricks that felt like relief and felt like life.

They gave themselves that moment to revel in being alive, and then they realized that they were in a cemetery.

“…Jon?” Daisy had sat up, with significant effort, and was staring around them with wide eyes. “What the hell?” 

Jon, for his part, was quickly starting to develop a godawful headache, but still he pushed himself to sitting and followed her gaze. 

An angel of stone stared down at them, wings flared wide, hands clasped as though in prayer, and on the pedestal below it, an inscription:

“Here lies Jason Todd.”

The loose soil beneath his fingers, combined with the dates inscribed in the stone, made Jon nauseous. They had— they had dug their way out of somebody else’s grave. Out of a child’s grave. 

“Oh, god.” His mouth had gone dry. He swallowed; it tasted like dirt. He thought, maybe, that it always would, now. “Okay. This is…”

“Not ideal,” Daisy finished for him.

“No, not ideal.” A thought occurred to him; how long had they been there? How long until somebody found them, sitting covered in dirt beside a child’s dug-up grave? “Daisy, we should go.”

The urgency in his voice came through loud and clear; the Hunter only nodded once before standing, using the grave marker for leverage. She held a bloody mud-caked hand out to help pull Jon to his feet, and after a brief pause to get their bearings, the pair stumbled out of Gotham Cemetery.

—

The rain only worsened as they walked toward the faint glow of the city in the distance. The cold of it sank through their torn clothes and into weary bones, and they started walking closer and closer together as the wind picked up, shivering and desperately hoping for… something. A phone booth, maybe? Some sort of emergency services?

Daisy had only shook her head when Jon suggested the latter. “No. I don’t think the police can help us, and… in our state, go to a hospital and they’ll get called anyway.”

She had a point. Honestly, it was lucky nobody had seen them walking through these fancy suburbs and called the cops already; they looked like… well, they looked like they’d just been digging through grave-dirt in the dead of night, and there were very few legal explanations for that particular activity.

“Least the rain’s washing off the, uh… well, some of the dirt.” Jon scrubbed a hand over his face, but all he really accomplished was to put more dirt back. 

“Not enough,” Daisy said, scratching behind her ear. 

“No,” Jon sighed. “Not enough. We both need a shower.” A pause. “And clean clothes. And a bed.”

Daisy smiled, then, faint as it was. “I think a bed might be asking too much. A couch sounds great right now.” 

Jon smiled back. “Honestly I’d take a patch of floor, so long as it was somewhere warm and dry.”

There was a long stretch of silence, the only sounds being the howling of distant wind and the cascade of rain against the streets of the city they had found themselves in. Finally, Daisy pointed ahead— “there.”

It was a phone booth. Positioned just to the left of an impressive bridge, beyond which apparently lay the city proper. Jon sped up towards it, stumbling as the wind coming off the water nearly pushed him over, and finally, finally felt some semblance of control over this situation. 

He would call the Institute. They would… send somebody, or something. Tell him where he was and where to go. He would call them and everything would be alright— or, as alright as it was before he’d gone into the coffin, anyway.

Instead, when he tried to shove coins into the slot…

Nothing happened. 

He held the receiver to his ear, waited, waited… 

Just as Daisy made it to the booth, a mechanized voice intoned: 

“Invalid currency.”

And, as the machine sent his coins back to him, Jon realized another thing: the mechanized phone voice was American.

“God— fucking damnit!”

Daisy winced. “Bad news?”

Jon screwed his eyes shut, but that only made his headache worse, and— “we’re in America,” he grit out. “It won’t— it won’t take my money!”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh,’” 

“Well… we know we’re in America now, at least.” 

“Right, yes, I suppose there’s that.” Jon looked out toward the bridge, felt wind whipping through whatever part of him it could reach. Would it be more dangerous to sit still in the relative shelter of the phone booth, or to walk out over that dark water, exposing themselves to the full biting force of the wind? 

“Come on, then,” Daisy said, and started toward the bridge. 

“What—? I mean, are you sure? We could rest here for a minute, if you need—“

“Jon, honestly,” the Hunter considered her words a moment, grabbing hold of a railing for support. “If I stop to rest, I won’t be getting back up.”

Jon felt his stomach do a funny little lurch at her words. “Ah. Right, alright, let’s go then.”

They walked. 

It took them a long time to cross that bridge, stopping to grip onto whatever railing they could when the wind threatened to sweep them away. By the time they had made it to the other side, they were barely upright, leaning heavily on each other for support as they made their way into the dark city. One step at a time, he thought; just keep walking.

As they walked, the buildings around them seemed to press in closer and closer; they felt worn-down and foreboding, casting ever-deepening shadows on narrowing streets, and Jon found himself casting nervous glances into every alleyway they passed and gripping Daisy’s arm tighter than was strictly necessary for balance purposes. His headache was ever-present, and he found that he still couldn’t See properly, and he jumped at every sound and every motion in the dark and the rain. 

Jon thought Daisy seemed to be faring better, staring straight ahead, jaw set and steps even. That is, he thought so until she tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and nearly brought them both to the ground; he only just managed to steer them to lean against a dirty, crumbling brick wall and catch their breath. 

“Where… where are we going?” Daisy whispered, staring up at the clouded sky.

Jon tipped his head back against the bricks, felt the rainwater running down his back. “Somewhere we can use a phone? I don't know.”

Daisy slid down the wall, sitting on the wet concrete and putting her forehead on her knees. “Can’t you use your… creepy Archivist powers to figure it out?” 

He huffed. “I… have been trying. It’s hard to See here. It makes me nervous,” he admitted, and as if on cue he jumped at some small sound from the alleyway to his left. “This place, it isn’t… it isn’t safe.”

“Gotham,” Daisy said, apparently apropos of nothing.

“What?” 

“Here,” she pointed at the soggy newspaper she’d found on the ground. “The Gotham Globe. I’m guessing that’s the, uh, the city we’re in?” 

Jon pushed off the wall and crouched down to look at it. Riddler Back In Arkham, read the front page; Batman and Robin Come to the Rescue.

The content of the articles were unreadable, the ink washed out by the rain. Likewise, the accompanying picture had been reduced to a pair of vague humanoid shapes on the page— one perhaps being held up the other, which seemed to be a dark shadow with… pointy ears?

Who are they? Jon wondered, and tried to will himself to Know. 

“Batman fights crime,” Jon told Daisy, “He’s, ah… a vigilante. And Robin is his sidekick.” Thank you. 

“What, like… comic book heroes?” 

Jon shrugged. “I think so.”

“Is that… normal, here?” 

Maybe he was distracted searching for answers, or maybe it was the rapidly worsening headache, but Daisy noticed the threat before he did; Jon’s only warning was her widened eyes and startled “behind you—!” Before he felt a presence at his back; the hair on his neck stood on end, and he spun around and found himself staring down the barrel of a large, solid black pistol.

He froze. He stopped breathing.

Holding that gun was a rather muscular man, made much larger by the fact that he was standing, while Jon was still crouched on the ground.

He was smiling.

“Now, what’s a couple lost lovebirds doing out here at this time of night?” 

Jon forced himself to look up at the man, and not at the gun aimed at his head. “We, um… well, we were just… passing through, I suppose, if you could… we’ll, ah,” he stuttered, chest tight, fighting not to move. Fighting not to remember— he wasn't in those woods, he wasn’t, and Daisy was behind him, someone else held the gun this time and he wasn’t there—  

Please don’t shoot me.  

It might be hard to kill him, but he was pretty sure a bullet to the head would still do the job, and a terribly familiar helpless fear pulsed through him. He hated it. 

The man laughed. “Are you British?”

“Ah… yes?” Jon winced, trying to stay out of his head. I can’t die here, he thought, I can’t. 

“That’s hilarious! What the hell’re you doing in fuckin’ crime alley?”

Oh, good! Great! They had apparently stumbled into a place the locals called crime alley, sure, why not! Just his luck, really. He should have expected it. 

Something must have shown on his face, because the man’s smile widened and he jerked the gun to the side and back, making Jon flinch. “Alright, then, give it here.”

“I… what?” 

“Your wallet, Brit.”

Jon didn’t move. 

“You’re being mugged, idiot. Cmon.” 

Jon did not have a wallet. All he had were the coins he’d shoved back into his pocket after the phone booth rejected them, but he fished those out and held them out in an open palm, praying that the man would accept this excuse and leave them alone.

He did not.

“Seriously? This isn’t even American. What are you playing at?!”

“I, ah, I’m sorry! I can, um, I can…” he could what? Jon took a half step back, reaching behind him as if to shield Daisy from their assailant’s newfound anger, only to realize that she wasn’t behind him. 

The mugger seemed to realize this at the same moment he did. This was, however, a moment too late, because before he could turn to search for her, a form melted from the shadows behind him and a thin arm snaked up and around him— a wicked-sharp looking knife found its way to his throat, and the man’s eyes went wide.

“Drop the gun,” the Hunter commanded. Jon could have sworn her eyes glowed.

The firearm hit the ground with a clatter and a shallow splash, and Jon dived for it, picking it up and shuffling quickly back to the wall to push himself to his feet. 

“Now, let’s all be reasonable, here,” the man started, but Daisy only tightened her grip and growled, and he wisely shut up. 

The knife dug in, a small trickle of red running down under their would-be mugger’s jacket collar. Jon’s neck itched, but he resisted the urge to rub at his scar, focusing instead on the woman in front of him. “Daisy…”

She bared her teeth “what?”

Jon swallowed. “The, ah… can you feel it?” 

She furrowed her brow. “… what?”

“The blood,” he clarified, and her hold on the man abruptly went slack. 

She kept the knife, but stepped back and slipped around him to stand in front of him, just out of reach, the blade held out threateningly. 

“Get the hell out of here,” she snarled. Jon could picture it— the way her eyes flashed, just this side of unnatural. There was a presence about her, and Jon’s own eyes were locked on the man’s face as he paled and took first one, then several steps back. He didn’t speak, just nodded, then turned tail and ran.

Daisy took an unconscious half-step after him, then seemed to carefully reign herself in. After a long moment, she turned back to face Jon, her eyes thankfully normal, if utterly exhausted.

“Where’d you get a knife?” He whispered, suddenly very aware of the gun in his hands and very unsure what to do with it.

She grinned tiredly. “Was in the guy’s pocket. You had his attention pretty well, so…”

Jon was about to answer, when someone else beat him to it. 

“Well colour me impressed!”  

They both spun towards the alley, Daisy brandishing her pilfered knife, Jon not-quite pointing the gun at the figure who emerged.

A bright red full-face helmet, pierced by glowing white eyes; a red symbol reminiscent of a bat emblazoned across a broad chest, partially covered by a dark leather jacket. 

And weapons. So, so many weapons; two guns visible in holsters on either hip, what looked like a terribly sharp knife, and a utility belt with…

Explosives, his brain helpfully supplied. 

He swallowed. “Who are you?”

“The Red Hood, at your service.” He sauntered over to them— literally sauntered. “You guys aren’t from around here, are you?”

“No,” Daisy intoned.

“No,” Jon agreed, “we are not.”

The masked man tilted his head, and Jon was so sure he was raising an eyebrow. “No offence, but you really don’t look so hot.” He looked them up and down, leaning against the wall at the mouth of the alley. “How did you end up in my lovely little neck of the woods?” 

Jon’s head was really starting to hurt again. It was hard to think; how to answer? How much of the truth was safe to reveal?

In the end, Daisy spoke before he could make up his mind. “Dug ourselves out of your cemetery,” she said, deadpan. Well, that’s one approach.

The Red Hood stiffened. “…What?”

Jon nodded, took a breath. “We, ah. We don’t know how we got here, exactly. Or where here is, really. We’ve been trying to find a way to call home, but the public phone wouldn’t take our money.”

That red-covered head shook slowly “I’m sorry, are you telling me you— you dug yourselves— you were buried?”

Jon winced. “Well, the mud isn’t, uh,” a hysterical little half-laugh, “the mud isn’t a fashion statement!”

The Red Hood seemed to look at them, really look at them, his gaze piercing and inscrutable, a sort of anxious energy about him. 

Then: “Follow me.” 

He turned and strode confidently down the street, back the way the two of them had come. After sharing a confused, reluctant glance, Daisy shrugged, and they followed the Red Hood deeper into Crime Alley.

—

Chapter Text

—

The Red Hood led them to a run-down apartment building, but instead of heading for the front door, or any sort of door for that matter, he instead led them into a narrow alley and then pulled out an honest-to-god grappling hook gun, which he fired confidently onto a small balcony that might have been a fire escape three storeys up. He seemed to consider them a moment, then with a small mocking salute he clicked… something, on the gun part, and just like that it was pulling him up to the fire escape. 

Luckily, they didn’t have to figure out how to get up, because the Red Hood was gracious enough to let down a ladder for them. Still, Jon struggled to make the climb, slipping more than once on the rain-slick metal; and he was fairly certain the ascent used all of Daisy’s remaining strength— when they finally made it through the window, she all but collapsed. She would have, if Jon hadn’t been there for her to lean on. They were directed to sit on a pair of wooden chairs around a small table, and they went more gratefully than either could remember doing anything in a very, very long time. 

The Red Hood flicked on a light, and Jon got a good look at the apartment they found themselves in. It was modest; this main room contained a small kitchen, with the table and four chairs to one side, and a connected living area with a decent sized couch, a coffee table with a concerning amount of weapons strewn across it, and a small TV against one wall. He could see a bathroom through one door, and another, closed, interior door which he figured led to a bedroom. The front door— with no less than six locks on it— was opposite the interior doors, and the window they’d come through led into the kitchen. 

While Jon and Daisy took in the apartment, the Red Hood looked at them.

“Jesus,” he said, “you weren’t kidding about the mud.” Then he pulled the helmet off, and— 

Well. 

The first thing Jon noticed were his eyes. They were definitely glowing just a slight, unnatural green, and it immediately put him on edge. The second thing he noticed was that the man was still wearing some sort of mask— just a small black strip of fabric over his eyes and part of his nose, white lenses over the eyes. Domino mask.

… Jon couldn’t actually see his eyes, he realized. But he could See them. And he Knew that the Red Hood was, in some way, like them. the Archivist, of course, did not have good experiences with unknown Avatars. And this man was bigger than them, stronger than them, with a lot of weapons and what looked like body armour and a white streak in his hair, was that dyed? Why? And they were weak, exhausted, and he towered over them and—

And he was pulling out a first aid kit. Gathering a small pile of washcloths. Looking at them with open concern battling with the rage on his face— anger which Jon was fairly certain was not at them, but rather for them.

He sighed. “Alright, first things first: what should I call you? I’d ask for names, but I’m not giving you mine, so…”

Jon thought about telling the Red Hood to call him the Archivist. It sounded pretentious even in his head. “Jon is fine.”

“I'm Daisy.” 

“Okay. Are either of you hurt?” 

Jon slumped forward, shaking himself out of his lingering spiraling thoughts. “Uh, just… scrapes, I think, I know my fingers are kind of…” he trailed off. “And, uh, Daisy?”

She jerked upright from where she was leaning over the table. “Uh. I’m fine.”

A raised eyebrow. Jon could see it this time; it was exactly how he’d pictured it. 

“Fine, I mean, I’m a little banged up, but all I need is a shower. I’ll be fine.” 

 Jon shook his head. “Daisy… you were— gone. For six months.”

“What.”  

She let her head fall forward again. “I heal fast.” 

Jon rolled his eyes “alright, alright, just some rest, then, hm?” 

“I’m sorry, six months? What happened to you guys?” Hood’s grip on the kit was white-knuckled. The glow of his eyes shone through the lenses of his mask.

The Archivist smiled weakly and shook his head. “It’s… a long story. Can I use your phone?”

“Clean your hands first,” Hood said, “then yes. Who do you need to call?” 

“The Magnus Institute,” Daisy said in a mocking haughty voice, which, rude— but fair. 

“Huh. Never heard of it.” 

Standing had become immensely more difficult in the minutes he’d spent sitting, but despite the way every muscle protested, Jon still made his way to the sink and turned the water on warm. 

He hadn’t realized just how cold his hands were until he put them under lukewarm water and it hurt. He pulled away with a low hiss, and the others looked at him in concern. 

“It’s fine,” he assured them. “Just… hot.”

Hood leaned over and swiped his hand under the water, then frowned. “Right. We need to warm you guys up.” 

Jon shoved his hands back under the water and scrubbed, ignoring the sting. “Phone call first,” he reminded Hood, “I need to establish contact as soon as possible.”

The water ran brown tinged red, but already the cuts and scrapes on his hands had almost completely healed; the only real evidence of his ordeal left there was the stubborn bits of blood and dirt stuck underneath rough, uneven fingernails. Hood watched him stare at his hands.

“You heal fast, too?”

The Archivist nodded. “Yeah. Especially…” he searched for the words to explain it all— dying. Waking up. The hold that the Eye had on him. “…recently. It’s a lot to get used to.”

“Right.” 

Jon held out his mostly-clean hands. “Can I use a phone? Please?” 

Hood reached into one of his many pouches and pulled out a small flip phone, then handed it over. Jon sat back down and smiled in relief, flipped the phone open, and dialed the number he knew by heart.

It rang. Once, twice…

“Wayne residence, Alfred speaking.”  

His smile dropped. “No.”

“I’m sorry, who is this?”

“I’m… no, no, I’m sorry. Wrong, uh, wrong number.”

“Hold on, sir—“

Jon hung up. 

“Shit.”

Daisy looked alarmed. “What?” 

“It wasn’t the Institute. It was just some random house.” 

“Oh. Wrong number?”

Jon swallowed nervously. “Must have been. But I... how could I forget that phone number?” 

Hood sat down in the other chair next to Daisy, setting down a bowl of warm water and a cloth for her to clean her face and hands with. “Is there anyone else you can call?” 

Oh. Of course. 

“Basira.”

Daisy smiled. “Right. I hope she’s doing okay.” 

Jon knew her number, too. He dialed, waited… 

“Richard Grayson speaking!” A cheerful voice answered. A short pause of silence, in which Jon said nothing, then "Who is this?”

Jon felt sick. He hung up without answering, and when Daisy looked confused he just shook his head and dialed another number.

Martin.

“Please pick up, please, please pick up, cmon…”

“Hello?”

That was a child. A goddamn teenager. “Sorry, I think I’ve got the wrong number.”

“Oh! Damn. Who are you trying to call? My name’s Tim.” 

Jon hung up and suppressed the urge to scream.

Hood gave Jon a strange sort of look. “Any luck?”

“No. No, the numbers… aren’t working.”

Daisy thunked her head onto the table. Hood stood back up again. “Right. Okay. So I’m guessing you guys need a place to stay for the night?” 

“Yes,” Daisy answered into the table. “Right here is great.”

“I don’t think so,” Hood rolled his eyes. “You are both in desperate need of a shower, and I want to clean the filth you tracked in here before it all dries.” He paused, then thought of something and grinned. “If you shower, you can sleep in a bed~” 

The sing-song voice was grating to Jon, but both a shower and a bed sounded heavenly. There was just one problem: “what about you?”

Hood waved his hand dismissively. “I’ll take the couch, it’s fine. You guys are good sharing my bed, right? I don't have an extra mattress, but I’m sure I’ve got a camping pad or something around somewhere…” 

Jon looked to Daisy, who gave him a bit of side eye followed by an affirmative grunt. “Yeah, sharing is fine, that sounds great. Uh, thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it,” Hood shrugged. “Now, seriously, showers. Cmon, you first,” he ushered Jon to his feet and toward the bathroom. “I’ll grab you some clothes.”

—

The borrowed pyjamas, as it turned out, were far too large on Jon; but that little detail couldn’t put even the slightest damper on the relief he felt at finally being clean and warm. He was sure he would revel in the feeling of the hot water thawing out his cold, aching muscles and washing away the blood and dirt for a long, long time; and when he sat back down at the table, Hood put a steaming bowl of something that smelled heavenly in front of him, and Jon could have cried.

“Thank you,” he said, and it came out more wet than he expected; he covered it by picking up the spoon and taking a cautious bite of what turned out to be a light stew with vegetables and beef. 

He sniffled.

Hood looked concerned. “Are you… good?” 

Jon laughed and swiped the back of his hand across his eyes. “Yeah. I’m alright. Just… wasn’t expecting to find much kindness, after everything.”

Hood sat down heavily. In the bathroom, they heard the shower turn on again; it was Daisy’s turn. 

“Yeah, well. Everyone needs a hand sometimes. We’ll get you guys sorted out.” 

“Thank you,” Jon repeated, softly but earnestly, and then took another grateful bite of his stew.

“Yeah.” 

They sat in silence for a few long minutes, the only sounds being the clink of spoons on bowls and the running of the shower in the other room. Jon found that it wasn’t an uncomfortable quiet; it was contemplative, more than anything, and it gave him a chance to process what had happened over the last few days, and think about where to go from there.

The first order of business remained the same: contact the Institute. The others needed to know what had happened and where they were. In the meantime: assess his and Daisy’s condition, especially her status with regard to the Hunt. Based on what had happened with the mugger… it was clear her connection had not been entirely severed, but it also seemed like she had perhaps more awareness and control over the actions it encouraged than she once did. 

Questions: why hadn’t the phone numbers worked? Who was the Red Hood, really, and why was he helping them? Why had they emerged from the Buried here and not back into the coffin in his office? 

Where was Gotham, who was Batman, why had they never heard of this place— a sizeable city, mind you, in a country Jon was not completely unfamiliar with?

Why, who, where, what, and how?

“I can hear you thinking from all the way over here,” Hood drawled. “Relax. It’ll be fine. We’ll get ahold of your institute, whatever it is, and get you home before you know it.” 

Jon nodded. “Right.”

Hood’s expression turned thoughtful. “What is your ‘institute’? If you don’t mind me askin’. Might help us find it.” 

“The Magnus Institute is an academic institution,” Jon explained; “it’s based in London, and dedicated to researching paranormal and, ah, otherwise esoteric occurrences.”

“Oh, so you’re paranormal investigators?” 

Jon frowned. “No. We are researchers.”

“Sounds like a fancy word for investigators.”

Jon thunked his head down onto the table. “Elias would kill you.” 

Hood laughed. “He could try. He your friend?”

Jon lifted his head again and made what must have been an incredibly disgusted expression. 

“No, not a friend?” Hood was grinning. 

“No. He’s… well, he was my boss. He got arrested a few months ago.”

“Dang. You don’t seem too happy about that.”

“I am very glad he’s out of the picture, but I am also fairly certain that his replacement is worse.” 

Hood sighed. “Yeah, tell me about it. Knock one guy down, three more take their place, huh?”

Jon wasn’t quite sure what he was referring to, but he nodded anyway. “And I doubt he’s gone for good. He’s got to be planning something.”

“Aren’t they always?” 

“That they are.”

Another pause. “Well, whatever. I’ll get one of my people to look into the Magnus Institute, we’ll get in contact soon. For now—” Hood pointed at Jon’s bowl— “eat your soup.”

—

For the first time in a very, very long time, the Archivist did not dream. 

—

Jon woke up aching in places he didn’t know existed, but blessedly headache-free. For a long moment, he lay still, revelling in that fact and in the comfort of soft pillows and almost-too-many blankets; distantly aware of all the stressors of the previous few days, aware that he was not at home and that more stress likely awaited him in this new day, but electing to ignore all that for the time being. For now, he was warm, and comfortable, and relatively safe. It was just him and Daisy there, her breathing deep and even in sleep, with the man who called himself the Red Hood out in the living room, a dangerous and protective barrier between them and the outside world, talking in muted voices with several strangers…

Wait. What?

Jon was on his feet before he’d really decided to get up, padding cautiously to the closed bedroom door and putting his ear to the crack between it and the wall. Like this, the voices carried quite clearly; Hood’s, confident and commanding, came first:

“I don’t care what needs to happen to make this work— that shipment can’t make it into their hands. Whatever resources you need, I’ll get you.” 

The second voice was calmer, more calculating. A man, by the sound of it, and Jon thought he was probably older than Hood. “It’s not a matter of resources, the problem’s with intel. We don’t know when exactly they’re coming in, how many men they’ll have, or what the shipment’s gonna look like. All we know is that it’s big, and it’s coming into port… here,” a soft tap, which Jon interpreted as the man pointing to something, “sometime on Monday. I’m trying, but we need more information.”

Hood sighed in frustration. “Right. I’ll see what I can do. Camryn?” 

The next voice was that of a younger woman, alert and serious. “No word of meta-trafficking operations bringing anyone in recently. Certainly nothing from Europe— I’ll keep digging, but… are you sure they’re meta?”

A brief but heavy silence, then Hood’s voice: “I’m pretty damn sure. They were held for months and buried alive in Gotham Cemetery, then dug themselves out and walked all the way to the Alley and fought off a mugging before I found them. Barely a scratch to show for it.”

Oh. They were… talking about him. Him and Daisy. Jon didn’t know how he felt about that. 

The older man jumped in. “And you’re sure…”

“They’re not lying,” Hood hissed, “you didn’t see them. You can’t… fake that sort of thing.”

“It’s still early days, anyway.” Camryn sighed. “We’ll keep looking, Boss. But I can’t find anything on this Magnus Institute— near as I can tell, it doesn’t exist.”

“Shit. Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

Nothing. What was that supposed to mean? 

Jon realized that what he was doing was technically maybe eavesdropping the moment that Daisy came up beside him and whispered “what’s going on?” 

He jumped. Again. God, he was getting sick and tired of not Knowing people were coming. 

“Uh, I don’t… there’s other people here. Two of them. Friends of his, I think? They’re talking about us.” 

“What are they saying?”

“They’re looking for the Institute, and… something about a shipment? I don’t know what that was about, but—“

A shadow covered the crack in the door. 

They’d been found out.

The door opened to reveal Hood, maskless— eyes startlingly blue and sparkling with amusement. “Well good morning to you two.”

Jon knew what he looked like; hair a mess, borrowed clothes rumpled, frozen in the doorway like a kid caught with their hand in a cookie jar. Hood didn’t seem to mind, though, he just laughed and walked back over to the kitchen.

“Come on, I’ve got toast and fried eggs. How many d’you want?” 

Jon stood frozen, processing, until Daisy pushed past him and into the kitchen. “Two is fine for me, thanks.” 

Jon trailed after her. “Uh, yes, two eggs please.” 

Hood popped down the toast and cracked the eggs while Jon and Daisy sat down at the little table facing the two strangers— a woman with a friendly face and blue highlights in shoulder-length hair, and a man who Jon thought looked almost painfully like an older Martin— and their small map of, apparently, Gotham.

“Hey,” the woman said, “I’m Camryn,” She gestured at the man sitting beside her, who waved amicably; “This is Darcy. We work with Hood.”

“You work for Hood,” the man in question corrected, “and don’t forget it!” In another context, the words might have been meant to intimidate— but here they were clearly lighthearted, accented with a dramatic flourish of the man’s spatula.

“Well, I’m Daisy, and this is Jon.”

At this point Jon cut in; “and I think you already know how we met Hood?” 

Camryn nodded. “He filled us in this morning, had me trying to get ahold of your Magnus Institute, haven’t had much luck I'm afraid.”

“This morning?” Daisy questioned; “How long were we out for?” 

Hood gestured toward the window, where Jon noticed it was getting rather dark. “About… 14 hours. I was going to wake you up soon, see what you wanted to do about all this.”

“You really can’t find anything about the Institute?” Jon was struggling to wrap his head around that. How could they just… not find it?

“No, nothing.” 

“Did you try going to the second page of Google?” 

“Did I—what?” Camryn seemed momentarily at a loss for words. “Jon. I searched through dark web forums— magic, metahuman, and meta trafficking. I asked contacts in London and none of them knew what I was talking about. It definitely didn’t show up in a Google search.”

Jon was fairly certain he was supposed to know what “metahuman” meant, but. Well, he didn’t, and it was starting to get on his nerves. 

Daisy looked back and forth between Jon and Camryn. “What about, ah. Jon, there’s an American version, right?”

Jon perked up at that. “Yes! The Usher Foundation. Do you know of them? They’re based out of Washington DC.”

“I’ll look into it,” Camryn assured him. “They a research facility, too?”

“They are an organization dedicated to cataloguing and researching paranormal occurrences, yes.”

“Great. Shouldn’t be too hard to track down— DC has its share of weirdness.” 

“Thank you,” Jon nodded.

At that point, Hood brought them each a plate of food, which they tucked into with a quick “thanks” each.

A pop tune rang out from somewhere around the table, and Darcy fumbled to pull his phone out of his pocket, checking the caller ID before standing up. “Sorry, sorry. Gotta take this.” 

He slipped around the table into the living room, then out the front door into the hall, answering the phone as he flicked all the many locks open. “Julian, what’s going on? I’m in a meeting…” The rest of what was said was cut off when the door shut behind him.

Hood sat down next to Camryn and peered over her shoulder to where she was typing something on her phone, expression focused. “Any luck?” 

She put the phone face-down on the table and frowned. “No. I’ll have to check on a proper computer, but nothing comes up publicly for the Usher Foundation.” 

Daisy put her fork down. “This is all really weird, don't you think?”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Weird how?” 

All eyes turned to Daisy, and she sat up a little straighter. “Well, we turn up here after— y'know, and we’ve never even heard of this city, and everything to do with the Institute seems to have vanished into thin air.” She counted out points on her fingers, “you called three numbers that I know you know by heart, and it’s really not like you to forget something like that, with your whole… Archivist thing.” 

“You’re an archivist?” Camryn blinked, surprised. “No offence, it’s just, with those scars I’d kind of assumed you did something more…”

“Exciting?” Jon supplied, and she nodded. He sighed. “Trust me, it’s more exciting than you’d think.”

“Another thing,” Daisy added, “they’ve mentioned something a few times— meta? Metahuman? And, I don’t know about you, Archivist, but I don’t know what the hell that’s supposed to mean.” 

Jon watched Red Hood and Camryn’s faces go through a strange series of expressions, not quite in sync but remarkably similar— moving from confused to shocked and back to confused before finally both settling on a sort of slack-jawed realization. Jon, for his part, felt only a rising dread, deep in his gut. 

“Shit,” Hood swore. “This… really? You’ve never heard…”

Jon shook his head. “No. Not before we got here.”

Hood ran his hands up his face and through his hair, pulling it up in an expression of frustration. “Are you kidding me?! Dimensional travel? Seriously?! God damnit!”

The words were like a bucket of ice water dumped over Jon’s head. He felt all the blood drain from his face as his breathing picked up and he laughed, small and slightly hysterical. He didn’t notice Hood’s eyes turn slightly green. 

“Are you telling me we— we’re in a different reality?”

Camryn grimaced. “Seems like. Guess everyone’s got some explaining to do, huh?” 

Hood had his hands over his eyes, and seemed to be actively trying to get ahold of himself— breaths deep and measured. Camryn scooted her chair away a little bit.

At this point, the front door opened again, and Darcy stepped back into the room looking distinctly worried. “Hey, Boss, bad news; Robin interrupted the meeting some of my guys were having for intel on Black Mask’s shipment—“

He was cut off by Hood abruptly standing and stalking to the window, and when he whirled to face them all Jon realized just how bright his eyes were glowing. “That fucking bird,” he snarled, reaching for the red helmet and leather jacket hanging on the wall. “Send me the location, Darcy.”

“He’s gone, Boss…”

“Send me the location!”

Darcy put his hands out in a gesture of either surrender or placation. “Alright, alright. What should we..?”

“Get out of my apartment.” He shoved the helmet over his head and opened the window, moving to step through.

Jon was reeling and very, very confused, but Camryn came to the rescue— “what about them?” She asked, pointing at him and Daisy.

Hood paused halfway out the window. “They can stay,” he decided, voice once again mechanized through the helmet, then looked Jon in the eye: “don’t touch anything.” Then he slammed the window closed behind him and fled out into the darkening street.

—

Chapter Text

—

In the end, Camryn ended up staying for an hour or so. In that time, they all cleaned up breakfast— dinner?— and she tried to fill Jon and Daisy in on some of the basics of the new world they’d found themselves in. 

It was… a lot. They pretty quickly figured out that this world contained several entire cities that just didn’t exist back in their own, and that likewise there were a few locations in their world that didn’t exist here. Nothing as big as cities, but the Institute and all of her sister locations were missing, and some other places which Jon knew to be heavily supernatural seemed… different. 

That wasn’t to say that there wasn’t anything paranormal here. On the contrary, it seemed that magic was disturbingly commonplace; not widespread in usage, but its existence was widely known, partially in the form of these so-called metahumans— people who had special abilities, but didn’t really seem connected to any sort of fear entity like Jon would expect. In fact, they didn’t seem to have the entities at all like in Jon’s world, leaving him to try and fail to wrap his head around an entirely new set of rules for how the unexplained mysteries of the world worked.

The Eye was hungry. Starving. But it was also weak; it was of no help in understanding anything outside of Gotham, and even in Gotham it didn’t give him anything without some kind of prompting. Jon just hoped he would be able to find something that could feed his patron— maybe records of supernatural fear experiences would do, even if they weren’t from the same sources. He refused to produce the fear himself.

Daisy seemed to be taking the whole thing better than Jon was, asking questions and collecting as much information as she could about the various super-humans and what sort of abilities she might encounter— Jon was pretty sure she was mostly thinking of ways to fight them, but Camryn didn’t seem to mind. 

Laying sprawled across the couch, nursing another headache, Jon caught her eye and asked: “How did you meet the Red Hood?”

Camryn went still and looked him in the eye. “He saved my fiancée,” she said, wistful. “She’d been kidnapped by a group owned by Black Mask. I’m a dual citizen, raised in Canada, and I still lived there back then; but as soon as I realized something had happened to her I flew down here. Wiped out my savings, lost my job, but it was worth it— I found her, yknow? I found her, but they caught me, too, and it was Hood that got us out in one piece. 

I’ve never seen anything like it. He broke down the door, and before I knew what was happening six men were on the ground, dead or wishing they were. His eyes were glowing poison green, but I knew he wasn’t going to hurt us, even then. I’d heard of him, while I was looking for Mina, and I knew he protects people like us. He got us out of there, and he told me that it was thanks to me he’d been able to find the place— one of my contacts was on his payroll, and I’d say they ratted me out but, well, Hood saved my life. 

After I explained my situation, he offered me a job, and I’ve been in Gotham ever since. That was three months ago— he was new on the scene, but I trusted him, if you can believe it, and since then, he’s made these streets safer than they have been in a very, very long time.”

Jon had a moment of satisfaction, blinking away the remnants of his quickly fading headache, before he realized what he’d done.

Camryn gasped and took a full step back.

“Jon!” Daisy scolded, “what the hell!”

He got to his feet. “Oh, God, Camryn I’m— I’m so sorry, it was an accident, I didn’t mean—“

“No, no, it’s— it’s fine. I get it. It’s.” She took a deep breath. “It’s not a secret, anyway, but don’t go spreading it around, understand?” 

“Of course not.”

“I, um.” Camryn ran a hand through her hair. “I think I should… go. Go home.” 

“I’m sorry, Camryn, really…”

“I said it’s fine. I just want to be with my fiancée right now, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Right. Of course.” Jon stepped back, shoulders slumping. “We’ll, uh. We’ll be here!” 

“Right,” she agreed, undoing the locks and opening the door. “And, Jon?” She paused in the doorway. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone about what you can do.” 

He sat heavily back down on the couch. “Ah… Thank you.” 

“Lock the door behind me!” Camryn reminded them, and then she was gone.

Daisy reset all the locks on the door, then turned to glare daggers at Jon. “What was that?!” She hissed; “what happened to being better?”

He slid further down into the couch with a groan. “I don’t know, Daisy! I just— I wasn’t thinking, my head hurt, I just wanted to know, so I asked— and—“

“And you did your spooky monster thing on her,” she said, unimpressed.

“If it makes it any better, I don’t think that was a proper statement.”

Daisy seemed to consider that. “I’m not sure that it does.” Then she threw her hands up with a huff and asked: “Did it at least… help?”

Jon sat up straighter and stretched his arms above his head. “Yeah,” he said, “I think it did. I feel a bit better— my head’s clear. I can think.”

Daisy nodded. “We’ll need to find you some… statements, or something. You can’t go around feeding on people’s trauma.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know, Jon.” 

The silence hung there for a long moment, before Daisy sighed and walked around to sit next to Jon on the couch.

“So. Hood. He’s some kind of hero, then?”

Jon nodded. “Seems like it. I mean, he’s got a secret identity, and he’s apparently in the business of helping people and stopping criminals, so…”

“And he’s got some kind of superpower,” Daisy added. “He’s, whatever, metahuman. His eyes do that glowy thing, kinda like yours.”

“And like yours,” Jon pointed out.

Daisy frowned. “What?”

Jon tipped his head back over the couch. “Your eyes. When you’re… hunting, I suppose, they glow. Kind of a reddish yellow, not quite orange. It happened last night, with the mugger.”

“Huh,” Daisy considered this. “Yours go green. Dark, though. Hood’s are lighter.” 

Jon nodded. “Good to know, I suppose.” 

A beat, then Daisy wondered: “I thought you said Robin was a hero?” 

Jon sat forward to look at her. “Uh, I did— he is. He was on the wiki Camryn showed us.” 

“Hood doesn’t seem to like him.” 

“Hm.” Jon thought about this for a second… “maybe they’re a different type of hero. Maybe they’re rivals, and— and Robin is trying to… get to the criminals before Hood does, or something.”

“Or something,” Daisy agreed. “Seems a little fishy to me, if I’m being honest.”

“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation,” Jon insisted. “Robin’s young, isn’t he? Maybe it’s something to do with that. I could see Hood being protective of kids.” 

Daisy shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t particularly feel like asking him, though, seems like a sensitive topic”

Jon figured she was probably right.

—

The rest of the evening was, thankfully, uneventful. They didn’t have the passwords to get into Hood’s computer or anything like that, so they passed the time reading his selection of books— which were mostly novels, a lot of classics. Jon honestly thought it was quite nice; a good way to kill a few hours and get his mind off of their being in another dimension, apparently, and relax for the first time in… well, a long time.

When Hood returned, he was still in a bit of a mood, but didn’t seem like he was about to punch the nearest wall, so Jon figured that was a plus. He was carrying two bags, one on either arm, which Jon and Daisy leapt up to help him with.

One was groceries. Standard staples, vegetables, and the like. Jon noticed some chicken and some ground beef. The other bag was clothes.

“Yeah, uh…” Hood started, taking his helmet off and smiling a little sheepishly. “I ran off before I could get your sizes, so I just guessed. Figured you were getting tired of wearing my pyjamas, and we can always go get more stuff tomorrow.”

He’d brought them pretty standard sets of clothes in what was approximately each of their sizes. Nothing fancy, and not really either of their styles, but entirely serviceable, for the time being. Daisy seemed to be of a similar mind, nodding her thanks at Hood and vanishing into the bedroom to check that they fit.

Hood took his jacket and utility belt off, setting the guns down on the coffee table before he turned around and frowned at the spread of items. “Oh!” He realized, moving back to the window “almost forgot, grabbed you guys some shoes— just, uh, cheap sneakers, bit harder to estimate sizes there so I figure we can go out and get something else…”

Jon nodded. “Thank you.” He’s been saying that a lot lately.

“Don’t mention it.” Hood hesitated a moment, then, “and, uh… I’m sorry about earlier. I just— sometimes, if it’s too much, I just need some air, you know?”

Jon waved an undershirt in the air, as though to dispel the apology. “It’s fine. Stressful situation all around.”

Their host smiled, then. “Yeah. Thanks.” 

Hood didn’t stay long; he said he had to go on patrol, and he had a meeting downtown. But he put together another meal before he left, and took the time to show Jon and Daisy where all the appliances were and how they worked so that they could handle themselves while he was gone. 

“We’ll get you guys sorted out more long-term tomorrow,” he promised; “for now, you need to eat and rest.” He was right— Daisy was clearly fading again, and Jon felt like he had weights strapped to his wrists and ankles.

“I’ll be back by, eh…” Hood eyed the clock; 11:30 pm. “Four-ish. Feel free to shower, eat more if you need, make yourselves at home.”

In the end, they didn’t need to cook or use any new appliances while he was out. They each showered again— Jon was finding himself craving the feeling of being properly clean in a way he never had before— and changed into fresh pyjamas which were actually in their sizes before falling into bed and promptly passing out.

—

Jonathan Sims dreamt of spiders, and a voice whispering in his ear: 

“Thank you, Archivist.”

—

Timothy Jackson Drake, the third Robin, was not supposed to be in Crime Alley. But it was just going to be simple reconnaissance; maybe a wellness check. In and out. 

That was all.

It had started when Dick texted him after school, asking him to check out an address— apparently, somebody had called him from a burner phone, clearly in distress but saying nothing before they hung up. He’d gotten Oracle to help him track the call down to a small apartment building in Crime Alley, and he just wanted somebody to check that whoever had called was alright. 

That was all.

The first thing that pointed towards this maybe being a situation requiring some degree of subtlety was that the building, it turned out, was owned by an alias they had connected with the Red Hood— a relatively new crime boss, but still one that had been proven dangerous; Tim had been told to stay away from him, in particular, though Bruce hadn’t said why.

The next thing was that the building was nearly abandoned. Nearly, because there was one unit on the third floor which was obviously occupied. By who or how many people, they didn’t know, because there were zero CCTV cameras pointing towards any part of the building.

The last thing— the thing that really should have tipped Tim off that something weird was up— was the truly impressive amount of traps on the kitchen window. He spent at least five minutes disarming them all, hoping that whoever was inside didn’t hear, wasn’t awake; preparing to slip inside and find the guy, check that he was alright, and help him if he wasn’t. 

That was all. 

Tim dropped through the window into the kitchen at approximately one-thirty in the morning, and crept through the dark but apparently well-kept apartment toward the closed door that he figured led to the bedroom. Hearing nothing from inside, he gently pushed the handle, slowly eased the door open—

And was immediately pulled forward off his feet, a heavy weight swinging around onto his back and pinning him face-down to the floor. 

His instincts kicked in— he tried to twist from his assailant’s grip and reach for a weapon, but just as his fingers came within two inches of a batarang he felt something cold and sharp prick at the back of his neck, just over the top edge of his cape.

Knife. Shit shit shit shit—

Assess. Assess. There were two other people in the room— one a heavy weight on top of him, the other a set of footsteps crossing the room towards him and a shadow of a form on the upper edges of his vision. He couldn’t buck or twist without hurting himself. His attacker’s knees on either side of him had shifted to block his access to his utility belt. This situation had very quickly become very dangerous. 

He switched course and reached slowly and carefully up towards his ear, intending to switch his comms onto the main channel and call for backup— he got a sharp knee digging swiftly into the back of his hand for his troubles. Any movement just made him terribly aware of the knife aimed just under the base of his skull. 

He was stuck. 

Heart pounding, Tim forced himself to lie still and took a deep breath. “Um… hi?” 

He was moving— a hand gripping him practically by the scruff, hoisting him up and back toward the wall next to the door until he was sitting with his back almost against his assailant’s chest; a hand in his hair pulled his head back, and the knife moved to his throat, no less deadly, much more present. He swallowed and felt it scratch his skin. 

His hands were free. He— he should— he could— 

“Quiet,” a feminine voice hissed in his ear as her grip kept his throat bared; “not a word.” 

Fear coursed through Tim’s veins, holding him in place. But he wasn’t just afraid for himself, was he? No, no, because in front of him there was a man— he wasn’t sure how old, he’d have guessed late twenties if it weren’t for the streaks of graying hair— and the man looked almost as spooked as Tim felt. Was he in trouble? Was he this woman’s hostage? 

Tim was Robin, and if this was a rescue, he needed his head in the game. 

He gave the man what he hoped was a reassuring smile and a fraction of a nod before moving his hands carefully out in surrender. “Why don’t we talk about this—?” He started— then stopped as the knife bit into him and the woman honest-to-god hissed.

“Daisy,” the man implored, “he’s not a threat. Please.” 

Tim filed the name away for later— Daisy— then held very, very still as the man reached out and put his own hand over the one holding the knife and pulled it away. Not enough to be out of danger— not by a long shot— but enough that he could swallow without cutting himself. 

“Come on, that’s it,” he said; “Listen to the quiet.”

Tim understood less and less with every passing moment, but the grip on his hair went slack and he took a relieved, shaking breath and very, very carefully pressed the panic button sewn into the fabric on his wrist. 

“We still don’t know why he’s here,” the woman— Daisy— said, and Tim’s mind went racing a mile a minute— had she not known that her captive managed to make a phone call? Had Tim put him in danger?

All of his puzzling and plotting came to an abrupt, grinding halt when the man leaned over them, said “Let me,” and then looked Tim in the eye and asked: 

“Why have you come here?”

He’d had a response planned for this. He’d rehearsed it, just in case. An anonymous tip; the police had received a request to do a wellness check, and due to its location it had been passed along to the Bats and he’d been sent to make sure everything was alright. 

Tim opened his mouth, and from it spilled the truth.

“My brother sent me,” he started, and immediately all thoughts were reduced to a screeching what are you DOING no no no NO NO—

Outwardly, though, he continued as though nothing was wrong at all— words pulled out of him like air into a vacuum. “He told me that somebody called him last night, upset, but they hung up before he could ask what was wrong. Oracle helped him trace the number here. He doesn’t… like…” no no no no NO do not say Bruce do not say Bruce DO NOT SAY—

“—asking B for help, so he asked me to check it out. This unit is the only occupied one in the building.”

Tim gasped and looked up at the man, finally understanding with a sense of bone-deep horror that he was the true threat all along.

A voice crackled in his ear. “Robin, what’s going on?” 

Oracle. 

The man frowned. “Who is your brother?”

Tim tried. He tried harder than he’d ever tried to do anything. He willed his mouth to stay shut, please, please, no no NO—

“Dick Grayson.” He didn’t understand. “what— how—?” Why was this happening?

His vision blurred. Oracle inhaled sharply in his ear.

It was supposed to be a wellness check.

“Dick as in Richard?” 

“Yes— ngh, no,” God, fuck, no, please…

“Robin, Batman is on his way. Just— try to stall. He’ll be five minutes.”

The man smiled.

“Ah, I see what’s happened. You can tell your brother I’m perfectly fine, it was a simple wrong number. Thank you for your concern.” 

Tim’s mind was a scrambled mess of conflicting emotions; barely a minute ago, he’d thought this man in need of a rescue, and now? Now, he was pretty sure this was one of the most dangerous individuals in all of Gotham. 

The man stepped back. “Daisy, let him go please.” 

The utter emotional dissonance between Tim— his world falling apart at the seams, his thoughts a looping mantra of what have I done? — and this man, this- this monster, casually ripping secrets from him and then just— letting him go? It made his head spin.  

“Are you sure?” Daisy asked.

The man shrugged. “We can hardly keep him. I don’t think kidnapping a hero is the wisest decision.”

Tim could have laughed. What the actual fuck?

The next moment, he was being pushed out of the room and spun to face the window, the threat of a blade at his throat gone. 

“Go,” the woman said. 

Tim was distantly aware that he was shaking, that Bruce— Batman— had joined Oracle in his ear, telling him he was almost there, just a couple minutes, as he pulled himself back through the window the way he’d come. The man followed him. The man was far, far too close, and he was taking a breath in that particular way that meant he was going to speak again and Tim didn’t know how to stop it, couldn’t get his tongue to cooperate long enough to say anything and try to stop the words that would force more secrets from his lungs. All he could do was hold fast to the railing of the fire escape, perched on that thin piece of metal over three storeys of open air, and wait for whatever the man said.

“Sorry about all this.”

Nothing about any of this made any sense. The worst part of it all, maybe, was just how genuine he seemed— why apologize at all? Why do it in the first place?

Tim couldn’t see very well— crying into a domino never went well— but he still managed to fire a grapple onto the roof of the nearest building and felt it catch. He brought a hand to his ear, but didn’t need to switch to any other channel; Oracle and Batman were already there. 

“This is Robin. I’m—“ I’m okay. A lie. I got away. Did he? The man was still there, watching, listening, did he even know that Tim had backup barely a minute away? “I’m heading out,” he settled on, and then he leapt into the alley and let himself fall away from the face that would surely haunt his nightmares.

Batman caught up to him two blocks away, swooping into Tim’s makeshift hiding place between two air vents and immediately checking him for injuries. 

“I’ve got him, Oracle. I’ve— Robin. Robin, report.”

Tim’s shaking had started back up again. Or maybe it hadn’t really stopped. “I’m so sorry.”

Batman— Bruce, that was his Concerned Dad Face, Tim had never seen it directed at him before— put his hands on either side of Tim’s face, forcing him to look at him. “Robin, listen to me. Did they hurt you?”

Tim started to shake his head, then simply pulled down the front of his cape from where he’d lifted it to cover the shallow cut on his throat. “It’s— a scratch, B, I’m fine.” 

Batman stiffened even further, if it were possible. Tim thought he might have imagined the growling. “We’ll get you home, and then I’m going to go have a little chat—“

“No!” Tim cried, because— No. If— if that man had managed to pull Dick’s name out of Tim with hardly any effort, what sort of horrible secrets might he extract from Batman? Was that his plan, all along— did he want Batman to find him?

Tim was panicking, he knew, thinking of all the carefully held secrets that he had put in jeopardy; thinking about what he’d said. What he’d been forced to say. Thinking about the way it had felt, the unadulterated fear that had shot through all his nerves like repeated electric shocks. Thinking that it could have been so much worse. 

And then Bruce was holding him. 

His head tucked neatly under his mentor’s chin; strong arms around him; a heavy cape shielding him completely from the outside world. A voice in his ear— not over the comms. Whispered. Grounding.

“You’re okay, Robin. You’re alright. I’ve got you. Just breathe, kid. There you are.”

Tim took a long moment to just breathe and collect himself before he turned his face to the side enough to insist: “you can’t go talk to him.”

“Why not?” Bruce asked, gently, so gently.

“He— he just. Asks. And it’s like— you can’t—“ breathe, he’s got to breathe. He can’t warn Batman if he can’t explain himself. “The words just. Come out. He could ask you anything.” Batman held him a little tighter, and Tim took a deep, shaking breath. “I— I think it’s magic.”

A click in his other ear. “I’ve got Nightwing on the line,” Oracle said.

“‘Wing, I’m so sorry, I’m— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

“Shh,” Bruce ran a hand through his hair. It felt nice. “Nightwing, your identity may have been compromised.” 

Tim shoved his face into Bruce’s neck.

“I know. Oracle filled me in. Is the baby bird okay?”

“He’s… uninjured, but he’s really shaken up.”

Tim choked on a sob. 

A coo. “Robin, you’ll be alright. I’m not angry, okay? It’s okay.” Tim heard a motorcycle revving through the com. “I’m on my way. I’ll be at the cave in an hour.” 

“Copy, Nightwing. We’ll see you there.” 

A click. 

“Can you grapple, Robin? Car’s just across the street.”

 Tim thought about it for a second— he really didn’t want to move from that spot, but the thought of being back at the cave, safe, won out. He nodded and carefully pulled away from Batman, who kept a hand on his back as they both extracted themselves from what really was quite a small space. He stayed close as they grappled to the ground, and all the way into the Batmobile, and then they were off towards home.

—

Chapter Text

—

True to his word, the Red Hood got back to the apartment sometime around four in the morning, heralded by a crash in the kitchen followed by a truly impressive amount of swearing. Jon hadn’t really been asleep— not for a lack of trying, but between his strange dream and Robin breaking into the apartment, he had enough whirling thoughts to last a lifetime.

“Hood? Is everything alright?” Jon pushed the bedroom door open and peered out into the main room, waiting for a response in the darkness.

There was a long pause, and then, “uh, sort of?” 

Daisy had managed to fall back asleep, but the noise had woken her again; she followed Jon out of the bedroom just in time for the light to flick on, and—

Oh. That was… a moderately concerning amount of blood.

“Shit,” Daisy swore, darting around Jon and to their— host? Friend?— to Hood’s side, helping him maneuver into a chair while Jon opened the cabinet under the sink and fumbled for the first aid kit. 

Hood shrugged off his jacket— he’d already taken the helmet off— and rolled up the shirt beneath it, revealing a bloody gash running horizontally along his side— it looked bad, and it was bleeding a lot, but the man himself didn’t seem to be all that worried about bleeding out— he appeared more frustrated than anything, grumbling about bloodstains and having to clean his furniture again.

It was Daisy who asked the question. “What happened?”

Hood sighed and reached for the first aid kit. “Fucker got a lucky hit in. I’m—” he hissed in pain as he shifted in his seat— “I’m fine, it’s no big deal.”

Jon thought back to when he and Daisy had first arrived, bloody and filthy— the bowl of water had been very much appreciated then, so he figured it might be good now. Clean some of the blood off, anyway. While he grabbed a mixing bowl and set the tap to warm, Daisy took the first aid kit from a weakly protesting Hood and started rooting through it, pulling out a pair of latex gloves and sliding them over her hands.

“Daisy, I’m fine, I just need to patch myself up and get some sleep. Seriously…”

When Jon presented the bowl of warm water and washcloths, she thanked him, and then having apparently found all of what she was looking for she pushed Hood’s bloody hands firmly away from the kit.

“Shut up. You’re not doing this by yourself if you don’t have to,” she told Hood, who was becoming more and more visibly confused at every turn of events; the expression warring with pain on his face. 

If there was one thing Jon was glad for about his experiences with the many horrors of their world, it was that he had long since lost any squeamishness he might have once had. 

“Jon, can you pass me the—?” Daisy started, and Jon reached for a pack of hemostatic gauze without really thinking about it. “Yeah, that, thanks.” Then she opened the packaging and pressed the gauze shiny-side down to the still-bleeding cut. “Here, hold that, will you? Keep pressure on it.” 

The latter was addressed to Hood himself— Jon was tasked with passing Daisy equipment, fetching clean water, and at one point helping her guide the man to lying on the ground. She was the picture of efficiency— peeling off armour, cutting away fabric, checking to ensure there weren’t any other pressingly urgent injuries.

It turned out there were a few other injuries, though none as severe as the laceration in his side. At Daisy’s direction, Jon set about bandaging a grazed gunshot wound (!) on Hood’s upper arm, and between the two of them they made quick work of cleaning what other scratches and cuts they could find. 

The idiot who got himself knifed groused the whole way. “None of this is even a little bit necessary,” he complained, but his protests were thoroughly undercut by the fact that he couldn’t move without screwing his face up in pain and the way he struggled to keep pressure on his side.

Despite all of that, the bleeding was already greatly lessened, and within five minutes Daisy was able to wipe away the excess blood and get a proper look at the injury.

“How did you get a cut like that with all the armour, anyway?” Jon wondered.

“There’s gaps in it for, uh, for movement,” Hood explained through gritted teeth, “got me just underneath one. Like I said, lucky hit. Or unlucky, I guess.” 

“I’ll say. You need stitches.” Daisy eyed the wound. “And probably a medical professional— although you are healing pretty fast, Jon, look at this.” 

Jon looked. The cut was long, but it wasn’t too deep, really— and the bleeding had already slowed almost entirely. 

“No,” Hood insisted, “I don’t need a doctor, and you’re not giving me stitches. I’m fine.” 

In that moment, Jon realized two things.

First: the Red Hood was young. He’d already known as much, somewhere in the back of his mind— but seeing him lying on the ground, whining about doctors, it really struck home just how young this man was. For all his skill and confidence, for all the command he held in whatever space he occupied, he couldn’t have been older than twenty. 

Second: he was somehow even worse at taking care of himself than Jon was. At least when Jon got stabbed he pretended it had been an accident and went to the damn hospital. This fool seemed determined to deal with his own injuries himself— Jon would bet money he hadn’t even expected him and Daisy to be awake when he came in. 

He must have seen something in the unimpressed looks Jon and Daisy shared, because after a long moment he sighed, defeated, and let his head fall back onto the floor. “Fuck. Do your worst, I guess. I’ve got everythin’ in the kit.”

Permission granted, the Hunter pulled on fresh gloves and set about her task: first properly irrigating the wound and making sure there weren’t any debris or bits of cloth fibre or anything of the sort left in there, and then rooting around for local anesthesia only to be told “don’t have any. Don’t need it.” By a man who really should be given painkillers, but all she said in response was “Fine. Need something to bite?” 

He didn’t.

What followed was approximately ten minutes of swearing overlaid onto Daisy calmly narrating her process and giving firm instructions to both Hood and Jon. Sixteen stitches later, it was done; Jon and Daisy worked together to apply gauze and wrap his body in bandages, and within a half-hour they had him situated on the couch and stripped out of all his gear and armour, with some old towels serving as a protective barrier for the couch’s sake— on Hood’s insistence.

It was strange. Despite the late (early?) hour and their interrupted sleep, Jon felt more awake than he had since he’d gone into the Buried; and it seemed Daisy felt the same, fully alert as they sat and waited for their host to wake up. 

“He’s not used to getting help,” she said, frowning.

Jon sat down on the coffee table. “I’m not surprised. He lives alone, and he doesn’t seem very close with any other heroes…”

Daisy nodded. “We still need to tell him about Robin. And I don’t think he’s going to take it very well.”

Jon grimaced. “Well, hopefully he doesn’t get as angry as he did last time someone mentioned him.” 

“Right,” Daisy agreed, although she clearly had her doubts. “Hopefully.”

—

Jason woke up to sunlight filtering through the kitchen window, the sound of eggs sizzling in a pan, and one suspiciously-scarred archivist staring down at him from over the back of the couch. 

“He’s awake!” The man called into the kitchen, and Jason winced at the volume. “Sorry, Hood.”

“S’fine,” he assured him, reaching an arm up to cover his eyes and finding a slight ache in his side at the movement. Funny, he was pretty sure it should be hurting more than that. The details were fuzzy, but he distinctly remembered bleeding out all over an alleyway, struggling to get a good enough grip on his grapple to get up to the fire escape without slipping. 

… That could have ended badly. He really ought to make sure he had a backup route into the apartment. Hm.

“How’re you feeling?” Jon asked, and Jason opened his eyes to find the guy had circled around the couch to sit perched on the coffee table.

Jason shifted slightly; felt the pressure of bandages across his torso and one arm, the slight tug of stitches in his side. He'd had worse. Far worse. “Eh, ‘m fine,” he decided, running his fingers along the lower edges of the bandages. “Did I, uh…” did I wake you? Well, probably, considering he was 80% sure he hadn’t stitched and bandaged his own wounds last night, especially not this well. There was even a towel under him to protect the couch. “What time is it…?”

“It is… 10:34!” Came Daisy’s voice from the kitchen, “time for food! C’mon.” 

Jon moved to help him sit up, but Jason waved him away and pushed himself upright, fighting not to sway as a wave of dizziness washed over him— blood loss is a bitch. Luckily, it passed quickly; hopefully the other man hadn’t even noticed. 

It wasn’t until they were all settled around his little table, bacon and eggs in front of them, that Jason realized something was… off. The other two kept shooting each other weird looks over the table, apparently having some silent argument, and it put Jason on edge. 

He put his fork down. 

“Alright, either of you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

Daisy had evidently won the silent argument, because Jon put down his own fork and took a deep breath. “We, ah… we had a visitor, last night.”

That got Jason’s attention. He sat up a little straighter. “A visitor? Who? When?”

“It was… around 1:30? And, well, technically he broke in, but he didn’t break anything!” Jon added quickly, “it was fine, really, he was just there to check on us, we had it handled and we were never in any danger—“

“Jon. Who was it?”

Daisy sighed and shot Jon an exasperated glare. “It was that kid hero. Robin.”

Jason felt his face twist into a snarl before he actually registered the anger. “Are you telling me Robin was in my house?”

Jason was dimly aware that Jon looked… alarmed. “Yes, but—“

“He knows where I live?!”

“No! No, he doesn’t know you live here, he just— it was my fault, he traced one of the phone calls I made, and—“

Jason didn’t really hear most of what the older man was saying. Everything was green. He needed to destroy something. Of course, he was still hurt, and his gear was probably in bad shape, he couldn’t exactly go off picking fights right then. He wasn’t sure he cared. He needed. He needed. 

Everything was… static. Static and green. He might have stood. He might have clutched at his side, at the table, swept his half-full plate to the ground and screamed but everything was— he couldn’t—

Cutting through the static and the green there was a question.

“Why do you hate Robin so much?”

There was still so much anger in him, fighting and screaming to get out, the edges of his vision tinged Lazarus. But he didn’t move. His breathing evened out. There, in the centre of his vision, dark green eyes and a face that had seen far too much, and the question. Though the monster clawed at him inside to be free, outwardly he was calm as he answered.

“Because I was Robin. I was Robin and it killed me, the Joker beat me and left me for dead and Batman wasn’t fast enough, I wasn’t fast enough, I wasn’t good enough, and I was locked in a room with a bomb and my traitor of a mother and I died. 

The man who killed me is still alive. Batman didn’t avenge me. And now there’s another kid in my costume— Robin replaced me, he took my family and my name and for now, it’s just another child soldier in the old man’s crusade, but it’s only a matter of time before there’s another kid in the ground. I need to stop him.” 

Jason’s voice shook slightly on the last line:

“No more dead Robins.”

And then he was himself, he was himself and instead of rage there was fear. He stumbled backward to the wall and pressed himself against it because— “what the fuck?” 

Jon and Daisy were both wide-eyed and tense, shock and alarm and his own fear reflected back at him. 

“I’m— I’m so sorry,” Jon choked out, “I didn’t— I can’t always control it, I just—“

“You, what, you have mind control powers?”

Jon shrunk back, almost falling out of his chair in his rush to get away as Jason advanced toward him. “N-no! Well, not, not exactly, it’s, ah…” he cringed back as Jason crowded him against the kitchen counter, getting right in his face. 

“Then what was that?”

Jon swallowed. “It, ah… it’s called, uh, compulsion?” He rushed to explain, tripping over words as he did. “If— if I ask a question, like, like that, I— the person has to, um, to answer honestly. I try not to do it but sometimes I really want to know and it just— just. Happens.” He finished lamely.

Jason felt the anger trying to claw itself back into his mind where it had been washed out by fear, but he pushed it down.

That… could actually be pretty useful. 

That could be really useful.

He took a step back. “Never do that to me again.” 

“Right! Right, of course.” Jon visibly deflated, sagging back against the counter. “I'm sorry.”

Jason sighed heavily and sat back down. Wordlessly, Daisy had gotten a broom and started sweeping up the broken plate and bits of food from where he’d thrown it on the ground. 

“So, what exactly happened?” 

Jon was still pulling himself together, so Daisy answered. “Around 1:30, I heard the window open. For a second I thought you’d come back, but your boots are way heavier than that, and it was too early. So I woke up Jon, and listened at the bedroom door.”

Jon sat back down and took over. “He started coming toward us, so Daisy waited next to the door and when he came in, she just… grabbed him. Pinned him to the floor. And then I…”

Jason could guess where this was going. “What did you ask him?”

“Just, uh, why he was here.” 

Daisy dumped the dust pan into the trash and sat back down at the table. “He said his brother asked him to check out a weird phone call from here— must’ve been one of the people Jon called by accident. Richard Grayson?”

Jason swore. “You called Dick?”

“Yes?” Jon answered, “I guess so. It wasn’t on purpose. Do you— I mean, I’m guessing that you know him.” 

Jason levelled him with an unimpressed stare. “I just told you, Robin took my family. Dickiebird was my brother first, even if he was a shitty one.” 

A thought occurred to him. He swore again. “We can’t stay here. You’ve— they’ve got to think you compromised their identities. They won’t let that go— I’m surprised Daddy Bats didn’t already drop by.” 

Jon and Daisy shared alarmed looks. “Like— Batman?” Daisy confirmed, “are we in danger?”

Jason grinned. “You two work for me now. You’re always in danger.”

“Right,” Jon hedged, “I think what we’re getting at here is more, uh, whether or not a vigilante is going to try to kill us.” 

“Kill you? No, he doesn’t kill.” Jason sneered. “Break every bone in your body and then lock you up forever, though? Yeah.” 

Daisy stood up. “It’s that serious? We didn’t even get Robin’s name.” 

“No,” Jason rolled his eyes, “you just got his brother’s name, and proved yourselves to be incredibly dangerous.” 

Jon looked sheepish. “Sorry.” 

“You should be. I have to move now, do you have any idea how inconvenient that is?” He sighed. “What’s done is done. Come on, help me pack up. We leave in two hours.”

—

For how annoyed he seemed at the prospect of leaving his house, Jon thought that Hood was strangely well-prepared for that eventuality.

All his weapons, vigilante gear, and clothes packed up neatly into two duffel bags, except for one particularly large gun which went into a special gun case, and that case into a backpack alongside toiletries and electronics. Jon and Daisy got a backpack each for their own things, which was plenty enough, and all the books stayed on the shelf in the living area. 

“I’ll come back for them later,” Hood had explained.

Jon and Daisy each took a duffel bag. Hood put on a long coat and slipped his two smaller guns into some hidden inside pockets. And just like that, they were off. 

Getting wherever it was they were going was a little bit more of a process. Hood wore a red domino mask over his eyes, and a paper mask over the lower half of his face— the kind medical professionals wore to avoid breathing on things— and all three of them were outfitted with slightly-too-large hoodies. 

“Keep the hood up, keep your eyes peeled, but try not to look suspicious. Got it?”

Jon apparently did not ‘get it,’ because after about ten minutes of walking Hood grabbed the two of them by their sleeves and pulled them into an alleyway, and then through a shadowed doorway into what appeared to be a simple stairwell, with stairs going both up and down and a door leading into the rest of the building’s ground floor opposite them. Hood started down the stairs.

“You have got to be the most suspicious guy in the world, Jon,” he hissed. “What was that? If they didn’t see us leave, they’ll definitely notice that little show you put on.”

Jon huffed. “I didn’t think it was that bad…”

“You looked over your shoulder every thirty seconds!” 

“Someone was watching us.”

Hood stomped onto the lower landing. “Of course they were. But you keep your head forward, you understand? Acting like a skittish tourist is a great way to get us all in trouble.” 

“Sorry, but where are we going?” Daisy interrupted.

“Old sewer tunnels,” Hood hand-waved, “I don't think Croc still lives down here, but keep your eyes open.”

“Croc? Like a crocodile?” Jon felt his voice pitch up into incredulity at the same time as Daisy questioned, voice flat, “you have crocodiles in your sewers?”

Hood grinned and pulled out a flashlight. “Nah. Just the one— call him Killer Croc. He used to just be a guy, now he eats people.” 

“… right,” Jon said, feeling a little nauseous— although that could be down to the smell coming from ahead of them, and not the concept of a man-eating crocodile(?) man.  

Lucky for them, there were no crocodiles, man or otherwise, in the tunnels on that day. The feeling of being watched subsided almost immediately, and despite the smell Jon almost relaxed. 

Not entirely, of course. It felt too much like the tunnels under the Institute, like walking down the steps and into the deep-dark-below, into the coffin to fully relax. But there was enough space to breathe, and although he didn’t feel watched he also didn’t feel cut off from the Beholding, and so his steps were sure and even, the weight of the duffel bag a reassuring thump-thump-thump against his hip as he walked. 

Hood seemed to feel it too. Whatever tail they’d had, they lost it down there. Maybe that was why he felt comfortable enough to ask:

“How’d you guys end up in the cemetery, anyway? You just wake up there?”

“Not… exactly,” Jon hedged, looking to Daisy for confirmation— was it alright to tell him about the Buried?

Daisy shrugged. “An evil circus tried to end the world. We were in the middle of it. I ended up in this, uh… coffin.” 

“I’m sorry,” Hood interjected, “an evil circus tried to end the world?” 

Jon looked up at the stone roof of the tunnel. “It was called the Unknowing. A ritual to end the world as we knew it, performed by the Circus of the Other— a group serving an entity called the Stranger.” He looked back down and met Hood’s eyes with a slight smile. “We blew it up.” 

The smile faded, then. “We didn’t all make it out,” he added

“Hey,” Daisy knocked shoulders with him, “you did what you could. Tim made his choice.” He’d explained everything to her, during those hours below ground. 

Hood blinked. “What— oh.” He swallowed. “I know a Tim.” 

There was a story behind that. Jon could feel it. It didn’t sound like a happy one. “They sure are something, aren’t they?”

“What?”

“Tims.” 

“Oh.” Hood shook his head, “yeah, they’re something all right.” 

“So, after that, I was… in a coma, for six months. Sort of.”

Hood gave him a weird sideways look. “Sort of?”

Daisy wiggled her fingers. “Magic coma. Should have died. Personally, I’m glad he didn’t.”

“I think I did die.” Jon reached up and tugged on his own hair. “It’s complicated.”

“I see.” 

Jon wished Hood would stop looking at him like that. Like he really did understand. He does, though, Jon contemplated. He died. He said so. What other fears have touched this man? “Right. So, then, ah… I woke up? And then Breekon turned up with the Coffin—“

Hood interrupted him. “Breekon?”

“Ah, an evil… delivery man. Sort of.” 

“Sort of,” Hood repeated.

“I killed his partner, during the Unknowing,” Daisy said, voice flat, “so he fed me to the Coffin.” 

“The coffin,” Hood stressed, “and— fed you to it?”

“Yep, he fed me to the evil coffin that eats people,” Daisy confirmed. 

Hood threw his hands up. “Sure. Why not, I guess. And then Breekon delivered this evil coffin to Jon?”

Jon nodded. “Yeah. He left it at the Institute, and told us Daisy was still alive in there. So I… went in after her.” 

“Which was really stupid, Jon.”

“I had an anchor!”

“And a lot of good that did you.”

Hood had been frowning as he watched them start to bicker. “What was in the coffin?”

Jon swallowed. “It was. Ah.” It was Hell, he didn’t say. “Forever Deep Below Creation. The Buried. It was…” he trailed off for a moment, then picked back up, gaining confidence. “The— the earth pressing in all around you. No up or down, really, just the crushing weight of wet dirt and the knowledge that not even death can free you, that you are doomed to an eternity of suffocation—“

“Stop, Jon, stop!” Hood had turned around and put both his hands on Jon’s shoulders. He… hadn’t noticed. His mouth tasted like dirt. 

“Shit. Sorry,” Hood dropped his hands, “you don’t have to talk about it. Uh. You said something about an anchor?”

Jon nodded. “I left one of my ribs outside.”

Hood nodded back. “And I’m sure that sentence makes so much sense.”

Daisy scoffed a half-laugh from where she’d paused up ahead of them. “Oh, now we have to explain the Boneturner, great.”

“The what?”

“The Boneturner, Jared Hopworth,” Jon explained, “is a being who can manipulate the bones of living creatures, including removing them from your body. It is not a pleasant experience, but it has its uses.”

“Like removing one of your ribs to use as an ‘anchor,’ whatever that means?”

“Yes,” Jon confirmed. “It’s… let’s keep walking.” It was easier to explain while they walked.

And explain he did. He started with his return to the Institute after the coma, which of course necessitated another side-track to explain in the vaguest possible terms what happened with Elias, which itself involved brushing over his own connection to both his old boss and the institute— explaining the Eye and alluding to the other powers, but refusing to elaborate on them.

“If he explains all of it, we’ll be here all day,” Daisy said, “and the Eye is the important one. And the Hunt, I suppose.” 

“The Hunt?” Hood asked. 

Needless to say, by the time they’d explained the Hunt and Daisy’s status, and the Buried and the Coffin, and the Institute and Elias and Jon and Peter damn Lukas— by the time they actually got around to their escape from the Coffin, it felt… underwhelming.

All of that, all of that, culminating in a simple: “and then we dug ourselves out, and instead of my office, we were in a cemetery staring down a creepy stone angel.”

“And you don’t know how or why?”

Daisy shook her head. “Not a clue.”

Hood seemed thoughtful. “Do you know who’s grave it was?”

Oh! Yes, that’s a good idea, Jon thought, maybe whoever it was had some connection to all of this. “It was a teenager,” Jon said, carefully. “Jason Todd.”

Then Hood turned to stare at Jon, incredulous, and demanded “are you fucking with me right now?” In a low voice, and Jon Knew.

“Oh.” 

“What?” Daisy looked between them.

Jon swallowed. “I. I think he’s…”

“You dug out of my grave?!”

Understanding dawned on Daisy’s face. “Shit.”

Yeah, that about sums it up.

Jon did not know what to do with this information, but as they all stared, at a loss, one thought refused to go unspoken:

“This can’t be a coincidence, can it?”

—

Chapter Text

—

Hood— Jason, that was Jason Todd, the very-much-not-dead and also not-really-a-child whose grave they dug out of and what are the odds? Really, what are the odds, this had the Web written all over it— Jason led them silently out of the sewers and into an empty subway tunnel, and then through an access door which led through a short hallway. As they walked towards another door at the end of it, Jon started hearing voices ahead— not anything distinct, but rather the general hum of a lot of people in one place, momentarily drowned out by a deep rumbling sound…

Sure enough, they came out of the door and into a bustling subway station, people of all sorts moving about and crowding onto the train that had just pulled in. The three of them turned away from the dark tunnel, though, and fell into motion with the tail-end of the crowd making their way up the concrete steps and toward daylight. 

With their hoods pulled up to shadow their faces once more, they left the station, and made their way out of the crowd and down a side street where a nondescript navy blue car was waiting, parked by the curb. As they approached, the tinted passenger-side window rolled down to reveal a young man with dark skin and darker hair in small braids that just brushed his shoulders. 

He leaned over the centre console and flashed them a grin. “Hey Boss! Heard you needed a lift?”

Hood— Jason— stalked forward and leaned down into the window, face distinctly unamused. “Where’s Darcy?”

The man— kid, really, he looked like a teenager— put his hands up in mock-surrender. “Hey, Darcy’s busy. The man can’t drop everything for you, yknow.”

“He damn well can for as long as I pay him.” Despite the grumbling, Jason opened the passenger side door and dropped his backpack onto the floor there before climbing in and slamming the door shut.

“Hop in, guys!” The stranger shot them another grin, and Jon opened the back door and slid his bags in ahead of him, scooching to the farther seat as Daisy followed him in, closing the door with much more reasonable force. 

Then the window rolled up, and they were off.

“Did’ja lose your tail?” The driver asked Jason, looking surreptitiously up toward the rooftops. 

Jason nodded once. “Think so. They didn’t follow underground, anyway.” 

“Good, yeah, good. Do you know who was after you? Darcy didn’t say…”

“None of your damn business, that’s who.” 

“Fine, fine…”

Daisy leaned forward. “Who are you, anyway?”

Another grin. “Call me Julian! I work for Hood, here.” He paused and half-shrugged, making a so-so motion with one hand while the other stayed on the wheel. “Well, I work for Darcy, so Hood’s more like my boss’ boss, yknow how it is.”

“Right,” Jon leaned back in his seat. “How’d you— ah.” He glanced at Daisy, who nodded in understanding and finished the question for him:

“How’d you end up working for them?” 

Julian sighed and looked away, firmly toward the road. “How do any of us? I was down on my luck. Needed a gig. They say Hood’s the best guy in town, if you’ve got the choice.”

Jason’s head snapped to him from where he’d been staring at the phone in his lap. “They do?”

Julian smiled, more genuinely than the cocky grins he was so fond of. “‘Course they do. You offer health insurance.”

“Well, yeah! Do you know how much more expensive it would be to find new people every time one of you dies from something stupid and preventable?”

“Exactly,” Julian nodded, “there you go.” 

Jason threw his head back into the headrest. “Fine, then! Glad I’m the cool boss, I guess.”

“From what I’ve seen,” Jon piped up, “you are a remarkably kind individual— considering your experiences— and you seem like a very good boss.”

In the front seat, Jason stared straight ahead, face frozen in horror.

Julian laughed. 

Jon… felt like he was missing something. But the levity was nice; even if it was at Jason’s, and maybe his own, expense.

“Don’t listen to him, Boss,” Julian faux-assured, “you’re the toughest, meanest guy out there, honest. I mean…” here he paused dramatically, grin widening, “it’s not every day someone drops a duffel bag full of—“ 

“Shut the fuck up, Julian.” 

A duffel bag full of what? Jon wondered, sharing a confused look with Daisy. No answers presented themselves, and silence stretched for a long, awkward moment.

Daisy was the one to break it. “Hey, so, where are we going?” She asked.

Jason sighed and looked back at his phone. “Hideout,” he said, “not too far, it’s just in Burnley. I was supposed to meet some of my people there later, but I figure it’s as good a place as any to lay low for a bit.” He looked over at Julian. “I hope Darcy will be there waiting for us?” 

Julian nodded, turning a corner. “Oh yeah, he sure will. Didn’t anybody tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Jason gritted out.

“We managed to pin down one of Mask’s top guys.” Julian sat up a little straighter, pride evident in his voice. “Brought him in, to the very same hideout~!” 

Jason ignored the sing-song voice and did something on his phone, typing rapidly, splitting his attention between it and the occupants of the car. “Has he talked yet?” 

“Nah. But it’s a matter of time, I’d say. We’ve only just started working on him.”

“Right,” Jason briefly met Jon’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, “I think I’ve got an idea for that.”

Jon felt a little bit lost; like he’d been left out of the loop, missed some important context for this conversation. He wasn’t sure why, though. Nothing was really wrong here; it seemed that heroes like Batman and Robin and the Red Hood were fairly well-known and respected, publicly, so it made sense that they would have teams helping them perform arrests and carry out interrogations and the like. So far, this seemed like a very well-organized group, with perhaps even a little more oversight than he was used to police-types having. 

So why did something feel so… off?  

He didn’t have time to think it through, though, because at that point the car pulled into the parking lot of what looked to have once been some sort of chain restaurant, long since shut down. The windows and doors were boarded over; the paint— which might have once been… yellow?— was peeling and outright missing in several places, and despite the fact they were in broad daylight, everything in a block and a half radius around them felt… empty. 

“I thought you guys were fixing the place up,” Jason said accusingly, “it looks exactly the same!”

Julian turned off the car and pulled the emergency brake. “Oh, we have been. The inside was a disaster, let me tell you. It’s mostly good now.” 

“Mostly good.”

“Yeah!” Julian opened the door and stepped out. “Mostly good. Cmon.” 

Jon followed behind the others as the group made their way into what might have once been a diner, but had been stripped of most of the internal furnishings— the seating was all gone, leaving a large empty space aside from the counter that would have split the seating area with the employee area, and a wide door-shaped opening behind it leading to the kitchen beyond. 

A woman Jon didn’t recognize was sat entirely on top of the counter, leaning against the wall at the junction, holding a very intimidating firearm (though not aiming it at them, which he appreciated) and Jason acknowledged her with a nod as they passed through a gap in the counter and made their way into the back room— the kitchen, by the layout of the counters inside, though missing all major appliances. 

“We’ve set up shop downstairs,” Julian explained, “better soundproofing, and there’s space for all of us.” He opened a door— an actual, solid-looking door, not just a gap in the wall where a door should go— and led the way down a concrete staircase.

“And the upstairs?” Jason asked

“We cleaned it out, but we aren’t using it. It’s all yours, if you want it.” 

“Good,” Jason nodded, “and our guest?”

They reached the bottom of the stairs, which led to a hallway that looped back around so that they were walking under the building again. It was a good, wide hallway, with an empty sort of alcove to the right, and two doorways to the left, both lacking actual doors and blocked by a simple curtain presumably affixed to the wall above the doorway on the inside. 

“He’s in there,” Julian gestured to the end of the hallway, where a very menacing, heavy-looking metal door lay— Jon recognized it as being the kind of door that one would find on an industrial walk-in refrigerator. 

Jason evidently did as well. “In the fridge?”

Julian rolled his eyes. “It’s not on, you don’t need to freak out. Dunno why you care so much anyway, you’re just gonna—” 

At that moment, the curtain closer to the end of the hallway was pushed aside, and the man they had met the day before— was it really only yesterday?— stood in front of them.

“Hood, good to see you. Julian, thank you.” 

It was a clear dismissal, and Julian gave both Darcy and Jason a playful salute before turning and walking back the way they’d come. As he passed Jon, he gave him a little pat on the shoulder. 

“Good luck in there,” he said, and then he was gone, back up the stairs.

Jon wasn’t sure he liked where this was going. 

—

Evan Patrick Nelson was having a very bad day. 

Really, he’d been having a bad several days; a bad several months. Some new punk had been messing with their business; The Red Hood, he called himself. He had taken over Crime Alley within his first few weeks on the scene, his territory expanding over the last few months to cover most of the Bowery and recently pushing into Burnley, all while sabotaging their shipments and cutting off people’s fucking heads.  

Needless to say, the boss was not happy— and when the boss wasn’t happy, nobody was.

Still, this day had to be one of the worst he’d had in a while. First, he’d gotten word that Hood’s guys were sniffing around where they shouldn’t be— Evan was in charge of a new shipment coming in Monday, a big one, one they couldn't have anyone fucking up— and he’d had to go sniffing back. When he’d found out some of his guys were going to flip, sell Hood’s guys information, well… 

Tipping off the Bats wasn’t his first choice, but it was effective. Only then one of Hood’s men got away, and then the bastard himself went on some crazed rampage around Gotham, made everything worse—

That was when Mask clued in that there was trouble, and told Evan in no uncertain terms to make it go away. So he went into the field himself— first target, the grunt who’d escaped Robin. He might have known something; best to nip that in the bud. He didn’t expect some fresh recruit to put up much of a fight.  

Only it was a trap.

Fucking Darcy Myers. If that was even his real name, the bastard. Evan’s been wanting to off the man since well before Hood was on the scene— ever since Darcy had gotten Evan’s brother arrested to save his own ass. And here he was, finally there in front of him, and Evan couldn’t do a damn thing. He’d been surrounded, pinned down, whacked on the head and dragged who-the-hell-knows where. First he’d really been aware of was the pain of his feet dragging down concrete stairs, and then he was thrown into a fucking walk-in fridge— it wasn’t on, thankfully. It was actually a rather comfortable temperature. But none of that mattered; they were never going to let him sit peacefully, no no no.  

Evan had been tortured before. He knew they wouldn’t break him. 

What, a little rough treatment, a bit of blood, a couple broken fingers, and he’d just spill his guts? They didn’t even go for his shooting hand. No. He was going to wait them out until they got bored and promised to bring in a professional and then he was going to work the hidden razor blade from the seam of his pants, cut himself free, and kill anyone who tried to stop him on the way out. 

It was all going just swimmingly— he’d gotten his blade free and started on his bindings— until Darcy showed back up with Hood. Until they brought in somebody else; somebody that Evan did not recognize. 

This was unusual. He knew his own worth; he knew how much was at stake, keeping him here, wherever here was, and he knew that they absolutely would not let anybody see him who they didn’t trust completely— and Evan? He knew all the important players in Gotham, if not by face than by name, by reputation, and the man they brought in and asked to introduce himself had none.

“Evan, was it?” Hood started, tilting his head behind that soulless red mask. “I hear you’re being a little bit… stubborn. I’d like you to meet someone— the Archivist.”

Who the fuck is the Archivist? Evan didn’t speak his thoughts out loud, of course. What he said was:

“Fuck you.”

The so-called Archivist flinched.

“What?” Evan laughed; “you bring in a newbie? What’s he gonna do, cry?”

There was a woman with them. Had been the whole time; Evan had dismissed her presence out of hand, and it was at this moment that he realized that might have been a mistake. Because when he taunted the Archivist, she lunged.

She didn’t touch him, but she did step protectively in front of the scared man, and snarled: “shut up.”  

Her teeth were sharp. Her eyes were glowing. Her eyes were fucking glowing, and despite himself, Evan found that he was afraid.

“Who the hell are you?” 

She smiled, then. “Call me Daisy.”

He wanted to make fun of the name— would have done, if only he wasn’t so scared.  

“What do you want?” Was what he said instead.

Evan noticed that the Archivist looked incredibly nervous himself, actually. He was shifting on his feet, glancing all around between the Red Hood and Daisy and Evan and Darcy before setting a hand on Daisy’s shoulder and looking to Hood, imploring. “Uh… Hood. What’s…?”

Darcy apparently took pity on the man. “This fucker,” he punctuated the word with a kick to the chair Evan was tied to, “works for Black Mask.” 

“Uh… right, okay, and Black Mask is uh…” he looked up and clenched his hands into fists in a strange show of… focus?

Darcy might have rolled his eyes— it was hard for Evan to tell from this angle. 

Hood stepped forward. “Mask is… something of a rival to yours truly, and our friend here has intel on a shipment that we really don’t want getting into his hands.”

 The Archivist still looked confused and, over everything else, concerned. “A rival what? Vigilante?” He asked nobody in particular.

Evan burst into laughter.

Darcy hit him on the back of the head. 

Evan hissed and twisted up to glare, the dregs of laughter somewhat undercutting the effect. “What? That’s— you— he doesn’t even know anything and you brought him— you— oh, shit, this is great!”

“Hood,” the Archivist pleaded. “How is Black Mask your rival?”

Hood went still, and Evan found himself drawn into the answer himself, going silent as the entire room paused, enraptured— what would the man say?

“Black Mask is a well-established crime lord here in Gotham. I’m newer on the scene, but I’ve been taking over a lot of his territory, and with time I will rival him for control of Gotham’s underworld.”

The tension broke, and the Archivist took three quick steps backward away from Hood, until his back hit the wall of the small room. “Shit, Ja— Hood, Hood, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, ah—!”

Hood had followed him, step for step, and the Archivist wasn’t particularly tall— Hood loomed over him, but didn’t touch him at all as he hissed “what did I say about doing that?”

The Archivist hunched down and pressed himself into the wall. “It— it was an accident, I swear, I just wanted to know what was going on—!”

“What, and you couldn’t figure it out from context?”

“No!” The Archivist looked up, almost looking that red helmet in the eyes, “how was I supposed to know this was— you were— oh god.”

“What now?” Hood slouched back a bit. 

“You’re… you’re in a gang.” It wasn’t said as a question, but he looked to the man for confirmation anyway.

“I lead a gang,” the Red Hood corrected, “and you work for me, so by extension…”

“I’m,” he blinked, “I’m in a gang.”

Evan felt like he was intruding on a very personal moment. But, well, it wasn’t like he had much choice.

“Right,” Darcy broke the momentary silence. “Boss, you said he’d be able to help?”

“Yeah,” Hood turned back to Evan, grabbing the Archivist by his hoodie sleeve and pulling him along with to stand in front of him, “Archivist, I need you to ask this fucker a couple of questions.”

The Archivist swallowed. “Ah. Okay. What, um, what should I ask…?”

Hood let go of his shocked and apparently unwilling accomplice and moved around Evan to stand behind him, unholstering a gun to hold to his temple as he pulled his head up and back by the hair. “Evan, at what time, at which dock, and on which vessel will Black Mask’s shipment of kryptonite arrive in Gotham tomorrow, Monday?” 

Evan snarled. It was going to take more than that.

The Archivist stepped forward a half step, steadying his stance and taking a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he was—

Different.

His hair seemed to drift, just a little bit, as though in a slight breeze— impossible, they were in a sealed walk-in-fridge— and his eyes— they glowed, and were they… bigger? Deeper? No, that wasn’t quite right, but Evan couldn’t really look away.

“Evan Patrick Nelson,” the Archivist began, and Evan didn’t remember anyone here giving the man his full name, “at what time will Black Mask’s shipment of kryptonite arrive in Gotham this upcoming Monday?”

For a split second, nothing happened, and Evan had half a thought that the guy was all talk, that he couldn’t break through his own determination to remain loyal— and then that half-formed thought was stopped cold, because Evan was talking.

“The shipment is scheduled to arrive at 3:35 am.”

He gasped as horror washed over him. “What— what the hell was that?!” 

Darcy grinned.

“Thank you,” the Archivist smiled politely. “Now—”

No. This couldn’t be happening. “You can’t do this! You can’t— no metas in Gotham, Hood, you know the rules, you can’t do this—!” 

Hood just yanked his head back further, pulled the gun away from him only to pull back and hit him with it. “Shut up!”

He shut up. It wasn’t true, anyways— Batman talked a big game, but there were plenty of metahumans in Gotham. He just— he needed an out. Badly. This had already gone so, so wrong and Evan was suddenly sure that it was going to get worse.

“Oh, good,” the Archivist sounded faint. “Pistol whipping in a dark basement. If I’m being completely honest, this is not how I thought my day would go.” 

“You’ll get used to it,” Darcy assured from where he and Daisy were leaning against the wall next to the door. 

“Next question,” Hood said.

No. No no no no…

He wanted to interrupt again, but then the Archivist’s eyes were on him and he was frozen to the seat in wonder and terror all at once.

“At which dock will the shipment of kryptonite arrive, Evan?”

There was a sort of static in his head, washing out everything else but the all-encompassing fear. “Shipment’s coming into Aparo, dock eleven.” 

“Thank you. Which vessel—“

“Fuck you,” he managed through gritted teeth.

“Which vessel will be carrying this shipment, Evan?”

His whole body shuddered as he fought, pointless as it was. “The Helmsdale.”

The Archivist smiled. “Thank you.”

Evan shook. Fuck. Fuck. Hood had let go of his hair at some point, and he was free to look up at this man, this Archivist, who he had never heard of before today but knew, knew that he was going to change everything. “What are you…?”

The Archivist swallowed and looked up at Hood over Evan’s head. “Any, um, anything else?”

“How many men on pickup, and what gear will they have?”

…

It went on like that for far, far too long. They got everything they needed from him on Monday’s shipment, and then started to get creative, asking him specific, targeted questions about Black Mask’s operations— the names and addresses of his most valued men, the planned timelines of every operation they had underway, the information connected to every fucking bank account and the codes to every safe and vault that he had access to— and it was a dizzying relief every time Evan could say “I don’t know,” except even that was short lived and tainted; normally, in these situations, “I don’t know” would be met with pain, met with further digging, but here? If he didn’t know something, they just moved on. One question at a time, information he’d sworn to take to his grave was pulled out of him like teeth, and Evan was shaking, shaking all over, but not from resistance; not anymore. 

He told them so much.  

And then they ran out of questions, and the Red Hood stood in front of him, gun aimed square between his eyes. 

And, well. After this… death was preferable to what Black Mask would do to him. 

Evan looked the Archivist in the eye as the Red Hood pulled the trigger.

—

Jon stumbled back away from the man— the chair— the gunshot. After a moment, he realized he was clutching his own head, the sound of the shot ringing in his ears. 

He felt sick. 

“Jon? Are you alright?” Daisy pushed off from the wall.

“Uh, I don’t… uh. Yes?”

Jason turned away from the scene, gave Jon a weird look. “What, you feel sorry for him? You heard the stuff he had his hands in— world’s better off with him dead.”

“No, no,” Jon blinked. God, did his head hurt— but it was, thankfully, receding quickly. “It’s just, when I’m… Asking questions like that, I sort of experience what they experience, and…”

“Ah.” Jason nodded. “And I shot him in the head. Sorry.” 

“It’s fine, I’m fine.” Jon shook the last of it off, turning away from the body and walking toward the door. And he wasn’t lying— he was fine, better than fine, really; none of what Evan had said was a Statement, per se, but his mounting fear (not only of them, but of his own boss. Of what would happen to him even if he did manage to escape) satisfied something deep within Jon that he didn’t particularly want to examine too closely.  

He was fine.

He was fine, and Daisy was fine, and he helped get a lot of information that would help get a very, very dangerous man taken down, and this was good. Sure, he did it for the boss of the gang he had joined completely by accident, what the hell, but stranger things had happened to him! 

All he needed to do was… was. 

“What now?” Daisy asked.

“Now,” Jason turned to usher everyone out of the small space, “we leave the cleanup to Darcy, and get you two settled in your new place.”

“Oh, where— uh. I mean.”

Jason understood anyway. “Upstairs is free. I figure you’d appreciate the privacy, ‘stead of staying down here?”

“Uh,” Jon started, “right.”

Daisy knocked shoulders with him. “What this idiot means is thank you.”

“Right,” Jon repeated. “Thank you.”

Jason sighed and took off the signature helmet as they ascended the stairs. “Look, it might have started out that way, but I’m not doing charity work here. You’re… useful.” Jon was not a fan of that phrasing. “You’re very useful, I’m sure you can see why. Stick with me, and I’ll set you up, pay you well, and make sure nobody can touch you.”

“I think…” Jon took a deep breath. “I think I need to think about this. It’s just… a lot.”

They made their way up into the empty diner in silence, but instead of going out the way they’d come in, they stayed behind the counter and walked toward the woman sitting on the counter with the gun. It turned out that the wall beside her was actually a door, which Jon had failed to notice in his pursuit to not look at or think about the rather intimidating stranger with a loaded firearm. 

Through that door was another set of stairs, going up, and as the door shut behind them Jason questioned: 

“Jon, this whole time, what did you think we were doing?”

Jon wanted to sink into the floor. “I thought you were… police?”

“Police.” Jason deadpanned, stopping on the top step.

“Yeah, it all seemed like these were, well, regular police activities…”

“You thought everything we talked about yesterday, my people having secret meetings with criminals, and us kidnapping our enemies to an abandoned Denny’s was normal police behaviour?”

Jon didn’t know how to respond other than by just saying: “Uh. Yes.”

Daisy sighed behind him. “This one’s on me. I was a cop, and I wasn’t… the most ethical.”

Jason looked momentarily affronted. “You were a cop?”

“She tried to kill me,” Jon offered, casually, then pointed to his throat; “That’s how I got this scar.”

“I thought you said you went into a known hellscape to rescue her.”

“He did,” Daisy nodded, “real martyr complex, this one.”

“A lot happened in between those two things!”  

Daisy scoffed “we barely interacted. You have a problem.”

Forget sinking into the floor. Jon wanted all these people to forget he’d ever existed. Jason turned down a hallway off the landing at the top of the stairs, and they followed.

“It’s not like you knew, either,” Jon pointed out.

Daisy shook her head. “I figured it out around when we left the apartment. It’s not normal to flee your home when a coworker learns where you live, let alone use old sewer tunnels to stop them following you, let alone getting picked up and taken to an abandoned diner where they’ve just started—“ and here she air-quoted— “‘working on’ some guy they kidnapped and—”

“Fine, fine, I get it!”

They made it up into what was, apparently, a decent-sized apartment above the diner. True to what Julian had told them, it was cleaned out and empty— nothing in the place at all. 

“One bedroom, and a decent sized office just outside— I figure we take this door off, put another one just past the office in the hallway, and make it a two bedroom place,” Jason explained. “Combined living and kitchen. Bathroom’s through there,” he pointed to a closed door, “we’ll need to get you some furniture. I’ll get someone on that— I’ve got to go. You guys pick your rooms and settle in, I guess, see what’s been left in here.” 

And then, having completed his spin and cursory tour of the space, he turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” Daisy asked.

Jason grinned. “I’m going to the bank.”

—

Chapter Text

—

Somewhere in the dark bedroom, there was the familiar click of a tape recorder turning itself on, and Jon’s eyes snapped open.

He strained his ears, listening for… something, someone coming into the apartment— they didn’t have the extra door installed yet, could he get to Daisy? Was it safe?— but the only sounds he heard were from the recorder itself. The familiar whirring overlaid onto… breathing?

“Hey, Jon,” a familiar voice said, and Jon would have fallen out of bed if it hadn’t just been a mattress on the floor. That— that was Martin. That was Martin’s voice.

“I don’t, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if you can hear this.”

Jon scrambled for the tape recorder— on the floor, it was on the floor, he picked it up. “I hear you, Martin, god I can’t believe—“

“I don’t know, but I have to try,” Martin’s voice continued on as though Jon had not spoken at all, and his stomach sank.

“I put— tapes, on the coffin. I thought it would help, I don’t know. And now…” he stopped, and Jon waited, clutching the recorder out in front of him, staring at it like it held the secrets to the universe. “I’ve got your, uh, your rib, right here, I’m holding it, which is kind of weird, isn’t it? Is that weird?” A pause.

“No, Martin, that’s— that’s fine, it’s—“ but of course, Martin couldn’t hear him. For all Jon knew this was an old recording.

“It’s been a little over a week, since you went in there. And— and Basira talked to Elias today, and he said… he said you’re out, but he doesn’t know where.” A sniffle. A deep breath. Jon’s heart ached, a feeling that was not entirely unfamiliar. “I just hope you’re listening. I really, really do. I’d feel pretty, uh, pretty stupid otherwise!” Martin laughed sadly.

“Listen, Jon, things are… weird. Nobody’s happy about this— I talked to Peter, after Basira got back, and— god. I don’t know how to explain this. I don’t know what’s going on, but it seems like your vanishing has… I don’t know, inconvenienced him? He asked me about what I did with the tapes, to try to help you back— he never asks me about that sort of stuff. It’s always ‘don’t let yourself lose focus, Martin, you have a Mission, Martin,’” he said, in a terrible imitation of Peter Lukas, “but now, all of a sudden, he wants the details? I’m not buying it.”

A long pause. So long Jon wondered if the message was over. Then:

“I don’t know why I’m talking to you. This could… I don’t know who’s listening, not really. But if it is you, Jon, I want you to know that Basira and I are going to do everything we can to get you back. Just… hang in there, wherever you are. Bye.”

The tape clicked off.

Jon stayed there, crouched on the floor in stunned silence, for a long, long moment; his thoughts a looping track of Martin, Martin’s voice, Martin’s looking for me?   

I have to tell Daisy, he realized, and shakily got to his feet.

After the interrogation session, they hadn’t seen Jason or Darcy for the entire rest of the day. They had seen Julian again, though, coming up to let them know that basic furniture had been acquired and would be delivered shortly before he, too, vanished; and they saw Camryn, later on, when hunger finally drove them from their new place and into the basement again— it turned out that the second of the two rooms down there was a meeting room, which was where they found her, standing at the head of a long table of intimidating strangers and pinning labels to a map on the wall. She paused the meeting to show them that the other room, which they had walked past following the sound of voices, was a sort of break room; stocked with easy-to-prepare food and snacks, a fridge, and two microwaves. They were told to help themselves.

Camryn had also introduced them to a few other members of the Red Hood Gang, including the woman who had been guarding the main floor when they first arrived— her name was Sage, apparently, and Jon was kind of terrified of her. They were introduced as Daisy and the Archivist, and when people heard the latter… they sat up a little straighter. Their assessing looks shifted from curiosity to respect. Word had spread, it seemed, though Jon didn’t know how much they had all been told. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Camryn had left, too, saying there were some people she needed to talk to, leaving them a cheap phone with three numbers in it: Darcy’s, Jason’s, and her own.

All of that to say, Jon wasn’t actually sure who was there at the moment, and if they could be trusted. Really, he wasn’t sure if any of them could be trusted, not with this. Not with Martin. So he crept through the apartment, past the old couch and the wooden boxes serving as a coffee table, carefully unlocked the door into the hallway, approached the office, and with the tape recorder still clutched in one hand he knocked. 

“Daisy,” he hissed; “Daisy, wake up, I need to talk to you. Come on.” He knocked again, a little louder, and although he didn’t hear any movement on the other side, it was only a moment before the lock clicked and the door swung open to reveal Daisy, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt with the name of a band neither of them knew on the front. 

“Get in here, then,” she said, grabbing him by the sleeve and pulling him into the room.

Once the door was shut and locked behind them, she turned to Jon. “What is it? You better have a good reason for waking me up in the middle of the— oh.” It was at that moment she noticed the tape recorder in his hands, and her demeanor shifted. Serious. Alert. “What happened?” 

Jon sat down shakily on the edge of her mattress— also on the floor— and set the tape recorder on his knees. “It’s, uh. This, this just showed up.” 

“Right. That’s not… that’s not good, is it?”

He blinked up at her, thought about it for a moment; “not normally, no, but this time— it wasn’t recording, it was…”

She folded her knees and sat down on the ground, facing him. “Playing?”

He nodded.

“Can I see?”

He nodded again, passed it to her, and she rewound the tape and pressed play.

The message was still there, exactly the same as when Jon had heard it the first time; they listened in silence, and when it was done, Daisy reached out and clicked the machine off. 

“When did you get this?”

“Right before I came to you. It appeared in my room, turned itself on, and turned itself off.”

Daisy hummed. “Have you tried answering?”

“Uh, sort of,” Jon ran a hand through his hair, “it, while it was playing, I thought— I don’t know, I tried talking back, but it didn’t do anything.”

“Right.” Daisy fiddled with the recorder, rewinding the tape to near the end of the message and pressing play again: 

“…going to do everything we can to get you back. Just… hang in there, wherever you are. Bye.”

When it was done, she pressed the stop button, and then pressed the record button, and said “try this, maybe?”

“Oh,” Jon blinked. “Um. Okay.” He picked up the tape recorder, the familiar whirring almost a comfort in this very strange situation. “Martin, uh, if you can hear this— I got your message. I… I want you to know that Daisy and I are… safe. I think.”

She gave him an encouraging nod, so he continued, “we’re somewhere else. The Institute doesn’t exist here; it’s…” he struggled for words; how to explain everything? 

“It’s different,” Daisy offered, “we’ve made some friends, and it turns out they’re, well, on the wrong side of the law, but they’re nice enough. They’re treating us well.”

“Yeah,” Jon confirmed, “they are. We’re alright.” He took a deep breath. “Martin, please keep my rib with you. It can only help, I think— if I had to guess, it’s what allowed this connection in the first place.” He wasn’t sure why he thought so; it just made sense. “And please, please be careful, Peter and Elias are dangerous, you know that, and I’m not— I can’t help you, from here. Please look out for yourself.” 

“You’re not allowed to get yourself killed before we get back,” Daisy said, her voice light and teasing. “So don’t be stupid. And please, tell Basira…” here she paused, growing serious. “Tell her that I’m sorry, for, well. For a lot of the shit I’ve done. And that I miss her.”

Jon nodded. “Get back to us as soon as you can.”

And then he clicked the recording off and slouched forward, rubbing at his eyes. “What now?” 

Daisy sighed heavily and moved to sit next to him. “Now we wait, I suppose. Keep that tape somewhere safe, just in case.”

“Right.”

So that’s what they did. Jon left Daisy’s room and returned to his own, tucked the tape recorder into an interior pocket of the backpack Jason had given him, put that next to his bed, and tried in vain to go back to sleep.

—

The next day was a whirlwind of activity, starting from the moment Jon awoke to a knocking on his bedroom door.

“Hey, Archivist! Wakey wakey!” 

He rolled out of bed, pushed himself to his feet. Stumbled to the door and opened it.

“Julian, hello. What, uh…?”

“Big Boss sent me. It’s just after noon, we’ve all got a big day ahead of us!”

“Right, of course. Sorry I slept so late…”

Julian made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Nah, this isn’t late. ‘Round here, most action happens at night, so we sleep in.”

Jon supposed that was sensible, for a group whose main activities were crime. “Right. Uh, a big day…?”

“Yep!” Julian said, popping the p. “Everyone’s working real hard to spend as much of Black Mask’s money as possible before he figures out what happened.” Here, he grinned his signature grin; “Last night was a blast. Shame you missed out, really.”

“I’m glad you, uh, had fun?”

“Dude. I got to break into a massive vault in some guy’s mansion. Camryn disabled all the security and I just—” he wiggled his fingers. Jon wasn’t sure what that meant. “I felt like a guy in a heist movie!”

Jon remembered pulling all sorts of access codes and passwords from that guy, Evan, the day before; he hadn’t understood most of it, just asking whatever Jason told him to, and he hadn’t properly considered what they were going to do with all that information. 

Theft, apparently. 

“Sorry to have missed it,” Jon offered. It wasn’t really a lie, either; it had been a long time since he’d done a bit of breaking & entering. 

“Eh, no sweat,” Julian assured him, “you’re more than pulling your weight. Come on, get dressed, we’re all meeting downstairs in ten.”

This meeting, as it turned out, involved literal bags full of cash, a pallet holding a crate full of actual gold bars, a black drawstring bag which Jon was informed contained an unreasonable number of small diamonds— “They’re all real, I checked!” Julian enthused— and incredibly, astronomically high numbers showing in a bank account on Camryn’s computer screen.

“What,” was all Jon managed as Julian gleefully pointed out all the very valuable objects laid out around the now-significantly-less-empty dining room.

A hush fell over the gathered people.

“Archivist!” Jason called from where he was marking spots off on a map with a sharpie. There was a table, now. A big, nice looking table. “Welcome to Money Laundering One-oh-One!”

The silence was broken, and the gathered people shouted greetings of their own. Daisy had followed down the stairs after him, and let out an appreciative whistle as she stopped alongside him. “They’ve been busy, huh?”

“Seems like it.”

“Julian! Here, check this, please.” Darcy was holding up a necklace— a simple silvery chain, with a dark coin-shaped charm hanging from it. 

Jon put his hands out in front of him, trying to maintain some space as a half-dozen gang members crowded around the two of them, giving the Archivist grins and grateful pats to his shoulders and back. After a moment, though, he dropped his hands— these people didn’t mean him harm. He let the camaraderie wash over him, for all that it set him on edge; tried to give small smiles and nods back, and carefully made his way to the large table in the centre of the room, where someone offered a chair each for him and Daisy. 

Across the room, Julian took the necklace from Darcy and licked it, carefully— and then he gagged dramatically, screwing his eyes shut and shoving it back into the other’s hands. “Oh, that’s got electrum in it,” he coughed. Darcy looked alarmed. 

Jason dropped his sharpie and spun to face them, swearing loudly. “You’re sure?”

“Uh, ‘s not pure, but yeah,” Julian shook his head quickly, like he was trying to disperse excess energy or shake water out of his hair. “Shit, that’s intense.”

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. “Put it with the—“ 

“Got it, Boss,” Darcy set the necklace in one of those fancy jewelry cases, with the velvety lining, and— holding the box very carefully— put it on another smaller table to the side where a few odd objects were already sitting; mostly weapons, it looked like, some daggers with ornate handles, but also a few sets of metal bracelets that glowed green and what looked like… a pair of prescription glasses? 

Jason huffed and turned to face the table. “Alright!” He clapped his hands together; “Let’s get started!”

Jon and Daisy spent the next couple hours just trying to keep up as Jason laid out what was to be done with such a vast quantity of money. It turned out that you couldn’t just… take it to a bank and deposit it. No, you had to make the money look legitimate, and the process for it grew more and more complex the more money you were dealing with. 

By the end of it, the money and valuables had been split up between different teams of people, all tasked with doing something different with it. The other aspect to the meeting was more interesting— they hadn’t just gone thieving, the previous night. They’d also taken a few first steps towards what looked like dismantling Black Mask’s entire operation.

Daisy obviously had a better time understanding what was going on; which Jon supposed made sense, what with her police background and all. It was with this in mind that Jon leaned over to her and asked, quietly, “do you know what they intend to do with Mask himself? I’m, ah, having trouble following.”

“Kill him, I think. See, there on the map?” She nodded toward the map in question, spread out on the table, Jason and Darcy bickering about something while Julian and Sage and a few others who Jon didn’t recognize watched on. “They’re trying to sort out how best to set things up so that when he’s gone, everything doesn’t go straight to hell.” She leaned back in her seat. “That, and deciding how much of his territory is going to become their territory. That’s what they’re arguing about.”

“We need those docks, Darcy!” Jason was saying, pointing at a highlighted section in the map.

“They’re clear across Uptown, we don’t have that kind of reach—“

“We will once our cash is clean!” Jason insisted, “we’ll have loads more to work with, then.”

“That could be weeks, do you even hear yourself?”

Jon tuned them out, taking a bite of one of the granola bars someone had brought up midway through the meeting. “Why are we even here for this?”

Daisy shrugged. “You’re the Archivist, or whatever. You tell me.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Sometimes it feels like my problems just follow me wherever I go,” he lamented, “all I want is some peace and quiet…”

Camryn snorted from behind her laptop, across the table. “We’re fresh out of ‘peace and quiet,’ sorry.” 

Jon slumped forward. “You’ve just spent this whole time doing…  whatever it is you do on that computer.”

“Oh, excuse me, I’m only coordinating the largest money laundering scheme in Gotham’s history to try and hide the fact that we stole millions of dollars from possibly the most dangerous man in the city.” 

“Right,” Jon conceded, “only… right. Sorry.”

The meeting dragged on until well into the afternoon, people coming and going in groups, Jason and Camryn and Darcy doling out tasks. Every once in a while, someone would ask Jon about his abilities and their limitations— was it possible to resist the compulsion? (“Yes, but I don’t think a regular human can.”) could he make someone tell him something in a memory that was repressed, magically or otherwise? (He didn’t know. He’d never tried.)

A lot of the questions they asked him, Jon didn’t know the answer to. He’d never… tested himself before. He didn’t know what the limitations were, aside from needing statements like he needed food. Trying to Know things about his own abilities just made him go cross-eyed and gave him a headache— he didn’t feel like pushing it. 

Eventually, though, almost everyone had trickled out, leaving only Jon, Daisy, Jason, Sage, and a young man standing guard where Sage had been the day before, only he was sat in a tall chair just behind the counter instead of on the counter. Other than that group, Camryn was the last to leave; packing up her computer and nodding in their direction as she got to her feet. “Heading out, following up with some contacts. I’ll text you if I find anything important.” 

Jason nodded. “Thanks, Camryn. Stay safe.”

“Course,” she gave him a casual, joking sort of salute on the way out the boarded-over door, and then it shut behind her and she was gone.

“Alright,” Jason clapped, walking around the table to grab the last remaining zip-lock bag full of bills, held together in bundles by elastic bands. He handed Jon and Daisy each one of these bundles, gesturing them to their feet with a glint in his eye. “Now, we are going on a few little errands. Sage?”

She was handed a stack of cash too. “Consider it a bonus,” Jason met her eyes, “Thanks for helping me out today.”

She tensed up, momentarily shocked, but regained her composure and easy fluidity quickly, nodding her thanks. “No problem, Red. Want me with you?”

He nodded. “Keep an eye out. Nonlethal force, though.”

“If Mask’s gunning for you…”

Jason shook his head. “If it's one of his, yeah, do what you need to. I’m not worried about that, though.”

“Ah,” she realized, nodding, “Batwatching?”

“Batwatching.”

“Can you lot stop talking in code?” Daisy asked, unimpressed. Jon nodded his agreement. 

“Yes, I would rather prefer to be kept informed, if there’s some danger…”

Jason barked out a laugh and leaned toward Jon over the table. “God, you are violently British, you know that?” he said gleefully, then pushed back off the table and spun on the ball of his foot, nearly bouncing toward the door. “Come on! We’re going shopping!”

Jon and Daisy exchanged a helpless look and then followed. 

—

Jason was waiting for them when they came out of the last in a long series of stores, and when they reached him, he took a peek into their shopping bags; looking over their choices, expression decidedly resigned. “I don’t know what I expected,” he admitted. “Jon, why do you have so many sweaters?”

Jon felt his face flush. “I like them!” 

He wasn’t able to admit out loud that they reminded him of Martin. Besides, sweater vests— properly fitted— were perfectly professional.

Daisy raised an eyebrow at his reaction. 

Jason sighed. “Right. Get in the car, we’ll head back so you guys can change, and then there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Jon took a moment to pull on one of the larger sweaters before he buckled his seatbelt. 

Daisy, to her credit, did not laugh at him.

—

Leslie Thompkins had heard of the Archivist. 

Of course she had; word spread like wildfire in Gotham, and she was in the thick of it. It was amazing what people would tell you while you were giving them stitches and bracing fractures— something like the hairdresser effect, she figured. Or they needed something to fill the silence and block out the pain. Either way, she’d had more than one patient the night before either complaining or boasting about what the Archivist had done. 

Lost her a lot of sleep, is what he’d done. 

“Archivist got us the location,” one man had enthused while Leslie patched up a long gash on his arm, gained climbing out of a broken window. “dunno where he’s been all our lives, but one moment I hear we caught someone powerful, and a couple hours later we’ve got orders to move! Just like that!”

“I heard he’s the best interrogator in Gotham!” a teenager, fourteen years old, who’d watched Hood’s men storm the docks at Aparo, seizing a whole ship and blowing up a warehouse for good measure. “The Archivist— he’s just so terrifying that you tell him anything!” the kid had nearly been hit by debris from the aforementioned exploding warehouse, and had sprained his ankle and earned some scrapes diving out of danger. 

“I don’t know what the hell they did to Nelson, ‘sides that he’s dead now.” that had been one of Black Mask’s men, come in to see her on the insistence of his sister, “heard it was a new guy. An Archivist— a pretentious bastard, I say.” He hadn’t divulged the exact cause of the gunshot wound to his thigh, barely missing his knee, but Leslie could hazard a guess.

It just went on and on. Sure, the clinic had gotten more popular in the last year, and especially the last few months— since Jason came back, took over Crime Alley, and promised to protect her, not that she needed it— but this? She hadn’t been this busy since the last Arkham breakout, and those usually came with some forewarning while the villain of the week schemed and prepared. All she had was a single ominous text from Jason barely two hours before all hell broke loose:

We got Evan Nelson. Gotham’s alive tonight. - RH

Quickly followed by:

Let me know if you need anything. I’ll keep this number till Thursday.

What she needed was more than a half-day’s notice that he was going to take down a key player in Gotham. But it was a little late for that. On top of the couple staff she already had on that night, she called in a nurse friend she kept in touch with as extra support; plus the three kids who she paid to help out sometimes— mostly with cleaning up, and as runners to bring medication and supplies to people who needed it— and that night, the kids put what they’d learned to the test: triaging, bandaging anything that didn’t need stitches, icing bruises and checking for concussions and and and…

The oldest of the kids had refused to go home when she sent the other two away, despite it being a school night. A great help, that girl; Leslie saw a lot of herself reflected in her. 

The sun was rising before Leslie managed to get to sleep, feeling like she was going to miss something incredibly important in doing so. Before she passed out, she texted Jason back:

Who the hell is the Archivist?

She awoke in the early afternoon to a response:

You wanna meet him? Promise he’s not what you’re expecting. - RH

Did she want to meet the man responsible for who-knows-how-many casualties last night? She envisioned him; a massive force of will, looming and terrifying; or maybe smaller, but cunning and precise, carving secrets out of whatever poor soul found themselves at his mercy. Did she want to meet someone like that?

He’s not what you’re expecting, Jason had said. What was she missing?

So she answered: Yes.

And so it was that she found herself opening the door to her clinic just after dark to one Jason Todd— in full Red Hood gear, one of his people trying (and failing) not to be obvious about playing guard-dog from across the street— along with two people who Leslie had never met before, wearing medical masks to hide the lower halves of their faces; one a man wearing a rich green sweater-vest over a simple white buttoned shirt, gray jacket slung over one arm; the other a woman who seemed to be wearing a red plaid shirt over top of dark athletic wear. Both of their clothes looked remarkably new.  

She ushered them in, and as soon as the door shut, Jason took the helmet off and gestured for his friends to do the same with their masks. 

“Hood,” Leslie started, “good to see you. And these are…?” 

She could assume, but when Jason smiled and introduced them, she knew. “Leslie, meet Jon the Archivist, and Daisy. Jon, Daisy, this is Leslie Thompkins.”

Jon waved awkwardly. “Ah, um. Hello,” and Daisy just nodded wordlessly.

Leslie raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t kidding when you said he wasn’t what I was expecting.” 

Jon blinked and made an aborted noise of affront. “What—? Jason!”

Jason shrugged, evidently with zero remorse. “It’s funny. I take it you had a busy night?”

Leslie nodded, drawing them further into the clinic. “Oh, more than a busy night. And more than one person told me it was all thanks to a man no-one has heard of until now, some master interrogator, so I’m sure you can forgive me if I was expecting someone more…”

“Intimidating?” Daisy offered; “tall? Capable of running for more than five minutes without wheezing?”

“That’s not fair!” Jon protested.

Leslie smiled at Daisy. “More difficult to fluster.”

Daisy snorted. “I like this one,” she told Jason.

Jason grinned. “Told you you would.”

Leslie turned her attention back to Jason. “How’d you come across these two, then?”

He gave her what she was sure was an abridged version of the story, but even that much of it was… difficult to believe. She wouldn’t have believed it, if it was anyone other than Jason; it really was just like him to pick up two lost unwitting dimension-hoppers from an alternate-universe England, and it really was just their luck that one of them would have abilities that threatened to destabilize Gotham’s entire criminal underground. 

Still. She needed to be sure.

“Might I have a demonstration of your powers?”

Jon glanced anxiously between Leslie and Jason, as though seeking permission. Jason just shrugged, and Jon regarded Leslie carefully. “It’s not… pleasant, being Compelled.”

“Does it create lasting harm?” 

“Not… usually.”

She levelled him with an unimpressed stare until he added: “it wouldn’t in this circumstance.”

“Then I’m alright with a little unpleasantness.” She sat down on the comfortable waiting room couch. “Show me.”

Jon swallowed. “Okay…” 

Then he looked her in the eye for the first time. Then his eyes lit up, and the pressure in the room seemed to double, and he Asked: “Leslie, what is one secret you have never told anyone?”

His voice was like a wave crashing over her, drowning out her thoughts, and as the tide withdrew it pulled with it words— from her lips, from her lungs: 

“Bruce Wayne is Batman,” she said, simply.

Then she regained control of herself and gasped, speechless, an unnatural fear making her head spin as she sagged backward into the couch. Oh. Oh, that is… not good. Not good.

“Jon!” Daisy scolded, “really? Going right for the secrets?!”

He looked alarmed, himself “I don’t— I didn’t expect— usually people say they, ah, write poetry or hate their mother’s cooking or something!”

Jason, after his own moment of shock, burst out laughing, and everyone stopped to stare at him.

He tried to control himself long enough to explain, and past the last few giggles managed: “ah… oh, this is just great is all,” another short laugh, “the Bats already think you know their secrets, might as well make it true.” 

Leslie noticed she was shaking, a bit, realizing what she’d done. What she’d allowed to happen. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Jason waved her off. “Only a matter of time, really. Not your fault.” 

“What now?” She straightened, tried to shake off the lingering fear, and looked around the room. “If this gets out…”

“It won’t,” Jon interrupted. “I mean— I guess Jason and Daisy know, too—“

Jason scoffed. “I already knew. Obviously.”

“What?” 

“I told you I was Robin. Bruce was my dad.”

“Is your dad,” Leslie muttered under her breath. She was pretty sure Jason heard, but he pretended he didn’t. 

“Ah, right, that… makes sense. Do you know the— um, I mean…”

The static that had started to rise during the first half of his aborted question faded quickly when the Archivist trailed off, and he rephrased, instead stating plainly: “some other vigilantes in the area are also associated with Batman.”

Jason nodded. “They’re his fuckin’ kids, is why. Dick was Robin first, now he’s Nightwing; I was Robin, now I’m… me. And now…” he shut his eyes and grit his teeth. “Now there’s Tim Drake.”

The venom with which he spat the name made Leslie frown. She hadn’t talked about that particular subject with the boy. It seemed far too raw of a wound, and Jason was far too closed off. It was a miracle he talked to her at all. But, then, she’d always cultivated neutral ground. 

Jon frowned, too, and then something seemed to occur to him and his eyes went wide.  

“You wouldn’t happen to know, uh, someone named… Alfred, I think it was?”

Jason and Leslie both startled, badly. “What?” Jason started, “how—?”

“I take that as a yes.” Jon grimaced. “I don’t know what kind of… what this is, but.” He stopped, thought about his words carefully. “Bruce Wayne? Does Alfred, uh, live in his house?”

“Yes, he’s the butler,” Jason said, rushed, irritated. “How do you know that?”

Jon fiddled with his sleeves, took a deep breath. “When we first got here,” he explained, “before we realized what had happened, I called three numbers.”

Jason swore. Jon kept talking. “The— trying to call the Magnus Institute connected me to, uh, Wayne residence. Alfred picked up.”

Jason swore louder. “And then there was Dick, right?”

Jon nodded. “I tried to call a friend of ours, Richard Grayson answered. I hung up without saying anything. The third call…”

“Tim,” Daisy finished for him, “that explains some things.”

Leslie felt like she was still missing some pieces, but even for her, a picture was forming: far too many coincidences to be coincidence at all. 

Daisy’s face had set into hard lines. “Only question I’ve got, then,” she growled, “is who’s pulling the strings?”

Leslie felt the couch dip as Jon sat down next to her and put his head in his hands. 

A long moment of silence stretched into the empty-save-for-them waiting room. And then the door chimed; a young girl poked her head in. “Dr. Thompkins?”

Oh, such a sweet girl, coming in to help again. Leslie had told her to take the next night off. “Amanda, what are you doing here?”

“I…” she shifted into the room and shut the door behind her. “The heating in my unit broke again. I was hoping I could…”

Leslie softened immediately. “Of course.”

Jason picked his helmet up from the table he’d set it on. “We should go,” he said.

Amanda gasped and beamed at him. “Oh, Mr. Red Hood!” Leslie watched fondly as she bounced over to him, eyes wide. “Did you really save all those kids in Tricorner last night?! Bella said it was you, but she didn’t know for sure, and, and if it is true I just wanted to say thank you, and—!”

“Yeah, kid,” Jason smiled down at her, “that was me. Had some help, though. Someone told me where to look.”

Amanda bounced backward and gasped again. “Leslie! Leslie is he talking about the Archivist? Mr. Red Hood, do you know the Archivist? Did he help you save everyone?”

Jason’s smile never wavered as he looked over at Jon, eyebrows raised. “He did. And he’s right there, actually.”

Amanda’s exuberance softened into a sort of hopeful timidness. “O-oh, hello, Mr. Archivist. I heard you really hate Black Mask, and you told those guys to blow up the warehouse by Aparo Park.”

Jon blinked. “Uh. I did?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “That’s not exactly how it went, but he got us all the information we needed to win, yeah?”

Amanda nodded, rocking on the balls of her feet. “Thank you!” She said, smiling at Jon where he sat in shock. She seemed to pick up on it, because she stilled and said again, a little more shy, incredibly sincere; “You helped save my friend. Thank you.”

And then she was gone, giving Jason a quick hug around the knees, running off into the back rooms of the clinic before he could return it. 

“Well,” Leslie said, smiling at her guests, “that would be my cue to get started here. Good luck, Jason, Jon; and Daisy, you stop by anytime.” 

Daisy grinned at her. “Will do.”

And then Jason put on his helmet, and the other two their face masks, and they left; and Leslie’s night at the clinic began again.

—

Chapter Text

—

If something seemed too good to be true, Jon had learned that it most likely was. So it didn’t really come as a surprise when he found himself once again cast in the role of Watcher in the dreams of another, surveying a familiar scene and a familiar face. Daisy stared back at him through the rain, her face going through a complex series of emotions before landing on resignation.

In Breekon and Hope’s van, the Coffin sang, and it was all Jon could hear as he watched Daisy hit one of the delivery men, watched her be held back, as he watched Daisy watch the other officer descend into that coffin, and then—

The dream broke from reality as Daisy was thrown inside, too. And like a puppet on a string, Jon was pulled after her.

The lid shut behind them with a terrible finality, leaving Jon in darkness as he felt his heart pound and he turned around, trying to push on the lid— no no no, please, no— and he felt himself being pulled down and away into the squeezing earth, singing all around him and mud and Daisy, where was Daisy?

His hand found hers, and he could not see, but still he Knew that she was thin and gaunt, muscles atrophied from months in this place, months kept away from the Hunt, and he was shocked to realize how much she had improved over just the last few days; to go from hardly being able to stand to having the strength and agility to pin down a trained fighter like Robin, even if he was a teenager. 

She could not speak except in desperate gasps, seemingly without the ability to control them; she cried out for Basira, for anyone, for a mercy that did not come— Jon, as always, was silent, detached from the pain, even though he had been through these same horrors alongside her, and some part of him kicked and screamed because it was not fair.

But when Jon squeezed her hand, Daisy squeezed back. 

—

Daisy shot up straight in bed, reaching beneath her pillow for her gun and finding her hand closing instead around the handle of a knife— for a moment, she didn’t remember where she’d gotten it, or where she was, and then it all came rushing back. The coffin. Jon. Gotham, and the nightmares, and a desperate hand in hers.

She pushed herself to her feet and padded out of the converted office that was to be her bedroom, now furnished with a simple metal bed frame, a wooden dresser, and a desk. She and Jon had also each gotten a new laptop and a phone, plus pretty much anything else they needed, but what Daisy appreciated the most about the new place was the number of locked doors between them and the outside. 

To her right, the hallway ended with a newly installed, very heavy door. Beyond it were the stairs descending into the old diner. To her left, the hallway led into hers and Jon’s living room-slash-kitchen, which connected to his bedroom and a bathroom. By the time Daisy made it to the main room, Jon was already stumbling out into it himself, hair a tangled mess around his shoulders and eyes a little bit distant.

They spotted each other, and both started speaking at the same time. 

“Daisy, I’m so sorry—“

“We should learn Morse code.”

Jon blinked some of the bleariness out of his eyes. “What?”

“Morse code,” Daisy repeated, “you did squeeze my hand in there, right? I wasn’t imagining that?”

Jon nodded. “Uh, yeah, I did, and you squeezed back?”

“Right, so you can’t talk to me, and you can’t really move, but apparently you can control that much at least. So… Morse code.”

Jon moved to their new— and very nice— kitchen table, sitting on one of the set of matching chairs, trying to run his fingers through his hair only to discover just how hopelessly tangled it was. “Why? We can just talk when we wake up— that is, if you want to talk to me afterwards. I would completely understand if you don’t, ah, don’t want to see me at all, after that—“

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Daisy snapped, “you never know what might happen. If we’ve got to have these fucked-up shared night horrors we might as well get something useful out of it.” She paused, then admitted: “it might also be… comforting, to have some way to communicate during.”

“Oh,” Jon said, as though the concept of him being able to offer comfort to anyone under any circumstance was foreign to him, the prick. 

Daisy rolled her eyes. “And stop that with your fingers— you have a perfectly good, brand-new comb.”

Jon sighed and got up to go fetch that comb from his room, walking back out while yanking it through the mess.

“What are you doing?” Daisy huffed and stalked over to him, snatching the comb from his hand. “Do you even know how to brush your hair?”

Jon looked stunned. “I, ah, yes?”

Daisy pointed at it. “Your hair is curly. You don’t brush curly hair dry.”

 “Oh, I just, um…”

Daisy rolled her eyes. “Come on.”

She went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, looking over Jon’s choices for hair products while they waited for the water to heat up.

“At least you got a decent conditioner,” she decided, “it’ll work. Sit here,” she gestured to the edge of the bathtub, and he sat.

She fetched a towel and threw it at him. “Put this over your shoulders.”

He did, and she made sure all his hair was on the outside of the towel before having him lean back as far as he could and angling the showerhead so that it would spray onto his hair but not out into the room at large. 

“Did you wash it last night?”

“Yes, I did,” Jon said, “and I used conditioner, I don’t know what all this fuss is about…”

“Shut up. Trust me.”

She turned the shower off and grabbed his conditioner, having him sit at an angle so she could work it through his hair as best she could with how much of it was so badly tangled. She was pretty sure he had gone to bed with it wet. 

Then, she turned the shower back on and rinsed out the excess, and led him back out to sit at the kitchen table. 

“Stay here a second,” she said, and then added “do not dry your hair with that towel!” When he reached to do just that.

She returned momentarily with an extra t-shirt, and as she stood behind his chair, drying and then carefully combing his hair, Jon sighed and asked: “how do you know how to do this, anyway?”

“Basira taught me,” Daisy said, far too fondly. “My hair’s pretty well as straight as can be, and it turns out the methods for curly hair are different.”

“Right,” Jon said, “this is the first time my hair’s been this long, I’ve never had to worry about it before.”

“Well, hey, I think it suits you. When it’s not a tangled disaster, anyway.”

“Thanks,” Jon said wryly. “I'll just have to avoid sleeping to ensure I don’t ruin all your hard work.” 

“Just get it a little damp and comb through it like this, bottom to top, see?”

Jon let Daisy sort out his hair, and when she was done, he rifled through the kitchen, turned on the kettle and found the tea. He apologized, saying that it wasn’t nearly as good as when Martin made it; but sitting around their small table in the silence of the early-morning, Jon’s hair drying in near-perfect, loose coils on his shoulders, it was all they needed. They watched the sun start to rise through their little kitchen window, and for once, for just a short time, it felt like everything was going to be okay.

—

“Alright, Morse code. Do you know any of it? I learned some years ago, but I only really remember numbers and how to say SOS,” Daisy sat down at the table, opening her laptop and pulling up Google.

“I, ah, no, I’ve never learned any… oh.” Jon winced. “Ah. Ow. Okay.”

Daisy frowned. “You alright?”

Jon nodded, massaging his temples. “I’m fine. I know Morse code now.”

Daisy froze. God damnit. “Are you joking?!”

Jon shook his head. “Beholding has decided to be useful for once, I suppose.”

Daisy groaned in frustration. “Not everybody can cheat with spooky eye powers, Jon!”

“I can’t control it!” He retorted. “Besides, now you just have to learn it, and I can help. Plus, I should still practice.”

Daisy huffed. “Fine, whatever— let’s practice, then.”

—

They spent most of the day on their laptops, researching everything they could about Gotham and about this world as a whole. It turned out that Bruce Wayne— the man they now knew was Batman— was incredibly rich, and the CEO of some huge multinational conglomerate called Wayne Enterprises. He’d taken in two children— one Dick Grayson, who had been his ward until he moved out at 17, and the second Jason Todd-Wayne, who had tragically died about three years previous. 

Jon did the math in his head— that meant Jason was only nineteen. Jesus. 

There wasn’t any information about Bruce adopting Tim, online, which was strange— but maybe he just hadn’t been officially taken in yet. That would make sense, what with them also being vigilantes and all. 

They also started looking into the technology and magic of this world, searching for any information about other dimensions and travel between them— with little success. Jon supposed that just wasn’t the sort of thing that was easy to find online, no matter how much he tried to Know. By noon, Jon’s head was starting to hurt, and every time he asked a question he felt the beginnings of a compulsion buzzing against his teeth. It seemed he had to try, though, if he wanted to compel Daisy; so at least he only had to watch it around other people. 

At around three in the afternoon, there was a knock on their door.

Jon opened it, and found Jason himself waiting on the other side. “Ah, hello. Did you—? Hm,” he cut himself off with a wince, tried again. “You need something,” he said, plainly. 

“Nah, just wanted to check in, make sure everything’s alright.” Jason grinned. “What are you guys up to?”

“Is that Hood?” Daisy shouted from the main room, “tell him to get in here!”

Jason and Jon exchanged mildly alarmed glances before hurrying back to the table, Daisy spinning her laptop around dramatically. “Jason. Care to explain?”

The computer was open to a blog site, apparently called Tumblr, to a blog boldly titled Local Fangirl Thirsty For Man in Helmet.

The post on the screen was a compilation of pictures of Jason, as the Red Hood, fighting hand-to-hand or with his pistols or, in one picture, a sword— and in other pictures, not fighting at all, with several of him crouched down to comfort small children, handing bags to harried-looking civilians, or running over rooftops. In the second-to-last picture, he stood leaning against a brick wall, arms crossed, and the very last one was apparently taken directly afterwards; exactly the same, except the man had spotted the camera and was casually flipping it off.

There was a block of text beneath the pictures. Daisy started reading it out, voice completely deadpan. 

“Redhood-wife555 says: I love this man so much. He could literally kill me and I would thank him, I want him to marry me, why can’t all men be like him. His clothes can barely contain his shoulders, oh my god, look at this man—”

Jason reached out and shut Daisy’s laptop. “That’s enough of that.” he rolled his eyes. His face was bright red. “Was there anything else, or did you just want to humiliate me?”

“There was actually something,” Jon said, “we want to start looking for a way back to our world, but we can’t really find anything on, ah, dimension travel online…”

Jason was shaking his head. “Yeah, you won’t find anything reliable on there. We can try the library— but if Gotham Public doesn’t have anything, we’ll have to get creative.”

“Creative?” Daisy reopened her laptop and clicked the ‘Follow’ button on Redhood-Wife555.

If Jason noticed what she was doing on the laptop, he ignored it. “I can call in some favours, ask some contacts. Or we could break into WayneTech’s research laboratories, that’s always fun.”

“WayneTech laboratories,” Jon didn’t-ask, “you think they research dimension travel.”

Jason shrugged. “Worth a shot. They do all sorts of stuff.”

“A library sounds great,” Daisy said, “where is it?” 

Jason sat down in one of their chairs. “You’ll want the main branch. It’s in Old Gotham, Diamond District.”

“That’s all the way across town,” Jon noted. 

“If you want, I can take you guys tomorrow,” Jason offered; “make a day out of it. I’ve got stuff to do today— actually,” he paused, “I might need your help with something, Jon.”

“What kind of—? ah, I mean. Like the day before yesterday…” Jon prompted, keeping the question out of his voice. 

Jason shook his head. “Nothing like that, I hope. I was thinking we could use your ‘compulsion’ to check all the people who we let in here, make sure we don’t have a mole— I’ve gotten a lot of new faces, the last couple days.”

Jon nodded. That seemed sensible.

“Do we really want to advertise Jon’s abilities like that?” Daisy wondered; “is it safe?”

Jason winced. “That ship’s sailed. Word got out that the Archivist gave us what we needed to take down Mask. It’s better, now, to know who we can trust and for those people to know you.”

Jon nodded. “That sounds fair enough. When are you thinking…?”

Jason grinned. “Tonight, around seven o’clock. I’m ordering everyone pizza.”

—

The questions were incredibly repetitive, but Jon understood the necessity.

“Do you have any intention of betraying the Red Hood’s trust in any way?”

If the answer was no— which it almost always was— then the individual would be allowed to pass behind the counter of the diner and into the kitchen, where pizza in large takeout boxes, paper plates, and napkins were spread out across the prep counters. If the answer was yes, then Jon would ask them a series of more specific questions, and out of the six people for whom that was necessary, five of them were just skimming or planning to skim some money off the top of whatever operation they were a part of. Three of them broke down crying, and Daisy— who stood by Jon’s side the entire time— would call over Jason or Darcy or Camryn to talk to them and sort it out. 

There was one person, though…

“Do you have any intention of betraying the Red Hood’s trust in any way?”

“Yes, I do.”

There was one person who tried to run.

Daisy was on him in a flash, pinning him against a wall and wrenching his arms behind his back, spinning him around with a gun shoved into the underside of his jaw, hissing something in his ear that made the man go pale. 

Jon stalked towards him, vaguely aware of Sage behind him typing something into her phone.

“In what way have you betrayed the Red Hood’s trust?”

 The man went still in Daisy’s hold. “I have a bomb,” he said, “I’m going to put it somewhere discreet, take whatever looks important, and leave before it goes off.”

Jon and Daisy’s faces shifted into twin expressions of shock. Somewhere behind him, there were footsteps, and the Red Hood swore.

“Who do you work for?” Jon demanded.

“Black Mask,” the man said, and then looked desperately between the people quickly coming to surround him.

“Where’s the bomb?” Jon asked.

“In my backpack,” the man answered.

Hood moved around in front of Jon, beside Daisy, and cut the backpack from the man’s shoulders, which slumped in defeat. 

“Bring him downstairs,” he barked. But as Daisy handed the man off to Sage and someone else whose name Jon didn’t know, the man abruptly snarled and said “you will never win,” and then there was the faintest sound of something cracking as he bit down.

“Shit,” Hood swore, “damnit!”

The man was thrown to the floor, but it was too late. He collapsed, then started convulsing, and— and Daisy pulled Jon away, but it didn’t stop him from Knowing when the man finally died, just forty-three seconds later.

Jon didn’t really want any pizza, after that.

— 

A tape recorder appeared on the kitchen table.

“Hey, Jon, I, uh… hope you’re doing alright.”

Jon dropped his fork. Across the table, Daisy did the same. The late-night pasta could wait. Martin could not.

“Um. I’ve been trying to find out if Peter knows anything about where you are. He keeps just— just telling me not to worry about it, to leave it to the others, that our mission is more important and I can’t be distracted but—“

Jon shoved his plate to the side, and did not say a word.

“—I only agreed to work for him in the first place because you were gone, and I was alone, and, and I’ve only stuck with it to protect you. And the others, of course. This mission— it’s my burden to carry, and it has to be alone, and I know that but I can’t just leave you to rot wherever you are if I can do something about it!”

He stopped for a moment, breathing heavily. “They’ve taken the Coffin to Artefact storage. I don’t know how they’re keeping it, or, or if you’ll be able to get it open from the inside anymore… god.

Well, I, I kept your rib, I pretty much keep it with me all the time now. Don’t— hah— don’t tell Peter!”

A stretch of awkward silence. A sigh.

“I just, I really don’t think Peter would like it, if he knew I was talking to you like this. But I haven’t gotten any answers from you, and I don’t know how I’d even get an answer— would another tape appear? A written statement, maybe? I don’t know. I don’t know if you’re even getting these, so if anything it makes me feel more lonely. Maybe Peter wouldn’t mind.

But, um, still. I’ve decided to come into the tunnels to do it, just in case Elias is watching— I, uh, I found an entrance a couple blocks away from the institute, so nobody sees me going in. I don’t really want anyone else to know, this is… they would think it’s stupid. And dangerous. It probably is, isn’t it?

… I don’t know if I really care. What does it matter, if Elias can hear these? He’s in prison. He can’t do anything.” 

Jon started shaking his head— that was a dangerous way to think— but Martin made a frustrated sound and said “No, I can’t assume that. I can’t underestimate him. Elias is always planning something, I can’t forget that.”

A sigh. “I really hope you’re okay, Jon. Please, if you can, just… anything. Let me know you’re there.”

The tape clicked off, and Jon put his head in his hands, fighting back the shaking that threatened to overtake him. 

“Jon?” Daisy asked, “are you… alright?”

Jon let out a deep, long breath. “I will be,” he said.

Daisy nodded. “We should answer.”

She was right, of course. But it was still a long moment before Jon felt ready. Eventually, he picked up the tape recorder. Rewound it. Listened again. It didn’t help, hearing it a second time, for all that Martin’s voice was a comfort.

He looked to Daisy. “What should we say?”

She shrugged. “Give him an update, I guess. Let him know what’s happened since the last one.”

“Right, okay,” Jon agreed, and clicked record.

“Hi, Martin, uh. It’s Jon.”

“And Daisy,” she added from across the table.

“Yes, and Daisy. Uh, it’s… Tuesday, April the third. I hope the dates match up, over here. I’m not sure.”

He swallowed. “Since your last message, the, the group we joined—“

“You can say the word, Jon. It’s a gang.”

“Yes, right, the gang we joined by accident has started to dismantle a, um, a rival gang, I suppose, using information that I got for them using the… the powers granted to me by Beholding. We… went shopping, and we have a furnished apartment now, and we’ve got tea, and… I’ve witnessed two people die, since arriving here.”

Daisy sighed. “Not good people, though.”

“No, not good people, but I’m… not sure that anybody deserves to experience what I can do.” 

“You didn’t kill them, though.”

“No,” Jon agreed. “No. I didn’t.”

There was a long silence, then Jon picked back up.

“We met an older lady named Leslie Thompkins, she runs a health clinic, and she knows Jason— ah, Jason’s the one who took us in, he’s the leader of the gang, and he has a ridiculously complicated relationship with his family…”

Jon went on like that for several minutes, briefly explaining what had happened and what they had learned over the last couple days, with additions from Daisy wherever she felt they were appropriate. By the time he shut the tape off, their pasta was cold, and Jon was exhausted. There was a bit of a contradiction, in the way it warmed something in him to know that Martin, at least, still cared; and yet he felt so empty with the knowledge that he hadn’t received their last message, and Jon had no guarantee this one would be any different.

Still. For as long as Martin kept sending these tapes, Jon would keep replying in kind. 

Daisy met his eyes, and he was sure that she understood.

—

Jon said goodnight to Daisy, went into his room, sat down at the desk, and stared at the black screen of his laptop. 

He didn’t want to sleep.

Well, okay, he did want to sleep, but he didn’t want to dream— Daisy needed the rest more than he did, anyway. He could stay up. Maybe just for a little while. 

The computer occupied him for a couple of hours, but then he started getting a headache again, so he turned it off and went to get some tea— only, he went into the kitchen and realized they were out of milk.

That was how Jon found himself heading downstairs, a box of tea in one hand and a new copy of the book 1984— purchased on Jason’s insistence— in the other, somewhere around one in the morning. Somebody he recognized from the disastrous pizza party was standing guard behind the counter; they offered him a small nod as Jon scurried past and into the kitchen and finally, down the stairs into the basement. 

The break room was empty when he got there. He put the kettle on and chose a mug, setting the tea bag in place and getting out what he’d need while he waited for the water to boil. Then he settled at the table with his tea and the book, and started to read.

The tea calmed him, and the book gave him something to focus on, and the occasional sounds of someone moving around upstairs reminded him that he wasn’t alone. In a way, it was similar to all of those months spent in the Archives, a place down below something greater, separate yet a part of it. It was almost comforting. 

Jon was just making some more tea when the door at the top of the stairs slammed open, and a set of heavy boots thumped down into the hall. A moment later, Jason shoved the curtain aside and came into the room, his gaze landing on Jon with a half-formed snarl on his lips. 

“Uh. Hi,” Jon offered. Jason’s eyes were glowing a faint poison green. “Is…? uh, you’re upset,” Jon didn’t-ask.

“Im fine,” Jason grit out, thunking his helmet down on the table and throwing himself on the small couch. “Just fine.”

Jon doubted that. “Would you like…?” Hm. No. “I made tea, if you would like some.”

Jason stared at him, expression impossible to decipher, then slowly nodded. “Yeah, sure, why not.”

The water was already boiling, so Jon got out another mug and set a tea bag in it.

“Um. We have milk, and sugar, and cream…”

Soon enough, Jon and Jason were sat opposite each-other at the table, each with a mug of tea in front of them, and Jason’s eyes had settled back into their regular blue. 

Jason took a sip. “This isn’t half bad,” he said, and Jon took a sip of his own before answering.

“I’ve been… practicing. My… my friend, Martin, he makes it much better, but…”

“But he’s not here,” Jason supplied.

Jon nodded.

“My grandfather makes the best tea I’ve ever had.” Jason swished his cup around. “I think you’d like him, actually. He’s also very… British.”

Jon huffed. “Being British does not automatically mean we would get on,” he argued, but he found himself smiling a little bit into his tea.

“What are you doing up, anyway?” Jason asked.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Jon lied.

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. Right...”

“And, um, looks like you were out, and all…” Jon gestured to his own eyes. “Angry. I would like to know why, if you’re alright sharing...”

Jason sighed. “It’s just hard, out there. The damn Bat keeps sticking his nose into everything, Nightwing’s still in town, and Mask is— well. Robbing the man blind was one thing, but Black Mask is… persistent. He’s been causing problems.”

“Ah,” Jon winced. “What, um, what kind…?” 

Jason slumped backwards. “People go missing,” he said, “and we don’t always find them in time. Or his men just turn up and start shooting. City’s gotten even more dangerous than usual.”

Jon’s face must have conveyed his sincere displeasure, because he didn’t need to say anything for Jason to reassure him.

“It won’t stay that way. Once we kill Mask, his men’ll scatter— we’ve just got to find the bastard. Until then, though, he’s using everything he’s got left to make my life as difficult as possible.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help…”

Jason nodded. “I’ll be sure to let you know. Honestly, the tea’s pretty helpful. Maybe I’ll get some more to keep down here. Different kinds.”

“Good idea,” Jon agreed. He felt warm at Jason’s words; at the knowledge that with something as simple as making tea, he could help. 

He thought, maybe, he understood Martin just a little bit better. 

—

Chapter Text

— 

Gotham Public Library, as it turned out, was absolutely massive. Following Jason— who Jon was pretty sure still had a layer of body armour underneath his civilian clothes— out of the car, Jon and Daisy were met with an imposing exterior of carved stone; pillars and statues and several phrases in Latin that Jon found he recognized, though he wasn’t sure if it was thanks to his own time in academia or the input of the Eye. He read those that he could make out as they approached, and while some were certainly famous— Scientia potentia est; Knowledge is power— others had origins he couldn’t pinpoint. Legere est vivere; to read is to live. Amplecti amorem discendi; embrace the love of learning.

Aspicio et fio. I watch and I become. 

The inside was even more impressive; as they passed through the slightly oversized, heavy wooden doors, the sounds and traffic of a busy city gave way to the indistinct bustling sounds of many overlapping mostly-quiet conversations, and a wide space opened before them— all illuminated by the tinted windows behind them, stretching up to the ceiling some fifty feet above. The first two rooms seemed at first to form a sort of large L shape; the area they entered into being large and square, with a mosaic in the image of a massive compass on the floor. Two large hanging signs designated the long desk directly ahead of them as Help and Checkout, with four people including a small child waiting in line; that desk continued following the wall and turned to the right, where there was a sign labeled Returns. The patterns in the floor created a natural path to the left, through a huge open doorway leading deeper into the building, where rows and rows of unreasonably tall shelves lined the longer rectangular portion of the room, separated by evenly spaced wooden tables, most of which were occupied by people reading or working quietly in notebooks and on laptops.

On the left side of that room, just visible from the entrance to the building, a large wooden staircase curled up toward a balcony that lined the edges of the room, high above; with a sort of bridge that arched across the middle of it and cut the open air in half, another staircase splitting from it and ascending toward the back, supported from above. As Jason led the group confidently towards the lower stairs, more of the room came into view, and Jon realized that it was actually even larger than it had first appeared; maze-like rows of bookshelves disappearing off to their right, towards the centre of the building. 

Jon found himself lingering, falling a few paces behind the others as he took it all in. Every vertical space that was not a window or a door was filled with books; every surface was clean, every carved figure in all the wooden trim shined, not a single indoor light flickered or had gone out. The temperature and humidity control were simply remarkable, too, it was noticeably less humid inside than out— impressive, really, especially considering Gotham’s, well… everything.

Jon wanted to explore. He wanted to make his way into those rows of neatly organized shelves, find a few books he’d never read before and a good out-of-the-way corner to curl up in for a few hours, and let go of the tension he could already feel slipping from his shoulders. He wondered if they had private study rooms that he could book. 

He wondered what their archives looked like.

He took a deep breath, savouring the feeling of being at home for just a moment, and then scurried toward the stairs after Daisy. 

Jason led them up onto the balcony, then across the bridge and through a set of wide doors into another section of the library. The sounds of the bustling public seemed to vanish entirely as those doors shut; it was almost entirely silent on the other side, save the sound of a keyboard tapping and the occasional, subtle scratch of pencil on paper somewhere beyond the tightly packed shelves that they found themselves navigating. 

“This area has the more technical, Gotham-specific stuff,” Jason explained, voice low. “Historical documents are over there,” he pointed ahead of them, “old newspapers, genealogies, encyclopedias, the works.” He touched one of the shelves on their left: “Details about Gotham-based technological innovations here. Old criminal reports and statistics are over there,” he pointed down one of the aisles, toward where the other sounds were coming from; Jon glimpsed the edge of a table and a couple of comfortable looking chairs beyond. 

“None of that sounds like what we’re looking for,” Daisy pointed out. 

Jason nodded. “This way, come on.”

They turned off to the right, where they were met with another door— this one locked, a plaque in the centre reading Sp. Collections C and a bold, unyielding RESTRICTED . But Jason just input a code into a little number pad next to the door, and the lock disengaged with a quiet click— no fanfare at all— and they were in.

Jason spun to face them, walking backwards into the room with his arms raised slightly in emphasis. “This room is known as Special Collections C, and it houses all the details on everything magic and arcane to have touched Gotham City.” 

“Why is the room restricted?” Daisy asked, stepping cautiously inside, Jon following a half-step behind her. 

Jason dropped his arms, seemingly disappointed in the duo ignoring his theatrics. “It’s restricted because a lot of the information in here is dangerous. Like, did you know the cave system under Gotham just… shifts, sometimes?”

Jon froze. “It… shifts,” he repeated. The caves move. The caves move. The caves—

Jason had turned around again, setting out into the rows of bookshelves, so he didn’t see the way Jon and Daisy both looked suddenly uneasy. He nodded. “Yeah, and, like— there’s a weirdly high number of cults here, stuff like that. Also a lot of earthquakes, those certainly aren’t all natural, and there’s the god trapped beneath our feet… y’know.”

“We most certainly do not know!” Jon countered, a little bit too loudly. Jason paused where he was thumbing along the books to shoot him a glare. Daisy fell back to shut the door, and then they trailed after Jason further into the room.

“Anyway, point is, Batman can wax poetic about keeping metahumans and magic out of Gotham all he wants— it won’t change the fact this city was built on crazy supernatural bullshit. And Gotham’s meta population is higher than average, actually, they’re just really good at keeping quiet.” 

Jon nodded along, a part of him still stuck on the caves shift sometimes, while Daisy picked a book seemingly at random and tipped it forward halfway off the shelf. “What are we looking for, then?”

Jason waved a hand in the air, running his finger along the spines of the old books. “Records of weird events, I guess. Anything that might help us figure out how you two got here, so we can start working at sending you back.”

Jon tried to sink back into that feeling he had before— his love of the library, of research. This room was by no means small— a high roof, towering bookshelves, Gotham’s cloud-muted afternoon light filtering in through tall windows from two sides. “There isn’t really anywhere to sit in here,” he noted.

Jason frowned around the room, peeking behind bookcases as if a lounge would magically appear for them. It didn’t, but he did find a small cart with a sort of wooden basket on it, already with a single book inside. “We can set up at the tables by the crime stats. If you ask me, those are the best chairs in the building.”

“Alright,” Daisy looked around. “Where should we start?”

—

They ended up with a cart full of books; mostly solid, heavy things, but a couple of smaller ones too, including the diary of a man who fancied himself an explorer some two hundred years previous. They had grabbed the diary because a different and much larger book listed it as a reference. 

The larger book in question seemed, after a quick rifle through it, the closest thing they could find to a proper record of the Gotham cave system. Rather than provide a single coherent account or map, it instead attempted to list all of the individuals who had come into contact with the caves and what they had experienced, cross-referencing them with each other based on what they discovered rather than where it had been, because apparently the same feature would be found in different places at different times. Jon did not like this. Such a book should not exist— he checked the inside cover three times for some indication that it originated in the Library of Jurgen Leitner, but there was none. The books in that room all seemed perfectly mundane. Still, it made him uneasy. 

They also found several books on Gotham’s many cults and the entities they worshipped and occasionally attempted to bring forth into their reality, as well as a box full of old letters and shipping manifestos which seemed to detail the imports and activities of a group referred to as the Court. Jason took one look at them, frowned, and added the entire box to their book pile.

Resources gathered, they headed back out of the room in search of a place to sit and read. Jason led the way, weaving between the shelves with a familiarity that spoke of many hours spent there, and Daisy pulled the cart of books; Jon trailed behind them, holding a thick tome on the subject of Gotham’s natural disasters to his chest, and they emerged into a quiet reading area with three medium-sized tables arranged near a set of beanbag chairs and blankets, a large soft rug underfoot and all illuminated by a large window that looked out onto the city below. 

One of the tables was already occupied— a girl sat with an open laptop and a notebook, pencil held carefully in her right hand. She looked to be somewhere between sixteen and eighteen years old, if Jon had to guess, with short, black hair, vaguely Asian features, and piercing, intelligent eyes that scanned the three of them as they settled down at an open table nearby. Apparently satisfied by what she saw, the girl returned to her work, and Jon turned his own focus to the books in front of them. 

Jason reached over to their cart and pulled the first few books off the top, putting them in a neat stack between them all and then reaching back in to grab the box of shipping manifestos and letters. Daisy picked out a large book on Gotham’s several demon-oriented cults, then set her laptop on the table and opened a note-taking document. They both got right to it— flipping through pages and writing or typing down anything that seemed important. Jon looked down at the book in front of him, and felt the pull of new knowledge at his fingertips; the way something in him hungered for it. He didn’t know if that hunger was his own or a part of his connection to the Eye, but it hardly mattered— on this, they had always been in agreement. Jon opened the book and started to read.

—

The thing about reading, for Jon, is that when he really got into a book— especially nonfiction, especially weird nonfiction— it was often very difficult to pull his attention to anything else at all until the book was finished. He had always been that way, and this particular quirk had only grown stronger during his tenure at the Magnus Institute. Knowing why that was— that it was another aspect of Beholding’s influence over him— made him uneasy, but he refused to let any sort of supernatural fear bullshit take away his love of reading, so…

So he read. 

All of that to say, it wasn’t strictly surprising when Jon finally came up for air a couple of hours later to find that Jason was gone, having apparently read through all the letters in that box before running off. 

“He tried to tell you,” Daisy shrugged, “but you were really deep into that thing, and whatever was in those letters seemed important. He said he’d be back to get us before the library closes, or he’d send someone.” She paused. Jon was scribbling notes down in a notebook; he would need to cross-reference the dates and details of some of Gotham’s stranger so-called natural disasters with dates of cult activities and maybe see if there were any other similar, possibly-related events elsewhere in the world at those times, and what about large magical surges? Was that something that could happen here— could something of a similar or larger scale to a failed fear-ritual create abnormal weather and affect natural systems? He knew there was that one ritual that created an earthquake…

“Hey,” Daisy poked him on the forehead, breaking him from his thoughts before he could sink back into the books. “Find anything interesting?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, plenty.” Jon flipped back through the book, looking for a specific page… there. “See, here? There was a strange storm about fifty years ago which doesn’t make any sense at all for the time of year, but does match almost exactly with another storm which happened…” he flipped through more pages, “one-hundred and twenty years ago, but the really interesting part is that both of these match really quite well with more recent weather events—”

“What kind of storms?”

“Snow— in the middle of summer, both times. So I was thinking, what if there was a connection between these strange snow storms— oh, and they were localized entirely to Gotham, see here? They centre around Arkham Island specifically— so if there was a connection between these snow storms and, well, there’s a villain in Gotham who has, ah, ice powers— Doctor Freeze— and he’s made it snow in Gotham out of season six times in the last ten years, four of which were apparently pretty nasty storms…”

Daisy watched Jon ramble, a sort of fond amusement growing on her face. “I forget you were a researcher, before all of this,” she said. “This is all cool stuff, Jon, but how do snow storms in summer help us get home?”

He frowned down at the book. “Well, I suppose they don’t, strictly speaking, but… if there is a pattern to this, with similar unnatural events occurring at predictable times, maybe we can apply that pattern to something else and use it to our advantage?”

Daisy was nodding along. “I guess so. Here, give me your notes, I’ll put them into my spreadsheet…”

It continued like that for some time, Daisy pulling Jon out of his research-induced trance anytime he went too deep, sharing their findings between each-other as the sun moved across the sky behind the clouds. They didn’t find anything actionable, but they weren’t really expecting to— it was only the first day of research, after all. They did find that dimensional travel was not unheard of in this world; but the mechanisms behind it were, of course, very tightly-guarded secrets, and from what they could gather, most attempts at accessing other worlds ended in spectacular disasters. The new information— especially the new information about terrible occurrences of a supernatural nature— seemed to satiate that dark thing inside of Jon, to a degree; but he asked just as much of it in return, if not more, trying to fill in gaps and make connections and leaps of logic and Know where to look next. It was as exhausting as it was fulfilling, and Jon spent much of their time toeing the line on the edge of giving himself a headache.

A few hours after Jason left, Daisy stood up. Jon tilted his head at her; a silent question. 

“I need to use the washroom,” she explained. “Do you know where it is?”

Jon shook his head. “I’m not sure, no.”

“Can you do your, y'know… Knowing thing?”

Jon looked up at the ceiling. “Where are the washrooms?” he wondered out loud, only half expecting anything to happen.

Instead of an answer, pain spiked through his head, and he jerked forward— screwing his eyes shut and pressing the heels of his palms into his face. “Ah, ow, not… hnm.” Bad idea.

Daisy winced. “Shit, sorry. I’ll just, uh… I’ll find it.”

He blinked his eyes open again as the pain receded. “It’s fine. They’re, ah, downstairs? I think?”

Daisy nodded. “Thanks. Be right back.”

She slipped back into the rows of books, the way they’d come, and Jon sighed and rubbed at his temples. Maybe he needed a break. 

He frowned down at his book— a surprisingly thick volume about the potentially magic origin of Gotham’s proclivity to put gargoyles on absolutely everything— but before he could decide whether or not to continue reading, he felt a prickle at the back of his neck. Someone was watching him. 

He looked around, and was relieved to find it was only the girl sitting at the other table; Jon had all but forgotten about her, even though she’d been there the whole time. She was looking at him curiously, kind of like she wanted to say something but didn’t know quite where to start. Jon met her eyes and gave an awkward little half-wave.

She frowned, but didn’t look away. Instead, she opened her mouth, as though she wanted to talk, then closed it again. “Hmmm…” 

Jon looked around. There was nobody else in the room. “Um. do you… need something?” he asked, quietly, carefully keeping the compulsion out of his voice. 

She huffed. “Mm. No.” She formed the word carefully, like it didn’t feel right in her mouth, like…

“Do you not speak much english?” Jon asked; “I speak, well, an unusually high number of languages, if you want to tell me something…”

She narrowed her eyes, focusing hard on him, and then nodded slowly. Sadly. “I… hm.” She pointed at herself, looked down and made some strange motions with her hands, mouthing out shapes as though trying to remember the words and— oh. Those motions were hand signs. ‘I can’t speak,’ she had signed. “I, c-an-t…s… sp—” 

She seemed frustrated.

Jon was, thankfully, somewhat used to spontaneously understanding new languages, although acquiring sign language was a new experience. Stranger still was the way he lifted his hands and just… Knew what to do. 

‘We can sign,’ he told her, fingers circling each other, then startled himself by tapping his own nose in the course of signing ‘I don’t mind.’  

Her face absolutely lit up.  

‘You understand! Cool, good, good!’

He smiled. ‘I help you?’

She nodded and scooted her chair to the side, dragging another one closer with a little pat. ‘Please, come sit,’ she waved him over.

Jon closed his book and pushed his chair back away from the table, lifting his arms above his head in a quick stretch— He’d been sitting down for quite a while— before walking the three or so steps over to the girl’s table and taking the offered chair. 

She pointed angrily at something on her laptop, then signed ‘I don’t know this.’

Jon leaned over slightly to look at it— careful not to move too close to her, he didn’t want to make her uncomfortable— and read over the line she had indicated.

#19: On the wall in the living room, there is a painting of a beach, with dark blue water and a turquoise bucket in the sand.

“Ah, that's…” Jon lifted his hands. ‘The sentence? Or one word?’

Cass pointed at the screen again, toward the word turquoise. ‘This word, I don’t know it.’

‘That’s a colour,’ he explained, ‘like green and blue together. The bucket is the colour green plus blue.’

She nodded and shifted her attention to a piece of paper on the table next to her, blocked from Jon’s view by the laptop. She searched it for a moment before scribbling something down with a pencil and then returned her gaze to the computer, nodding to herself. 

Jon tried to look over her to see what was on the paper. She must have noticed his interest, because she picked up the paper and placed it on the table in front of him instead, pointing down at the part she’d just written on. 

It was a worksheet, of sorts, with two coloured pictures of the inside of a house— one image of a kitchen, and one of a living room. Overlaid on each of the rooms was about a dozen small white boxes, each next to a distinct object; many of the boxes had already been filled in with numbers which, Jon supposed, must correspond to descriptions on the girl’s screen. Some of them were tricky; for example, in the living room there were two paintings of a beach, one with tropical-turquoise water and a red bucket, the other with dark blue water and a turquoise bucket. In the box next to the latter, the girl had written in the number 19.

‘Correct?’ she signed. 

‘Yes, correct,’ Jon confirmed. ‘Good. You’re learning english?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. Speaking is hard. Reading is better. Signing is best, it’s easy.’

Jon tapped the paper. ‘Keep learning. You’ll pick up speaking later.’

She beamed at him, then pointed back towards his table and asked: ‘What are you reading?’

He thought about it for a second. ‘My friend and I, we…’ how to phrase this? ‘We are new here. We want to know about this city’s history.’

She nodded. ‘Gotham is dangerous,’ she cautioned, ‘knowing a lot is good. Smart.’

‘There are many bad people,’ Jon lamented.

‘Yes, but… many good people, too. People who protect.’

Jon thought of Jason, and wondered which category this girl would put him in. ‘I know. I met some of those people.’

‘Do you have friends who know Gotham?’ she put emphasis on know, and Jon understood what she meant— do you have friends who truly know this place? Who can help you get your bearings in an unfamiliar, potentially dangerous situation? 

‘Yes.’

‘Good,’ she signed, firmly. ‘If you need help, I will help you. Understand?’ her gaze was intense, more so than Jon was used to, especially coming from a teenager; it was obvious that she meant it. 

‘I understand,’ he confirmed. ‘And same for me, right? If you ask me, I will help you.’

She nodded again and gestured to her work. Jon nodded back and returned to his own table, where the book on gargoyles waited for him, but before he could sit down the girl rapped her knuckles on the table to get his attention, and when he turned back to her she signed. ‘I don’t know this word.’

Jon picked his book up and moved back to her table. 

They had just gotten into something of a rhythm— Jon reading a section of his book, pausing to help the kid translate something, reading another section of his book, repeat— when Daisy returned from the washroom.

She came to a stop in front of the tables, giving Jon a flat, unimpressed stare that somehow managed to convey amusement. “You make a friend, Jon? I was gone less than ten minutes.” 

He stood up quickly. “Ah, yes! Daisy, this is—“ he started, and barely managed to stop himself saying Cass as he realized that the girl had never actually told him her name, and it would be very strange if he knew it. Instead, he turned to her and sheepishly signed ‘what’s your name?’

The girl looked from Jon to Daisy, then sat up a little straighter and carefully said “Ca-ss-and-ra. Cass.” She smiled at her own success. 

Jon nodded. “Cass, this is Daisy,” he then fingerspelled ‘D-a-i-s-y’ and followed it up with ‘yellow flower.’ He paused for her to nod in understanding, then added ‘my name is J-o-n, sorry I forgot to tell you…’ 

Cass waved off his apologies and signed back ‘is she your girlfriend?’ With a mischievous raised eyebrow

Jon startled badly. “No! She’s—“ he sat down on the edge of his original table, so he could see both Cass and Daisy more easily. ‘We are good friends,’ he signed. And then to Daisy he explained “Cass needed help with some homework, she’s learning English. Speaking is hard for her but she can read, and she can understand speech for the most part.” Back to Cass, he signed: Correct? You understand?’

She nodded. ‘Correct!’

“Why are you signing at her then?” Daisy asked, seeming genuinely curious. 

Cass made a little “ah,” and then tried to start speaking— “Ca-n b-b-ut—“ then gave up and turned to Jon. ‘Can you translate? Do you mind?’

‘I don’t mind,’ he confirmed.

Cass started signing at him faster, then, and he watched her hands move while doing his best to translate for Daisy. “She says she can understand speech, but it’s hard. She has to focus on each word, and if there’s other sounds or more than one person talking, she can’t understand any of it. ASL— that’s the sign language, uh, American Sign Language— is much easier for her to understand. Also, and this is me speaking,” Jon added, “I think it would feel very strange to be the only person speaking in a conversation.” He also quite liked ASL, even though he had only just learned it. Maybe he could learn the British version, too, when he got home. 

Cass ended up relocating to their table, since Jon and Daisy had so many more books. She sat on one end, while Jon and Daisy sat adjacent to her and across from each other. The kid seemed to appreciate the company; finishing the series of exercises without much help from Jon, and starting on a different one— matching words to objects— and finished that one by the time Jon had gotten through his gargoyle book, without any help at all. At that point, she took out a small novel aimed at preteens, and started to read it.

The novel proved a bit more challenging for her than the exercises had been; she would occasionally get lost, and ask Jon for clarification. It wasn’t often enough or for long enough to really break the flow of his own research, but it did help him from falling too deep into it— the occasional returns to reality reminded him to actually take notes. Jon and Daisy, in turn, took to asking her for clarification on Gotham-related things that they didn’t understand; sometimes their books would reference a location that they couldn’t find on the map they were using, and even though she was quick to tell them that she herself had only been in Gotham a few months, the kid usually at least knew the general area of whatever building or landmark their sources spoke of; and she was both happy to help and didn’t seem to mind the subject of their research.

Around 7:30 in the evening, just as the sun was beginning to set, Jon heard a sound from within the shelves; not footsteps, but the nearly-silent squeak of wheels turning on a tile floor. Cass heard them too; she half-turned to face forward in her seat, a smile forming on her face. She waved with familiarity as a young woman in a wheelchair— a very nice looking wheelchair— emerged into their little study area. 

She paused when she saw them— all three sitting around one table, despite the two empty ones in the room— her eyebrows knitting together slightly in confusion. “Cass?” she asked, gesturing at the group and then switching to ASL herself: ‘Who are they?’

Cass pointed at Jon. ‘He knows ASL!’

The woman turned her attention to Jon. Bright red hair and keen eyes— were they blue or green? Jon couldn’t tell from this distance— which made him feel rather intimidated, like she was searching his face to find his intentions. 

“Uh…” he cleared his throat. “Hello.”

Cass pointed from Jon to Daisy, fingerspelling their names as she went; ‘they’re new in Gotham,’ she explained, then turned to Jon and signed ‘this is my sister, B-a-r-b-a-r-a.’

Adopted, Jon presumed; or maybe half-siblings. They looked nothing alike. 

Daisy looked from Cass to Jon to Barbara. “I don’t know sign language,” she said; “I’m guessing those were introductions?”

“They were,” Barbara confirmed. “I’m Barbara Gordon. I just came up to bring Cass dinner, since I know she hasn’t eaten since this morning…” she signed as she spoke; the effect was rather disorientating for Jon, like two people saying the same thing at once but slightly out of sync. “Sorry it’s late, Cass, my meeting ran long. Some of our donors have gotten it into their heads that they can just…” she trailed off at Jon and Daisy’s blank stares.

“Oh, right. I'm the Head Librarian,” she explained. “Work never ends!”

“Oh, are you?” Daisy grinned. “Jon here is a Head Archivist.”

Oh. Oh no. Jon did not want the conversation to go in this direction.

Barbara wheeled closer. “Really? Where do you work?”

Jon winced. “The, ah. The Magnus Institute, London.”

“Huh, never heard of it. Is it a research institution?”

“Yep,” Daisy answered for him, “Not surprised you don’t know it. Flies under most people’s radar, pretty niche stuff.”

“What’s an archivist from London doing in Gotham?” Barbara asked, pulling the rest of the way up to their table and handing Cass a paper bag, presumably with food in it. “Are you here for research?”

“Oh, well… yes, I suppose...” Jon did not want to talk about the Institute.

“Well, let me know if you need anything, or if you want to have a look downstairs— our own archives are nothing to sneeze at, y'know?” Then she seemed to take another look at the books they had assembled. “Oh, hey! You get all that from Special C?”

Daisy nodded. “Yeah, sure did. Neat stuff.”

“Tell me about it! I catalogued most of it myself, actually. Sensitive material and all that. When you’re done with it, there’s a reshelve bin inside the room— I’d rather you not put anything you got in there in the bins out here.”

Jon and Daisy both nodded in agreement. “That shouldn’t be a problem,” Jon said. 

“Alright, well, i've got a few more things to get done before we close— Cass, we’ll head home in about an hour, sound good?” She started signing along with her speech again, having stopped sometime during the archivist-related portion of the conversation. Cass nodded along, hands full of the sandwich she was dutifully chewing through. Then with a last little wave Barbara spun her chair around and wheeled back out the way she came. 

They tried to settle back into reading, but it wasn’t long until Daisy’s phone pinged with a text. She thumbed it open, then her face split into a grin. 

“It’s Jason,” she told Jon. “Says Julian’s out front with a car. He wants our help with something.”

Jon sighed and shut his book, sending Cass an apologetic look. ‘We’ve got to go. It was nice to meet you.’

Cass nodded. ‘Nice to meet you. Thank you for helping!’

They gathered up all their books and returned them to the Special Collections room; the ones they still needed stayed in the little wagon, tucked away in a corner with a note that said Jon and Daisy - to read, and the others went into the reshelve bin that Barbara had told them about. 

All told, Jon thought their first day at the library was a resounding success.

—

Chapter Text

—

“So, what can you actually do?”  

The question was directed toward Daisy, Jason leaning faux-casually against the kitchen counter in their little flat above the diner. Jon had sat down at the table, fishing out the notebook he’d acquired and jotting down what he’d learned about Gotham during that night’s excursion— not a lot— while Daisy herself had sprawled across the couch the moment they all entered the room. 

She shrugged. “I usually have a… sense, for when somebody isn’t human,” she started, “better senses in general, maybe— and I heal quickly. I’m strong.”

“That it?” Jason crossed his arms. 

“… No, but…” Daisy sighed and sat up straighter, “the rest of it isn’t as pleasant, and it’s, I don’t know, it’s harder to describe.”

Jason moved to the table, spun a chair around and sat on it backwards. “I’ve got time. It’s important to know if I’m ever going to really send you guys into the field.”

So far, everything they’d done for the Red Hood Gang had been under Jason’s supervision; from that first interrogation three days ago (had it really only been three days?) to the meeting Jason had just had them sit in on, the only times they’d been alone were when they were in their new flat and that afternoon at the library. 

What he said made a lot of sense— Jason needed to know the extent of what they could do. They’d discovered as much in the car before the meeting that evening; when Jason had explained Jon’s role, and Jon had realized that they’d missed some things in their original explanation back in the sewer tunnels.

“When I signal, you ask whoever I’m talking to if they’re lying,” he’d instructed.

“Oh,” Jon had replied, bringing a hand up to tug at his own hair self-consciously. “I could just… let you know if someone lies?”

Eldritch lie detection was, apparently, also a very useful skill; Jason spent the rest of the drive asking after any remaining missing details, and Jon tried his best to give an accurate picture, for all that he could. He still knew frustratingly little about his own abilities, his own inhumanity, how much the Eye had changed him while he’d been too busy worrying about everything but himself. 

He left out the nightmares. Not because he wanted to lie to Jason, it was just… well, he didn’t ask, and they were hardly relevant, were they? There was nobody in Gotham he could take a full Statement from even if he wanted to; Daisy was the only person who was and who would be affected by them. Nobody else needed to know. Nobody else needed to know.

“Jon?”

He was pulled from his thoughts by Jason waving a hand in front of his face. “Welcome back to earth,” he drawled, rolling his eyes. 

“Sorry, just thinking.” Jon pushed his notebook away. “What…?”

“I was asking if I’d missed anything, but I take it you weren’t listening anyways.” Daisy sighed, lounging against the arm of their new, very nice couch. “Just, you know. The Blood, all that.”

Jason leaned back from Jon, looking thoughtfully toward Daisy. “You were a cop, weren’t you? How do you feel about Vigilantism?”

Daisy barked a laugh. “Well, when you put it like that.”

Jon huffed. “What you did for Elias was pretty well vigilantism, wasn’t it?”

“It certainly wasn’t police-sanctioned.”

“Oh, but cutting my throat was?” His tone was playful, though he didn’t expect anyone else to think so; Daisy did, and that was the important bit. She grinned, teeth sharp.

“Oh, yes. They were quite eager to get all that swept under the rug.”

Jason huffed out a short sigh. “So your cops are just as corrupt as ours, got it. You want to help me hunt down the worst of humanity or not?”

Daisy shrugged. “Sure.” Then she hesitated, and added: “I don’t… know if it’s a good idea, though.”

“Why not?”

“It’s…” her face twisted as she trailed off.

“The Hunt,” Jon answered for her, “has a tendency to sink its claws in, so to speak. It is particularly easy to get lost in.”

Daisy nodded. “I’m trying to find a balance,” she explained. “And going out hunting criminals by myself is not going to help me stay grounded.”

Jason frowned. “Hm. Okay. And what does help you stay grounded?” 

Daisy blinked. “Uh. Well.” She took a deep breath, sat straight and forward. “Before? Basira. I stayed… human, mostly, for Basira.”

Jon slumped down in his chair. What did she have now? Who did she have, when Basira was a world away?

“Since the coffin… Jon, I suppose.”

He blinked at her. “What?”

She rolled her eyes. “Anytime I start to slip, you pull me back. We keep each other in check, remember?”

He smiled hesitantly. “Right.”

Jason looked between them, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “So, let me get this straight: you’ve got no objection with vigilantism in principle, but you don’t want to go Capital-H -Hunting without someone there to reel you in?”

“That about sums it up,” she nodded.

Jason shifted his focus. “And Jon? How about you?”

He pulled a face. “I’m not sure that I’m cut out for that sort of thing.” He’d seen videos of what this world’s heroes did, even if the Gotham types tended to be rather elusive. Nightwing’s flips came to mind. “But, well, if Daisy needs me there…”

Jason hummed thoughtfully. “We’ll get there. For now— Daisy, how about you come on patrol with me? See how you do.”

She nodded slowly. “That would be alright, I think. I just need to be… careful.”

“Cool, well, in that case— you need a name.”

Daisy crossed her arms. “My name is Daisy.”

Jason leaned forward over the back of the chair. “I get that, but we can’t use your civilian name in the field like that. It’s one thing for the standard bodyguard-type stuff you’ve been doing— nobody cares about your name, you’re just a Red Hood Goon or whatever— but if you start patrolling, saving people, the works, well…” he paused, likely for dramatic effect; “if you don’t pick a name, you’ll get one picked for you.”

Jon drummed his fingers on the table. “You didn’t ask me about this,” he grumbled

“You’re actually a great example,” Jason let his head fall to the side, shooting Jon a grin. “I would have asked, but we waited too long. I introduced you as the Archivist, and the name got out there. It’s a lot harder to change a name once it’s stuck.”

Jon didn’t think that seemed very fair, but he understood the practicality of it; names were powerful. Being known was powerful. “I don’t know what else I’d have picked, anyways,” he admitted; “I’ve been the Archivist for… a while, now.”

“Most hero types don’t choose their own names, honestly.” Jason shrugged. “Batman definitely didn’t. And there’s always a risk that you pick a name and the public fuckin’ ignores you, seen that happen a few times.”

“Does it even matter what I choose?” Daisy turned sideways on the couch, kicked her feet up over the opposite armrest. “I really don’t care.”

“We’ve got some time to think about it,” Jason shrugged. “I’ll brainstorm some things. You can come shadow me on patrol tomorrow night, see what it’s like. Sound good?” 

Daisy sighed, tilting her head back into the couch where she was laid out on it. “Yeah, sure. Why do you want me to come with, anyway?” 

Jason scrunched his nose up, seeming to think about it for a long moment before he spoke. “You try doing what I do, and you’d understand me wanting some backup. I control the worst area of Gotham, and I told the Bats to stay out, so if I want to make it better I’ve gotta pick up their slack and make sure people are actually following my rules.” He waved a hand in the air by his head, leaning with the other arm over the backrest of the chair. “So, patrolling is important, but I’ve got a million other things that need doing every day— especially with who we’re up against. It’s really all-hands-on-deck right now, you know? And I don’t…” he made a small frustrated huff. “I don’t want to put any of my people in more danger than I have to, but this is Gotham, and at least with you guys I can be pretty sure you won’t die the second I take my eyes off you. You’ve survived being…” he hesitated, switched tracks, “you’ve survived a lot, you can take a handful of muggers and rapists and— hell, I watched you scare off a man three times your damn size after digging out of a grave. You can handle it.” 

During the course of his impromptu speech, Daisy had sat back up straight, attentive but a little off-balance. At her expression, Jason stood up and spun his chair back around, so he could sit on it and face her properly. “I know we haven’t really… talked, much. And I know I can be a fuckin’… hothead, sometimes, I get hurt in stupid ways, I always have. But things are getting real, out there, and the last thing I need is to get taken out of commission by jumping into fights without backup. I know better than that.”

There was a long moment of silence, and then Daisy nodded, slowly. “Okay,” she said. 

“Okay?” Jason asked, seeking confirmation.

“Yeah, I get it. You shouldn’t be going out there alone if you’ve got the choice. Sounds like you could do with a partner.” 

Jason’s eyes widened slightly at the word, and he stuttered for just a moment. “Uh, I— right, yeah. Right.” He stood up; “I should go. You think about a name, and…”

Jon lifted a hand. “Ah, could we— I was hoping to go to the library again tomorrow?”

Jason made his way toward the door. “Yeah, sure. You’ll have to take the bus, though, I’ve got stuff to do.” 

“Right,” Jon nodded. “Alright.”

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow, yeah? Sleep tight!” Jason called back at them as he left, the door not-quite slamming behind him. Jon listened to his footsteps descend away into the diner.

“Well, you heard him,” Daisy stood up. “I’m going to get ready for bed.”

—

All she knew was darkness, and pain, and fear.

Somewhere, rain pounded against earth and wood. Horrible singing and moaning mingled with distant, desperate screams. They were her only warning before the darkness squeezed and crushed her again, before dirt filled her mouth and throat, before she was choking and drowning and dying dying dying but never dead, always alive. Always awake.

She had not slept in… a long time. She did not remember how long. She did not remember the warmth of sunlight on her skin, she did not remember how it felt to breathe without the weight of the world pressing down on her lungs.

She did not remember her own name.

She had been alone for so, so long. She missed… Basira. Was she here, too? Was she one of those poor, faraway souls crying out in pain, in the agonized grief of knowing they were lost forever to the world, of knowing they were alone, just as she was?

The Buried squeezed again, and she screamed, even though she was sure that nobody could hear. 

Then: a voice. A familiar voice. Not Basira, no, that was…

“Daisy!”

That was Jon. Her stomach lurched; her head swam. What was he doing there? Was he real? 

He found her. “Daisy, Daisy…”

Right. That was her name. Daisy. “J- ah- Jon?”

“I’m here. I’m here.” 

He took her hand, and the rain returned; a pitter-patter that once, in another life, might have been comforting. The earth creaked and howled like wind, and they cried out together, and Daisy didn’t know which was worse, anymore: being alone, or knowing another was condemned to this same Hell. 

She was so, so scared. 

It was hard to tell, hard to feel it with the way that everything squeezed, but Jon’s hand in hers was a regular, rhythmic pressure; periods of short and long presses, insistant and repetitive. Something in the back of her mind told her it was important. She stilled; waited, focused. It was a code, she knew it, it was… 

S… O… R… R… Y… 

Over, and over, and over again. I-M S-O-R-R-Y. S-O S-O-R-R-Y. S-O S-O-R-R-Y.

Why? Why, when he’d given her the greatest gift she could have ever possibly asked for? He’d come for her, he’d gotten her out she wasn’t alone anymore, why was he sorry?  

She squeezed her reply: N-O.

S-O-R-

She squeezed hard, cutting him off. N-O. N-O-T Y-O-U-R F-A-U-L-T  

He squeezed once, long. It felt like an apology. 

T-O-G-E-T-H-E-R, she insisted. 

O-K, he responded. Y-E-S. H-E-R-E.

T-H-A-N-K Y-O-U.

So they held each other as close as they could, and together, they lost themselves to the Buried.

—

Daisy jerked awake, rolling onto her side gasping and coughing for air. Out, out, she was out, she was free, sweaty and shaking and tangled in her blankets, soft bed beneath her, sweet, wonderful air above her. 

So why did she still hear the rain?

Her gasping didn’t even out; breaths coming quick and short, desperate things that never quite felt like enough. The rain echoed down from the roof of that dark, dark bedroom; it battered against the window, blown by the howling wind that seemed to sing through the streets outside, and somewhere, far away, but not far enough, somebody screamed. 

A gunshot rang out in the night, then another, and another, and Daisy was on the ground— tucked into the junction of her bed and the wall and the floor, arms over her head, ears ringing and the rain didn’t stop, it pounded against the roof, against the wooden coffin lid— 

A door slammed. A beat passed. Then a new sound; a knocking, desperate, desperate like the scratching, the moaning song, the tumble of rocks and the slide of the earth—

The knocking grew louder. “Daisy! Are you—? Daisy, I’m coming in, I’m—“

Her head jerked up as the door swung open, revealing a figure lit from behind by the hallway light. 

“Jon,” she gasped. “Jon, what, what—?”

He crouched on the ground in front of her. “Daisy, hey, are you—?” He cut himself off. “Stupid question, sorry. I’m sorry.”

She reached a hand out, and he took it; then she caught his eye and shook her head once, firmly: No. She squeezed his hand, just like she did in that place that only they really knew. H-E-R-E, she told him. 

He chuckled softly, a little wet. “Yeah, yeah. I’m here.”

Another distant gunshot split the night, and they both flinched violently, almost knocking their heads together. Daisy held tight to Jon’s hand, like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the world. Her heart pounded in her ears. The rain rattled around in her head. The wind howled. 

“Let’s- let’s go downstairs,” Jon suggested. “I can, ah, I can make some tea, and it should be— mm. Quieter.” 

Daisy nodded and took a deep, shaky breath, trying to pull herself together. Jon stood, then pulled her to her feet after him, their hands never leaving each other’s. 

They left Daisy’s room, turning to the right and— after a moment of Jon struggling to unlock the door— they made their way out of the apartment, down the stairs, and into the diner.

They saw Julian first, leaning against the counter on what would be the customer side, if the place were operational. He was talking to Sage, it turned out, who was at her usual post: sitting on top of the counter with her back against the wall. 

“Hey!” Julian waved, “what are you two doing up? It’s nearly three o’clock!”

Daisy ran a hand over her face. “Only three? Hell.”

“We haven’t been sleeping well,” Jon supplied. “We’re just going to go downstairs, have a bit of tea…”

“Aw, shit, sorry man. Boss should be back soon, if you need to talk to—“ his phone chimed in his pocket; he pulled it out. “…him. I’ve gotta go. Sage, you’re good here, yeah?”

Sage sat up a little straighter. “Sure. Everything alright?”

Julian nodded, already jogging toward the door. “Yeah, fine! I’ll be back soon. Keep your phone on, just in case.”

“‘Course.” 

Julian flung open the door, momentarily flooding the space with cold air and the sound of rain on pavement, and then he was gone.

Sage eyed the both of them. “You guys head on down, then. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

Daisy nodded, still shaking a little bit as the adrenaline-fueled panic settled into a sort of deep anxiety. Next to her, Jon was much the same. 

The guard seemed to notice the state they were in. “You’re safe here, okay?” She said, the smallest of smiles on her face. “As safe as you can be, anyway. You don’t have to worry as long as you’re inside this shitty diner. I see everyone that comes in and out.”

She was right. From that angle, she could see both the front door and through the kitchen to what was once the staff entrance. Maybe it was childish, but that knowledge did soothe something in Daisy. “Thanks,” she said, and Jon nodded his agreement and pulled her into the kitchen and toward the basement stairs.

The moment the door to the basement closed behind them, the sound of the rain abruptly cut off, and they both let out a shaky sigh in tandem. “Come on,” Jon said, and they made their way down into the silence. 

The basement wasn’t quite empty, but nearly so. They finally dropped each other’s hands when they made it into the break room, and while Jon set about making tea Daisy poked her head into the planning room next door; Darcy was sitting at the large table in there on his laptop, a mug on the table beside him, and at her arrival he looked up and gave her a small nod in greeting. “Everything alright?”

Daisy nodded back. “Yeah, just wanted to see who else was down here.”

“Right. Just me, at the moment. I think Julian’s upstairs with Sage…”

“He just left, actually.”

“Ah, good. Are you here on your own?”

“No,” Daisy shook her head, “Jon’s making tea.”

Darcy hummed, giving her an odd sort of assessing look. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Right.” 

Daisy returned to the break room. Jon was there, of course, and he had the electric kettle on and two mugs set out with an assortment of teas on the table beside them. He was in the fridge— larger than the minifridge that had been in there at first; they’d been upgrading all the furniture and appliances— when Daisy pushed aside the curtain and ducked into the space. He emerged after a moment with a jug of milk and a carton of cream, kicked the door shut with his heel as he twisted to put them down next to the tea. “So?”

“It’s just Darcy,” Daisy explained. “Guess everyone else is out?”

“Or at home,” Jon pointed out. “It is rather late. Or early?”

Daisy shrugged. The kettle boiled, clicked off. Jon gestured at the tea. “What kind do you want?”

Daisy made her way over and selected a herbal blend, something with lavender in it— lavender was supposed to be good for nerves, wasn’t it?— and Jon pulled a weird face at her choice while he picked up the kettle and poured water into both of their mugs. A glance at his cup revealed a bag of earl gray. 

In the absence of honey, she added a little bit of sugar to her tea; Jon waited a few minutes before adding both cream and sugar to his and joining Daisy at the table. 

The warm drink in her hands helped to chase away the last of the nightmare-panic jitters, leaving her feeling raw and, frankly, exhausted— of course it wasn’t enough that nightmares sucked, they also had to completely erase any benefits of sleeping in the first place. Across the table, Jon looked about as tired as he usually did— which is to say, like he hadn’t slept in several days— and that self-flagellating guilt was back, creeping across his face and forcing his shoulders up toward his ears. 

Daisy reached over and flicked him on the forehead. He startled, eyes snapping back up to meet hers. “Enough of that,” she chastised; “I can hear you beating yourself up from over here. You’ve done a lot of shitty things, Jon, but this was not, is not, and will never be your fault.”

“I’m still sorry,” he said, and she tilted her head slightly and raised her eyebrows in an expression that she hoped conveyed are you serious right now? And he added on: “But… right. You’re right. Of course you’re right. I just wish there was something I could do.”

“I won’t pretend they’re pleasant, but,” she shrugged, huffed out a sigh, “I’ve had nightmares before. I was having them long before I ever met you. I can handle it.”

That wasn’t strictly true; these nightmares were a particular brand of awful, vivid and real in a way dreams hardly ever were; and they didn’t fade, come morning, leaving the memory of her fear and of Jon’s hand in hers— squeezing out sorry I’m sorry so sorry so sorry over and over and over again— fresh in her mind. But that didn’t change the facts: Jon wasn’t doing it on purpose. He hadn’t known what would happen when he first took her statement, so long ago, and in the coffin, she had asked him to help her speak. 

She got the feeling he knew she wasn’t being perfectly honest, but she met his eyes and willed him to understand: it wasn’t okay, none of this was okay, but she did not blame him. “It’s not your fault,” she repeated, refusing to break eye contact. 

Finally, Jon’s shoulders slumped, some of the tension draining away. He cradled his tea close to his chest, took a few careful sips. “Thank you,” he near-whispered. 

Daisy wondered if anyone else had really told him that, before. Told him that it wasn’t his fault— and meant it. Had she ever put it into words before? She didn’t think so. She wasn’t usually one for… emotional gestures. 

They fell into silence for a time, enjoying the tea and the quiet and the peace of each other’s company, both lost in their own heads. Daisy thought about Basira— was she alright? It had been so long. Jon— and Martin, on the tape— had said she was doing missions for Elias. Was she Hunting? Daisy hoped not.

They were both broken from their thoughts when they heard footsteps from the floor above; heavy, stomping boots and barked words and a slamming door. Sounds like Jason’s back. 

Darcy poked his head in through the curtain. “You’re still here, perfect, could use you guys upstairs!” And then he ducked back out, quick footsteps retreating up the concrete steps toward the diner. 

“Well,” Jon stood, “duty calls, I suppose.” 

Daisy sighed and drained the last of her tea. “Right. Let’s go, then.” 

—

Jon realized, as they stepped out of the kitchen and into the converted dining room, that he and Daisy were still wearing pyjamas. Unfortunately, it was a little too late for them to do anything about it— Jason had already spotted them, grinning as he stood over a bound figure on the floor of the diner; helmet held under one arm, blood in his teeth, and green light seeping through the lenses of his red domino mask. 

The figure on the floor had a black cloth bag over their head, with their arms pinned behind them and legs bound together. Still, they were writhing and kicking, until Jason brought his own heavy boot forward to slam into their side, and then put that same boot down on their back to pin them to the floor. 

“Cut it out!” He barked.

They wheezed and spat curses, but went mostly still.

Jason set the helmet on the table, and Jon realized there was a crack down the side of it. He didn’t want to think about how much force it must have taken to cause that sort of damage. 

All of this happened in just a couple of seconds. While Jon and Daisy stood frozen by the counter, Darcy stepped forward to grab the broken helmet then hurried back into the basement, and Julian entered into the diner leading a young woman— who was obviously freaked the hell out, but doing an admirable job holding her composure.

“Archie, hey,” Julian was bringing the woman towards him, and Jon startled a little as he realized the younger man was talking to him. “Is there still stuff out downstairs?” Julian asked; “I think she could do with somethin’ warm.” 

Jon nodded. “The water will need to be heated up again, but the tea and fixings are on the counter.”

“Great, thanks!” 

Julian and the woman vanished down the stairs into the basement around the same time as Darcy came jogging back up, moving past Jon and Daisy to hand Jason what must have been a new helmet. He put it on.

“Now,” the Red Hood drawled, the sound distorted and mechanical through the helmet as he pulled a chair from the large table and hauled the bound figure into it. “You are going to answer some questions for us. Archivist?”

The man’s breathing picked up. 

Jon stepped forward warily, tugging on the sleeves of his sleep shirt, rubbing the material between his fingers. “Yes? Ah, what, um…”

“Ask him if he knows where Mask is hiding.”

Jon nodded, took a deep breath, but there was something… hm. “I, ah, I need to see his eyes.” 

By way of response, Hood undid a knot at the back of the man’s neck and then dramatically pulled the bag off his face.  

He was already terrified, and somehow Jon being in pyjamas didn’t even seem to register; he looked him in the eyes, and even though Jon couldn’t help but hate himself for it, he felt his nerves settle at the man’s terror. “Hello, Samir.”

The fear doubled, and his voice shook badly. “How the hell do you know that name?” 

“That’s not important right now,” Jon said evenly as Hood unholstered one of his small guns and held it against the back of Samir’s head.  

Jon breathed deeply, feeling his thoughts quiet and his lingering anxiety vanish, even as his heart sped up to match the man in front of him; the echo of another’s fear calming him like nothing else could. The guilt would come later, Jon knew, but in moments like these there was no room for morality; only the familiar comfort that came with power, with a singular path laid out before him in all its glorious simplicity.

All he had to do was Ask.

“Samir Al Tajir, where is Black Mask hiding?”

He shuddered. “I don’t know, they don’t tell me that sort of thing.”

Hood might have been saying something— telling him what to ask next— but Jon didn’t hear it. To the Archivist, there was only this thread of questions and answers, knowledge to be pulled forward into the light. Hood didn’t need to tell Jon what to ask next; Jon already knew. 

“You do work for Black Mask, correct?”

“Yes.” He was trying to break eye contact. Jon could tell. 

Hmm. “Who gave you your orders, tonight?”

“It was Alec.” 

“And what is Alec’s full name?”

“I— I don’t— I don’t know!”

Unfortunate, but a first name was still helpful. “Why did you attempt to kidnap the woman who the Red Hood saved from you tonight?” 

“So we can use her— she’s not human, not in a way that matters, she can see things and we need to know what she can do.”

She was metahuman, then. “What were your plans with the woman?”

Samir gasped and leaned forward toward Jon, even though every instinct in his body was clearly screaming at him to get away. “I was supposed to take her across town, drop her off so Alec could test her— see how useful she’d be. It’s up to him what happens after that; I just bring them in.” He twisted his head to the side, shuddered, and then he turned back to Jon again with wild, desperate eyes and a vicious, spiteful grin: “If I’m lucky, I get to have a little fun first—“

Jon felt some far-distant part of himself surge up, forcing a new emotion to the surface: anger. It broke his focus just enough that he saw it coming when Julian— when had he come back upstairs?— lunged forward and slammed his fist into the side of Samir’s jaw. 

Pain flashed momentarily over the side of his face, making Jon stumble to the side as the other man was thrown to the floor from the force of the blow; and just like that, he was himself again, reeling from the overwhelm of all his senses coming back to him at once— abruptly aware of the feeling of his clothes on his skin, the smell of blood and gunpowder, the sound of shouting voices and the rain—

“What the hell, Julian!”

“You heard what he said! Nobody touches any sister of mine, Hood—!”

“She’s fine, Jesus Christ, look what you did to the Archivist!” 

Daisy had taken Jon by the elbow to steady him, and at Hood’s words he shook her off. “I’m— I’m alright.” 

“Are you sure?” Daisy murmured beside him, concerned and wary. 

“I’m sure,” Jon said, firmly; then he stalked toward Samir, who was still laying dazed on the floor, and crouched to face him— his own disgust and anger mingling with the man’s fear as the Archivist asked him one more question:

“Where can we find Alec?” 

—

Twenty minutes later found Jon in the basement breakroom again, working with Julian to put away the snacks and drinks that had been offered to the woman— her name was Tamsin, apparently— while Jason talked with her in the next room and Daisy helped Darcy deal with Samir.

Julian seemed distracted.

Jon caught his eye for just a moment, and offered him a small smile. “I’m, ah. I’m glad your sister’s alright.”

“What?” Julian startled a bit, blinking at his him in confusion.

“… Tamsin? Your sister?”

“Oh, she’s not that kind of sister.” At Jon’s blank stare he rolled his eyes, bumped his hip against Jon’s in a sort of playful-familiar, knowing way. “She’s family the way you and I are family.” 

Jon stumbled a half-step from the light hip-check, his blank stare turning to shock. “We— I— what?”

Julian whirled to face him fully at Jon’s sputtering, his expression morphing to match. “Oh, shit— I forgot how new you are here, sorry man.” He drew a little closer, dropping his voice to a near-whisper that indicated a degree of secrecy and sensitivity; “Gotham’s metahuman community is pretty tight-knit. We look out for each other, y'know? You should ask Hood about it.” He put a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Get him to show you around— there’s havens for us, if you know where to look. And knowing where to look can come in pretty damn handy.”

“Right.” Jon nodded. “Thank you, Julian.”

The younger man grinned. “Anytime, Archie.”

—

The nickname spread. Of course it did. By the end of the next night, most of the Red Hood gang had taken to calling Jon Archie rather than Archivist.

—

Chapter Text

—

Their second day at the library began in a similar fashion to the first, aside from a few of the details. Jon and Daisy took public transit to get there— it turned out Gotham had quite an extensive system, with multiple train lines and many buses connecting nearly every part of the city. The library itself was near a central metro station; really quite convenient. 

They arrived at the library around one in the afternoon, and returned to the same area they had spent the previous day in; although Jon longed to explore the rest of the place. They keyed in the number to the restricted Special Collections room, retrieved their little cart of unread books from the previous day, and made their way back to the seating area.

Cass was there again, and her face lit up with a smile when she saw them; she waved them over, gesturing to where she’d set aside two chairs and left them space at her table.

Daisy set up her laptop again, and showed Jon the spreadsheet she’d set up the day before. He took one look at it and promptly shut his eyes with a long, defeated sigh. 

Right.  

Her work was… lacking, to put it politely. Jon was reminded that Daisy didn’t have a background in academia, that even as a police officer she hadn’t really been expected to do much in the way of due diligence. Thorough research was not her forte— he should not have expected her to meet his admittedly high standards. 

So Jon spent the first half hour or so making a new spreadsheet and accompanying notes document, ones better suited to the kind of research they were doing— with places to input the type, severity, and dates of the events they were collating. Then he got back to reading; Daisy joined him, for a time, but her focus started flagging after only an hour or so, and she switched to doing research on the computer— or maybe she was exploring Tumblr, Jon wasn’t sure. 

Around three o’clock, Barbara wheeled into the room and left all them some food. Jon didn’t notice— his nose was deep in a book, having finally gotten around to starting that huge overview of Gotham’s cave system. It was fascinating, really, the way the pieces of Gotham’s subterranean world seemed to move around each other had some consistency, but with a pattern that was incredibly hard to make out with how sparse their information was— and how prone to speculation most researchers were. Jon thought it seemed as though each area of interest in the caves was loosely connected to a handful of others, and those elements would usually be found near each other, but the order changed— and the closer you were to one of the system’s entrances, the more stable it was; so the further away you ventured the more chances there were for the layout to change dramatically, and—

The book was gone. Daisy had pulled it out from under him, leaving him blinking back to awareness wrong-footed and disoriented. “Uh?” 

“We’ve been trying to get your attention for a couple minutes, Jon,” Daisy told him. 

Cass tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to face her. 

‘You were very focused on your book. You couldn’t hear us. Are you ok?’

‘Yeah, I’m good,’ he assured her, ‘just sometimes very focused.’  

To Daisy, he asked: “why’d you pull me out of it?”

In response, she shoved a sandwich in front of him where the book had been— it looked premade, wrapped in plastic. Lettuce, tomato, and what looked like shredded chicken salad. “Barbara was here. She said if we get any food on the books we’ll be executed by a librarian firing squad— I’m not sure if she was joking.”

They set their books safely aside to eat their lunch, Cass munching happily and Daisy seeming to savour every bite, as she had done with most of her meals since the Coffin. Jon ate methodically, his mind still elsewhere, still on those damn caves. There was something there, he knew it, he just didn’t know what.

After their late lunch, Jon made to go back to his reading, but Daisy’s energy was obviously very low, and Jon felt a pang of guilt at the realization that she hadn’t really slept properly at all the night before.

“Daisy, you’re going to have a busy night,” he pointed out, alluding to her patrol with Jason, “do you want to try having a nap before then?” 

There were several very comfortable looking large beanbag chairs off to one side, which Jon was sure would make perfectly acceptable nap locations; and he was something of an expert at napping.

Daisy eyed the beanbags, wavered with one hand braced on the table, and then finally deflated with a nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I should,” she said, and then walked the four or so steps across the room to the beanbags and all but collapsed onto the nearest one. Then she threw one arm up over her head, and she was out like a light.

Jon turned back to Cass. ‘Time to work?’ he signed.

She nodded and shot him a thumbs up and a grin. ‘Yes, work time!’

—

Around five in the evening, Jon returned to the Special Collections room. He was hoping they would have a book there about the strange mechanisms of Gotham’s underground water sources— something referenced by multiple of the books he’d read, including the diary of the man who explored Gotham’s tunnels two hundred years ago.

He had been in there for about half an hour, searching through the books and trying in vain to get the Eye to help him find what he needed, when he heard that all-too-familiar click.

He froze. 

A tape recorder had appeared on the floor. From it, Jon heard the sounds of focused typing.

Eyes wide, he stumbled towards the door to the room and quickly pulled it closed. He returned to the tape just as the sound of typing on the other side paused, and Martin spoke.

“Oh? What are you doing here…?”

Jon’s mind was whirring as fast as the tape. Martin hadn’t done it on purpose? Why was it there, then? Jon picked up the tape recorder and sat down on the floor, holding it on his lap in front of him.

“Is it… Jon? Are you listening?” He sounded hopeful, almost, and Jon’s breath caught. Did he know? Had Martin gotten his responses? 

Jon wished so badly that he could answer. 

Martin made a short “hm,” and then returned to typing. “I guess I’ll have to wait and see. I’ve got your rib, I can’t do anything else right now…”

A door opened. A clearly frazzled Rosie spoke, a little farther from the tape; across the room, maybe. “Mr Blackwood, there’s someone here who really wants to see you…”

Martin sounded mildly confused, and a little distant. “Now? It’s past five, our public hours are over…”

“Yes, I know, I’m sorry— she says she’s a friend of Jonathan Sims? Georgie Barker?”

Jon felt ice down his back. No. No— Georgie needed to stay far away from the Institute.

Before Martin could answer, there was another voice. “You! Are you in charge here?”

“You can’t come in here!” Rosie insisted, but was obviously ignored. Footsteps approached the— desk? Wherever the tape recorder was. “I need to talk to you. Now.”

There was a slight distortion to the audio; almost like they were talking through water, or over a long distance, the sound echoing. “Ah. I suppose I am in charge…”

Another set of footsteps followed. Rosie. “You really can’t be in here, it’s past our—“

“Rosie, it’s fine. You can go.” Martin’s voice sounded so… faint. Like a whisper with the volume turned up. 

“But, she…” a beat passed, then, “alright. I’ll be right outside.”

“Thank you.” 

Footsteps receded. A door shut. Silence stretched for a long moment.

“Is he dead?” Georgie sounded… genuinely upset. It wasn’t something Jon was used to hearing; it pulled at something in his chest. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Jon. I’ve… I’ve been having dreams, since… well, for a while, I dream of him. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

Martin took an audible, deep breath; let it out as a sigh. With that breath, the audio lost its muted quality; though Martin’s voice still sounded a little bit off.

“Yes, I do.”

“Then you know why I’m worried about the fact that they’ve stopped. I haven’t seen him for almost two weeks. He isn’t answering my calls or texts.” There was the sound of hands hitting a desk. 

“Is. He. Dead?”

For a long moment, all they heard was Georgie’s breathing; quick and agitated. Not scared, but maybe the closest she could get; something like anger driving her there, to the Institute, for answers. 

“No,” Martin said, finally. “I don’t think so. He’s… out of the country, at the moment.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m sorry, Georgie. I can’t help you.”

“If he’s not dead, tell me how to contact him.” 

“I can’t do that.”

Georgie groaned in frustrated anger. “Who the hell are you to withhold that information? He’s my friend! I hid him from the police, the least he can do is tell me when he’s going to drop off the face of the earth—“

She cut herself off, seeming to realize something. “You don’t know, do you?”

Martin sighed. “No. I don’t know where he is. I’m… working on it.”

There was the sound of shifting fabric; when Georgie spoke again, she was… lower? Closer? She might have sat down. “Are you?” It sounded accusatory.

“Yes. I… I failed him once. I won’t do it again.” Jon swallowed at the words. They were spoken bluntly, matter-of-fact, lacking any real emotion, but, but…

Martin cared. Martin was trying— maybe had been the only person to ever really try to help Jon, despite all the bullshit he put him through. 

And Martin… thought he had failed Jon?

“You… you do know him, then.”

“Yeah. Or, at least, I used to.”

A long silence. When Georgie spoke again, she sounded much less… emotional, less sure of her righteous anger— and more curious. “Are you Martin?”

“Oh, um. Yeah, that’s me…”

“Hm. Jon used to go on about you a lot, you know.”

Jon felt his face heat up.

“He, he did? I didn’t…”

“No, I guess you wouldn’t. Just…” she paused, sighed. “He trusted you. Still does, I bet. Don’t let him down.”

It was a command, more than anything; almost a threat, really. But Martin just chuckled lightly and shifted in his seat; “I’m doing my best,” he said.

“Right. Well, if you find him, tell him to call me. We may not be… speaking, anymore, but I want to know he’s alive, got it?”

“Got it,” Martin agreed.

“Melanie can give you my number.”

“Oh,” Martin said. “Oh! You’re— ah, Melanie’s Georgie, too, you’re—you’re the same—?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m… same Georgie.”

“Right, okay, I’ll uh… I’ll ask Melanie, then, thank you Georgie…”

“Okay, good. I’ll just… go, then, I guess…”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is after our public hours!” Martin’s voice was angling toward teasing, but it fell awkwardly flat.  

“Yeah, sorry about that…” footsteps receding, a door opening, “have a good evening, Martin.”

“You— you too, Georgie.”

The door closed, and Martin let out a long, long, exhale. “Shit,” he sighed, then tapped the table next to the tape recorder “that was exhausting. Was talking to people always so…?” He groaned. “I have work to do. I’ve got to put this away, I guess. Jon, if you’re listening…” he paused. “I don’t know. I just… I don’t know.”

The tape clicked off.

Jon shoved the tape recorder into his bag and, trying very hard to control his breathing, returned to the main room to get Daisy. 

“Daisy. Daisy, wake up,” he knew better than to try touching her— she’d probably punch him before she was fully awake. As it was, her eyes snapped open and locked onto his anxious face, the sleep-confusion clearing after only a few seconds.

“What is it?” 

“Uh, I need your help finding a book…”

Regular confusion crossed her face. “What? Why?”

At the tables, Cass made an “Ah!” Sound to get their attention. She was already standing. ‘I’ll help you,’ she told Jon, ‘she needs to sleep.’

“Ah, right, okay…” he said aloud, signing ‘ok’ as he spoke. Jon didn’t know how to say that he didn’t actually need help with the book, especially since he was having trouble tracking it down… but he really needed to talk to Daisy alone, and…

Cass was already walking off into the shelves toward the Special Collections room. 

Daisy looked even more confused. “Cass… is helping instead?” She pieced together. “Is there something wrong?”

Jon looked up toward the ceiling and tugged nervously on his hair. “It’s…” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “another tape.” 

Daisy’s mouth dropped open in a silent “oh,” and she sighed. “We can deal with it later,” she whispered back. “Not here.”

Jon nodded and, at Daisy’s gesture toward where Cass had vanished, he jogged off after the kid.

—

They found the book he needed, and the rest of the day passed mostly in companionable silence. Jon catalogued all the known entrances to the caves under Gotham, including those that were only there at certain times and under certain circumstances; he compared accounts from those explorers who had survived and a few from those who had not; he looked for patterns and inconsistencies, tried to figure out what measures and methods were the most helpful in surviving and navigating. He cross-referenced sketches of strange symbols found at varying depths with symbols used by Gotham’s uncomfortably-numerous cults, and he drew several of his own maps trying to piece together what rhyme or reason there might be to their locations. 

I fear that this may be my last expedition, read the last of the journals Jon was consulting. He’d been dreading opening it, though he wasn’t sure why. I have found myself drawn further into these depths than I had ever intended to go, and something calls me deeper still. 

I ran out of water some hours ago, and I know I won’t survive long enough to return to the surface.

He flipped to the next page.

I have found water. I don’t know where I am— all the maps I brought became useless several days ago. I know I mustn’t drink, but I am so very thirsty. 

The water flows from the stone wall; there must be a spring nearby. It glows green.

Jon felt a growing dread, deep in his gut.

I mustn’t drink. I mustn’t. There are things worse than death that could find me here.

The writing was accompanied by a sketch; what looked like the carved face of a gargoyle protruding from smooth stone, liquid running from its open mouth and into a small basin below. From the sketch alone, Jon got the impression that the carved face was watching him. 

Next page.

I have found the source of the spring. 

I mustn’t drink. I mustn’t drink. I mustn’t drink. I mustn’t drink.

Another sketch on the opposite page. Nonsensical, at first, until Jon realized it was an image cast in the negative space of a thousand chaotic pen-strokes; a face, screaming and batlike, tears running down from empty, black eyes. In the space around, in lines pressed so harshly into the manually-darkened page that the paper was torn in places, there was… writing. Jon couldn’t quite make it out, but flipping to the next page he realized that the hard pressed lines had left an impression on the pages below, allowing him to read what was written. 

Aspicio,

Aspicio et fio perditus,

Aspicio Barbatos et pereo.

Do not look. Do not look.

Do not drink.

The next page was blank except for a single phrase:

Aspicio et pereo

the next page: Aspicio et pereo. Do not look. Do not drink.

The next: Do not look. Do not drink.

The next: Do not drink.

The next: Do not drink. 

The next: Do not drink.

.

.

.

—

Jon’s head hurt. 

—

Jon was snapped out of his focused state when Cass reached over and shut the book in front of him, looking concerned and mildly alarmed. It was at that moment that he realized he’d been breathing hard and fast as he slowly flipped through the pages, one at a time, without truly being in control of his own actions— not even the now-splitting headache able to break his trance. 

That wasn’t normal. Even for him. Fuck. 

He pushed himself violently away from the table, nearly toppling his chair backwards, fear lancing through him and heartbeat slamming inside his ribcage as instinctual alarm bells screamed in his head, warning him— almost too late— that the journal was bad bad bad evil.

Fuck. Fuck shit fuck shit goddamnit—  

Cass reached for the book, and Jon snapped a hand out to stop her, wrapping his fingers around her wrist. “Don’t touch that—!”

She froze and turned her head to stare at him, face a perfect expression of mild surprise that somehow conveyed what the hell is this? How dare you?

He let go, practically throwing himself backwards away from the table. This time, the chair did fall over. He twisted to the side, and ended up sprawled on the floor with Cass standing over him, alarm and guilt written all across her face. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry!’ She signed.

Daisy was at his side within seconds, in a fighting stance and scanning the room for the threat. “What happened?” She demanded, low and serious.

“It’s— I’m fine, just, that book—“ he waved Cass’s apologies off with one hand, then pointed shakily at the table.

Daisy stalked towards the table, pulling off her flannel outer layer and throwing it over the book Jon had pointed to. “That one?” 

“Yes.”

 She pulled out a lighter.

The alarm on Cass’s face doubled. “No!” She said out loud, and faster than either of them could reasonably follow she had snatched the lighter right out of Daisy’s hand.

Daisy turned to her, teeth bared— the pressure in the rooming seeming to steadily increase as she stared down the younger girl. 

Cass took a half-step back. “No,” she repeated, then turned to Jon, who was pushing himself back to standing, and slipped the lighter into her own pocket before signing ‘fire in the library is not allowed!’

Jon grimaced at the covered book on the table, shooting Daisy a look that had her standing down. ‘Not a normal book,’ he explained.

Cass frowned. ‘Is it dangerous?’

‘I think so. Maybe.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Thank you for closing it and breaking my focus. Don’t touch it again.’

Cass nodded seriously, then made her way toward her bag. ‘I’ll tell Babs,’ she signed, then fished out her phone and started typing— slowly, but confidently.

Jon set his chair upright. Daisy carefully wrapped her shirt more securely around the journal, then paced back and forth along the length of the room, her eyes never once leaving the bundle.

Jon sat down. The spike of pain in his head had eased into a dull throbbing, and his shoulder ached where he had hit the ground. He put his head in his hands.

That could have gone very, very badly. It still might— he didn’t know how this world’s version of Leitners worked, or if this was even analogous to one. it could be that it would yet show results. He was confident that he would be able to tell if he were under some supernatural effect as a result of his exposure— the Eye was nothing if not possessive— but Cass had touched it, too. Was she safe? Hopefully Barbara would be able to keep an eye on her. 

He didn’t even realize there were cursed books here, but he should have guessed as much. For all that he felt safe at the library, he had to remember to never let his guard down. 

They needed to be more careful.

—

Barbara took one long look at the state they all were in, then slid on a pair of thick gloves and placed the journal into an opaque cloth bag. 

“Thank you for calling for me,” she told them, signing along for Cass’s benefit, Daisy assumed. “I’ll deal with this. We have procedures for this sort of thing— this book should never have made it onto the shelves, and I’m sorry that it did.”

“You should burn it,” Daisy said. 

“I will… take that into consideration, thank you,” the librarian acknowledged. “Jon, if you don’t mind, could you come with me and tell me exactly what happened?” 

“Right,” Jon agreed, standing up. “Lead the way.” 

 Daisy followed, refusing to have Jon and that journal in the same room without her there. Cass, for her part, walked silently alongside Barbara’s wheelchair. The four of them made their way out of that section of the library and then, instead of turning right to cross the bridge toward the stairs, they turned left toward where a row of elevators waited. 

Barbara led them down to the main floor and then through a small door reading staff only, which, as one might expect, led into the staff-exclusive areas of the library. From there, they entered another elevator, and went down into what must have been the basement; wide hallways, closed doors, and concrete floors stretching out before them.

“The archives are down here,” she explained, and Daisy watched Jon perk up slightly, like a dog hearing its own name. “We have a special, secure area for anything with abnormal properties, and the equipment to test for the more common sources of those properties.”

“What would—“ Jon started, and then shut his mouth with an audible clack, wincing and looking to Daisy for help. 

“Um,” Daisy fumbled for a second, because she wasn’t actually sure what Jon wanted her to ask— “what sort of stuff does the equipment test for?” 

Jon shrugged. She figured that meant she was pretty close.

Cass was giving Jon a weird look. Daisy didn’t like it.

They made their way down one of the hallways as Barbara answered the question. “We scan for certain materials and chemicals that are often found in items with abnormal properties; things that tell us something about how they work and how to safely handle them— dionesium, for instance, has very different procedures than if we detected traces of promethium. And we’ve got ways of sniffing out proper magic, of course, if that’s what this is;” she shot them a knowing smile; “it sure helps to have contacts in the field.”

 Barbara stopped at a door partway down the hall, scanned her thumbprint, and waited for it to swing open on its own before wheeling in, the rest of them filing in after her.

The room they entered was fairly small, relative to the size of other rooms in the library; though still plenty large enough for them all to stand comfortably inside. There were tables lining the right wall, covered in various strange pieces of equipment and machinery which Daisy supposed must test for whatever dangerous materials might be found in suspicious potentially-magic books; to the left there was a section walled-off with glass or some other sort of see-through material— a single chair and small table inside— and then a set of two chairs either side another table, then tucked in the corner there was a set of cabinets over top of a small sink. At the end of the room, directly opposite the way they had entered through, was another door.

“Alright! Jon, if you could just sit down right there,” she pointed at one of the chairs at the table. “Pull it out a bit, so I can have a look at you.” 

He pulled the chair out away from the table and spun it ninety degrees to face the middle of the room before sitting down. Barbara slid the journal— still in the cloth bag— into a slot into one of the machines and then wheeled over to the cabinets and unhooked what looked, at first glance, like a cane from the wall. She opened one of the cabinets and reached up with the cane, and— oh. On the end of it was a… magnet? 

When Barabara touched the end of the device to things up in the cabinets, and pressed a small button in the handle, the item it was touching would stay attached to the end of the stick so she could bring them down. It was reminiscent of those grabby sticks used to pick up garbage off the street, only much more precise. Daisy had never seen anything quite like it. 

Barbara collected a few things from the cabinet, then moved to Jon, holding up what must have been medical equipment— a device that looked almost like a very small camera on a stick, with a tiny flashlight and a screen; something that wouldn’t have been out of place in an eye exam. She held it up towards Jon’s face. “Alright, then. Tell me what happened.”

While Jon retold the story, Barbara went about checking his eyes, pulse, blood pressure, reactions, and a myriad of other things that Daisy didn’t really understand, but remembered vaguely from the physical tests she had to undergo to become a police officer. 

“Cass noticed my distress, and she closed the book for me. I don’t know what would have happened if she hadn’t.”

Barbara twisted to shoot a look at Cass, then signed something at her. Daisy thought she was probably asking the kid to confirm that she’d touched the book, because next Barbara pointed to the other chair and Cass huffed, rolled her eyes, and sat down on it, signing something back with the sort of attitude that only teenage girls could master. Daisy thought she was probably insisting she felt fine.

Barbara turned back to Jon. 

“So, um, then I kind of freaked out, and Cass tried to touch the book again so I stopped her, and… I fell over, but I’m fine. And then Daisy put her shirt over it— she didn’t touch it, though.”

“Right,” Barabara nodded, then reached into a drawer by the sink and pulled out a rather intimidating needle inside a sterile plastic packet.

Jon eyed it suspiciously. “And that’s, um, that’s for…?”

“I just need to draw some blood, check for anomalies…”

Daisy wasn’t sure that was a good idea. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Jon echoed her thoughts. “We don’t have a baseline for me, so we won’t know if anything’s wrong…”

Barbara hummed. “I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with, Jon.” She reached over to the cabinets, opened the drawer, and put the blood drawing kit back. “How about this: I’ll give you a list of symptoms to watch out for, and you come back to me if you start to experience any of them— or, do you know Leslie Thompson? She’s got a clinic on the north island, she could check you out, too, if you explain what’s happened. She's very discreet with this sort of thing, she wouldn’t tell anyone you didn’t tell her she could.”

Jon nodded. “We’ve met. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Barbara nodded. “Good. All the other tests I did look normal, so, I’ll let you know if anything comes up with the book itself.” She frowned, thoughtful. “Do you guys have my number?”

“I, ah, I don’t believe so, no…” 

—

They left the library that day with strict instructions on how to self-monitor for various forms of cursed-book consequences, and two more numbers in their phones.

All things considered, it was not a terrible day.

—

Chapter Text

—

“Well, today was exciting,” Daisy said as they left the library, sarcasm dripping from the words. “Damn Leitners…”

Jon couldn’t help but agree. “I’m just glad I didn’t read the whole thing. We know how that tends to go.”

Daisy shrugged. “Hey, who knows— maybe here, reading magic books gives you consequence-free superpowers!”

Jon rolled his eyes. “I highly doubt that. Just telling Barbara about it gave me a headache.”  

Daisy huffed a breath. “Yeah, I can understand why. Freaky stuff.”

They fell into thoughtful silence, then, crossing the street and making their way into the subway station. It was only once they were sat down on their train— the car nearly empty— that Daisy spoke again. 

“Are you still alright with me going on patrol tonight? I’m sure Jason would get it…”

Jon shook his head. “It’s fine, Daisy. I’m perfectly safe in the diner.”

“I just don’t know if you should be alone, after what happened with that book.”

“Then I won’t be alone. I’m sure there’ll be someone downstairs I can sit with while you’re out.”

The train stopped. The doors opened; a couple of people got off, a half-dozen more filed on. The doors closed. They sped off again, spending several minutes in silence. 

“I want to go over that tape with you before you go,” Jon reminded her, as they approached their stop. God, it felt like a lifetime ago; him sat on the floor of the Special Collections room, listening to Georgie demand answers from a worryingly-distant Martin. He still had the tape in his bag. 

“Right,” Daisy nodded. “What was it about…?”

Jon sighed, learned his head against the window, felt the cool glass soothe his headache. This part of the train track was new— installed after some neighborhood-destroying fight or another— and the ride was blessedly smooth. “Georgie practically stormed the Institute,” he explained. “Demanded Martin tell her where I was. Apparently, she’s stopped getting the dreams.”

Daisy shifted to stare at him, slightly incredulous. “She has? But I still… why?”

Jon shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, but it seems likely that we’ve been cut off, mystically speaking.”

“But… the Entities are still… I can still feel the Hunt. You’ve still got your, you know…”

“Sure, but they’re not really the same, are they?” 

The train arrived at their stop, and they stood and filed out of the train and then the station alongside three other people; a group of teenage girls, surely off on some evening adventure, laughing and jostling each other.

“I don’t know about you,” Jon continued, “but the Eye feels more… responsive, now. Attentive, maybe? And less…” he made a frustrated sound, gesturing sharply with both hands. “Less big. Before, it was— it was a door, holding back all the knowledge in the damn universe— huge, and unknowable, really, just giving me a fraction of what it was. And now…” he shivered, pulled his jacket closer around himself. “Now it’s just… a hunger.”

Daisy looked uneasy, but thoughtful. “I think I know what you mean,” she said, eventually. “With the Hunt, I mean, I’ve always felt it, urging me on, I’ve always… heard it. But now…” she frowned, focusing. “Now it’s almost like it can hear me back. It’s more personal— and not nearly as subtle.”

“It’s just so frustrating,” Jon admitted. “Anytime I try to Know about anything outside of Gotham all I get is a headache.”

“Hm.” Daisy eyed him, the way he hunched in on himself, and how he avoided looking up anytime they walked near a streetlight. “You’ve been getting a lot of those, haven’t you?”

Jon rubbed at his eyes. “Yes,” he complained, “I feel awful, my head hurts, practically all the time, and I don’t…” he lifted his face into the nearly ever-present mist of cool light rain, “I don’t know what to do. Interrogating people helps, but never for long. I think I need a real Statement.”

He knew he sounded miserable. He was miserable. He didn't want to take a Statement— or, rather, he did want to, and that was part of the problem. There was nobody to take one from, anyways. Where did that leave him, aside from feeling sorry for himself? 

Daisy threw an arm around his shoulders and squeezed gently in an awkward sort of side-hug that did far more to chase away the chill of the night than it had any right to, if Jon were being completely honest, comforting warmth emanating from every point of contact. “We’ll get you one, then,” she decided. “You hear me? I’ll, I don’t know, I’ll chase someone around for a bit, then bring them to you.” They stopped walking, Daisy pulling Jon in a little closer against her side. “Maybe somebody really awful, so you don’t feel bad about it, huh? How about it?”

He didn’t know how to answer; thoughts a swirling mess in his head, emotions spiking in at least three directions at once. Instead of speaking, he leaned into her; turned his head to the side, then twisted his shoulders and body to follow, wrapping an arm around her back to return the hug. The height difference meant he was shoving his cold nose up into the junction of her neck and shoulder, but she didn’t seem to mind, and Jon couldn’t bring himself to care— not when she put her other hand on the back of his head, folding them together with just enough pressure, and leaned down so she could tell him, quietly, confidently: “you don’t deserve to starve, Jon. Not when we’ve got options. Not when I can do something about it.”

“I don’t want to hurt people,” he said, shutting his eyes and fighting frustrated tears. “I don’t want to be a goddamn monster.”

“You’re not a monster,” Daisy practically growled the words into his ear. “You’re trying to help people, aren’t you? And you are. You remember what that kid told you at the clinic? Her friend was kidnapped, and you got the information that let Jason’s people find them. And, well— you saved me.”

The emotion in her voice took Jon by surprise. Still, he felt that darkness coiling in his stomach, and with it a terrible suspicion that she was wrong. “But, but I— I feed on fucking fear, Daisy, you can’t honestly tell me—“

“I can and I will,” she cut him off. “It doesn’t matter. There’s always fear. People get hurt. We’ve just got to do our best to make sure it’s not the good people who get the worst of it, and keep ourselves alive in the meantime. You understand?” 

Jon sighed, feeling some of his tension finally drop under the influence of Daisy’s hands on his head and back, soothed by her words in his ear. “Yeah. Yeah, I— thank you.”

He opened his eyes and pulled back, Daisy leaving both her arms on his shoulders to look him in the eye, and it was only thanks to the angle at which he stood— facing almost the opposite direction from where they needed to go— that he saw it. 

There was an open cardboard box in the alleyway they had just passed. Scrawled in sharpie along the side was one word: 

Free.

Jon broke away from Daisy and jogged over to the box, just getting the feeling that there was something in there worth seeing, even though he wasn’t sure what. When he was a few metres away, though, his suspicions were confirmed by a tiny, sad, lost little “mew!”

He stopped, panting slightly from the short run, and peered inside. There, sitting curled up and shivering on a single, dirty towel, was the most pathetic kitten Jon had ever seen. Almost completely hairless, save a few dirty, matted whisps; huge dark ears pinned back over a wrinkled face; wide blue eyes that stared up at him, confused and scared and so painfully alone.

He reached into the box.

It hissed at him, scuttling backwards to press itself into the corner, tiny baby teeth flashing white in the darkness. 

Jon cooed. “Oh, no need for that.” He patted his pockets; did he have anything…?

The plastic wrapper of his sandwich from lunch was still in his pocket, and he pulled it out. There were a couple tiny bits of shredded chicken that had perhaps fallen out while he was eating; it would have to do. He only needed to gain its trust. 

He picked out one of the little bits of chicken and held it out on one finger. Unsurprisingly, the kitten hissed at him again, but after a moment seemed to catch the scent of what he was offering; Jon held very, very still as the little kitten cautiously sniffed at his finger and then delicately licked the chicken into its mouth.

“There you go…” Jon whispered.

Daisy came up behind him. “What are you doing, Jon—?”

“Shhh,” he turned to her, then gestured into the box. “There’s a baby.”

“What?”

He picked another scrap of chicken out of his sandwich wrapper, held the finger into the box. This time, the kitten was much braver, scarfing down the chicken and licking his finger clean before looking up at him— eyes wide, ears unfolding from its head; ridiculously huge. Jon didn’t think he’d ever seen a kitten with such oversized ears before. Beside him, Daisy let out a quiet, exasperated laugh. 

“Only you, Jon, I swear.”

He smiled. “Hey there, little guy. Do you want to come home with me? I promise it’s warm, and we have more food for you there…”

He didn’t know if they actually did, but he’d find something. Maybe they could stop on the way and get some kitten food— how old was this one, anyway? It couldn’t have been more than a few months old, would it still need milk? Who had left a baby out here all on its own?

He blinked down at it, long and slow.

The kitten blinked back. 

Jon carefully, carefully moved his hand over its head, ran a finger between those huge ears and down along its spine. The kitten stood up and rubbed its tiny, cold little nose into Jon’s wrist, and he scooped it up. 

He turned to Daisy, cradling the little baby to his chest. “She’s cold…” Jon whispered. 

Daisy frowned. “Better get home, then. Get her warmed up. Come on.” 

—

The kitten started purring as they walked— Jon having tucked it inside the front of his jacket so it might start to warm up— and didn’t stop purring for the entire trip back to the diner. Jon spent the walk gently petting it through the fabric, cooing and speaking in what he hoped was a comforting tone. 

It was a relatively short walk, thankfully; they only had to go a few blocks further before arriving at the diner, in all its derelict glory. And it was a good thing, too, because the rain started to pick up just as they entered the parking lot; they ran the short distance to the front door, Daisy holding it open and easing it shut behind them. 

“Hey guys,” Sage nodded to them from her customary spot on the counter. “Good day? Any trouble?”

Jon and Daisy exchanged a look. “Um, well,” Jon started, and then Daisy interjected with: “He read part of a cursed book—“

“What?!”

“Potentially cursed!” Jon protested; “the library’s looking into it, I’m fine—“

“Sure, sure, you didn’t look fine when—“

“Mrrew!”

They all stopped talking. Jon carefully pulled his jacket collar away from his neck, and after a brief moment of squirming, the kitten’s little head popped out under his chin. 

Sage stared. 

Jon smiled sheepishly. “We, ah. We found her on the way back…”

“Where?” Sage demanded, jumping down from the counter as Jon extricated the kitten from his jacket. She left her gun on the counter. 

“In a box on the side of the road?” Jon cradled the kitten close again, and she bumped the top of her head into the underside of his chin with a small mrrp! “It said ‘free’ on the side, I figured it was fine…”

“Let me see,” the guard reached her hands out for the kitten, and Jon instinctively pulled back a half-step while Daisy moved a protective hand out between them.

Sage softened, raised her hands placatingly. “My aunt used to foster kittens,” she explained. “I know what I’m doing. I just want to help. You found her outside?”

Jon forced himself to relax, and nodded. “Yes. I don’t know how old she is.”

Sage looked between Jon and Daisy, then stepped back. “Stay right here. I keep cat food in my bag.” 

Ten minutes later, they were all standing around the counter while the kitten eagerly licked up watered-down wet cat food from a shallow bowl that Sage had fetched from downstairs. 

“I would guess she’s around seven weeks old,” Sage was peering at the kitten’s face; “based on her eyes. They’re just starting to change colour, see?”

Jon looked. They were still very much blue, but with the light at a certain angle… 

“They’ll be yellow or green, I think,” she added.

“Does she—” Jon snapped his own hand up to cover his mouth. Not again, he’d thought he had that under control. “Food,” he said, “I don’t know what to feed her.”

Sage nodded. “You might want to give her some formula for the next week or so, especially since she’s probably underweight— won’t know for sure until you weigh her— but otherwise, kitten food at least three times a day, and she should have access to kibble. You should also get a heating pad or a hot water bottle, and get her dewormed and vaccinated…”

Jon was trying to follow, but he was no expert on kitten care, and he didn’t think trying to ask the Eye for help was a good idea right then, what with the persistent headache— and besides, the kitten was so damn cute it was hard to look at anything else for long. Sage seemed to cotton on to his confusion, though, and she took pity on him.

“Just take her to the vet tomorrow, get her checked out,” she told him, firmly, instead of elaborating on more long-term care.

“I’ve got a hot water bottle,” Daisy offered.

Jon blinked and looked up at her. “Why do you have one of those?”

Daisy shrugged. “Period cramps are a bitch. Wanted to preempt them.”

Jon nodded thoughtfully. “Ah. Right.”

“What do we do with the hot water bottle, then?” Daisy turned to Sage.

“Wrap it in a towel or a blanket, make sure she’s got access to it. You’ll need some kind of contained space for her.”

“Would my—?” Jon bit down his own tongue, a little bit too hard; one moment he was talking normally, and the next the buzz of compulsion was just there, begging him to use it, even when he definitely didn’t need to. Even when he knew none of the answers would help him. Maybe he needed to get away from people other than Daisy for a bit. “Hm. My room.” 

“Sure, so long as there’s nothing in there that might hurt her, and you should put anything you don’t want damaged somewhere she can’t reach.”

“I can do that,” Jon nodded. He could put his backpack up in the closet.

“Great.” Sage ran a hand down the kitten’s back. “I’ve got a bit more food I can give you. Make sure you get her to the vet as soon as possible.”

Jon nodded again. The kitten had finished with the food set out for her, and had started to gently headbutt his hand where he’d left it on the counter. He picked her up, and she tucked herself under his chin, and he fell a little bit more in love. Sage smiled softly. Daisy rolled her eyes, but Jon was certain she was smiling too, just a little bit. 

Daisy picked up the dish and the food Sage offered, and they made their way to the stairs to their apartment. Just as Jon opened the door, the guard called after them:

“Hey, Archie, one more thing!”

Jon half-turned back to her, expectant.

“Lilies are incredibly poisonous to cats,” Sage stressed. “They can die from cleaning a bit of pollen off their fur, or drinking from water that lilies have been in. I’m talking fatal kidney failure. For as long as you have a cat in your house, you do not keep lilies anywhere.”

Her intensity took Jon by surprise, but he nodded once more, seriously. “Right. Thank you, Sage.” 

She hopped back up onto her usual spot on the counter. “‘Course— you’ve got a good one, there. Best of luck with her.”

—

“—have a good evening, Martin.”

“You— you too, Georgie.”

The closing of a door. A long sigh. “Shit,” another sigh; the sound of Martin tapping the table. “That was exhausting. Was talking to people always so…?” A tired, frustrated groan. “I have work to do. I’ve got to put this away, I guess. Jon, if you’re listening… I don’t know. I just… I don’t know.”

The tape clicked off. Daisy frowned.

“Huh. You weren’t kidding when you said she stormed the place.”

Jon shook his head dramatically. “And after closing hours, too. Tisk tisk.” 

“Jon,” Daisy stared at him, a grin forming on her face, “was that a joke?”

“What, am I not allowed to be funny?”

“I never thought I’d see the day— Jonathan Sims, with a sense of humour!” She faked a sniffle, dramatically wiping a nonexistent tear from her cheek. 

Jon rolled his eyes, turning his attention to the kitten that had settled in his lap as his thoughts turned back to the content of the tape. 

Daisy hummed, her grin fading. “What time did you get this one?” She tapped a finger on the tape.

Jon thought back to the library. God, what a long day it had been. “Around five-thirty?”

“Institute closes to the public at five, but stays open to researchers and contractors until seven.”

Jon nodded. “So, the time of day must be close— I wonder if the dates match up…”

Daisy shrugged. “Not like he’s going around saying the date every time. Sure would be helpful.”

“Actually…” Jon frowned. “Hold on.”

He carefully picked up the kitten and set her in Daisy’s lap instead— she protested with an affronted mrreh!— then jogged to his bedroom and grabbed the first of the tape recorders from his backpack before returning to the kitchen table. 

“Here, let me just…”

He rewound the tape to near the beginning; pressed play.

“—tapes, on the coff—”

He paused, wound forward a bit, pressed play again.

“—it? Is that weird?”

Martin’s voice paused, and Jon nodded. “This bit, he mentions—”

“It’s been a little over a week, since you went in there. And— and Basira talked to Elias—” Jon paused the tape, cutting off Martin’s words.

“A little over a week, then,” Daisy frowned thoughtfully. “When did you go in to, uh, to get me?”

Jon thought back. “Uh. Saturday. When— when Melanie wasn’t in. Saturday March 24th.”

Daisy checked her phone. “It’s April 5th, now. Thursday. And the year matches,” she added. “It’s still so weird that it’s 2018 now, I lost so much time down there that it’s a whole different year…”

“I got this tape on… Sunday, right, so April 1st…” he did the math in his head. “Eight days after I went in.”

Daisy nodded. “Right. Checks out— maybe it does match, then.”

Jon frowned. “We got here Friday night,” he realized. “Was I really in there for six days? Didn’t feel like it…”

“Don’t look at me. My perception of time down there was shot to hell.”

“I can imagine. I don’t think it was more than a day or two before I found you, though.”

“And then, what, two days of suffering before that bit where we almost made it out?” Daisy recounted— she looked to Jon for approval on her time estimate, and he nodded—  “Must have been another few days before we popped out of the cemetery,” she finished.

Jon shivered. “Yeah, maybe. Time is…”

“Hard.”

“Yeah.”

“… I hope nobody else is getting the dreams,” Daisy said, staring at the table. 

Jon sighed. “Yeah. I hope so too.”

“…Want to answer the tape?”

Jon nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, we should.” He reached across the table and pulled the tape recorder from earlier that day towards himself, took a deep breath, and pressed record.

“Hello, Martin,” he said. “The date is Thursday, April 5th. We did the math, Daisy and I, and we think the dates do match up. Maybe even the times, just about. I’m not sure what that means.”

He thought about what else he had to say. “We’ve spent the last couple of days at the library, for the most part. We made some friends, I think— there’s a teenager, her name’s Cass, and Cass’s older sister Barbara. They’ve both been a great help, especially today… there was a Leitner—” He rubbed a hand over his eyes for a moment— “or, well, not a Leitner, I think it was, ah, native, so to speak. Not our kind of unpleasant, but, well. Still unpleasant.”

“Day wasn’t all bad, though,” Daisy interrupted him, picking up the kitten off her lap and holding her out. 

“Oh! Yes, yes of course,” Jon took the little one back from Daisy, held her under his chin in that way she liked. She started purring. “We found a kitten. She’s a tiny thing, only a couple months old, and almost completely hairless— just the kind of cat she is, I think. Like a sphynx. I don’t have a name for her yet, but she’s just so, so— listen.” He leaned forward so that the purring creature held to his upper chest was inches away from the recorder, dropping several little kisses on her head that had her revving up the purrs even louder. 

After a few seconds, he leaned back. “I’ve only had her for a couple of hours, but I promise you’re going to love her. She’s absolutely perfect, Martin. We’re taking her to the vet tomorrow, but she’s in good spirits.”

“We went with the Red Hood— Jason— on a meeting last night,” Daisy said, switching the topic while Jon peppered the kitten with little kisses again. “It was kind of boring, honestly. Some negotiation for a weapons deal. Jon was badass, though, one of them tried to lie and Jon, just, he just looked at him, went all spooky and said ‘that’s a lie,’ and I’ve never seen a man backpedal faster in my life.” She grinned. “It was hilarious. Jason didn’t even need to threaten him, he was already so freaked out.”

Jon remembered the man’s face. The terror in his eyes as he realized what had happened— and realized who Jon was. Jason hadn’t introduced them, but in that moment, the man’s jaw had gone slack, and he’d mouthed one single word: 

Archivist. 

Nobody had tried to lie, again, after that, and Jason had gotten his deal.

Daisy leveled him with a flat stare, clearly aware of where his thoughts had taken him. “Really, Jon? What’s with that face?”

“You know why, Daisy.”

She huffed out a slightly irritated breath. “He wasn’t afraid because of your spooky Archivist powers, he was afraid because his whole strategy at the meeting relied on lying and Jason outplayed him.”

Jon wanted to keep being upset— he deserved to be upset, and surely if his powers didn’t upset him that would be a bad sign for his tenuous grasp on humanity— but it was hard to do, with Daisy looking at him like that, like even the thought of blaming himself was ridiculous, and it was hard to feel anything other than adoration with the soft skin of a tiny little kitten butting up against his face. 

“Right,” he said, eventually. “So, that was last night, and then afterwards Jason asked us about going on patrol with him— taking up vigilantism ourselves, all that. So tonight Daisy’s going to shadow him, see how that goes…”

“Speaking of that, I should head out soon,” Daisy checked the time on her phone. “I’m meeting him in about twenty minutes, but I should get something to eat first.” 

“Right,” Jon nodded, “Martin, please tell me you’re getting these, and let me know when you find anything about getting us back… oh, and, please— please don’t involve Georgie more than you have to,” he winced. “I’ve put her through enough already. But, uh, keep her updated, just enough that she doesn’t come looking for information on her own.” He looked up to Daisy. “Did I miss anything?”

Daisy shook her head. “Sounds good to me.”

Jon pet the kitten. “Be very careful, Martin. I need you in one piece when I get back!” He went for lighthearted, but fell somewhere a little further on the earnest side of the spectrum than he intended. “Alright… bye, then. Talk to you soon.”

He turned off the tape recorder. 

—

Click

“Hey, Jon, I hope you’re doing alright.”  

Jon nearly fell off the couch. Already? Daisy had just gone out on patrol with Jason, couldn’t it wait?

Then his breath caught. This was— really soon. Had Martin gotten his response?

“I’m… I don’t know if you heard, what happened earlier, but I’m sorry if you did.”

As quickly as it had come, his hope was dashed, and Jon let his head fall back on the couch, closing his eyes.

“I didn’t know what to do— what you would want me to do. But now I know the dreams have stopped, and… that’s not a good sign, is it? I mean, obviously it’s good, for the people who were getting them, but, but…

“I, um. I thought about giving your rib to Georgie, but I don’t want to get her any more involved than she already is. I hope that’s okay. I guess I could give it to Melanie, too, but I think she’s still angry with you.” A small, humorless laugh. “And Basira hasn’t been here, god knows what she’s doing, off on some goose chase for Elias again I bet. It’s fine. Makes it easier, to keep to myself, if I don’t even have the temptation to talk to her. Seeing Georgie was bad enough.”

Jon had never wanted to hug somebody more in his life than he wanted to hug Martin at that moment.

“I should be glad, shouldn’t I? That there’s people other than me who care what happens to you. When you do get back, I’m not… I don’t know what you’ll have been through, and I won’t be able to support you. Not like before. Not how you need.”

A heavy sigh. A long pause. “I really don’t know what I’m supposed to do, Jon. I can’t tell anybody about this, what I’m doing with the tapes— I’m not even sure I can tell Basira, when she gets back. I just have to keep going, every day, not knowing where you are or even whether you’re really alive! What if Elias was lying, and you’re still in that— that coffin? What if wherever you are, is— is worse than here?”

That shaky breath was almost a sob. Jon was sure of it. 

“What if I can’t get you back, and I’m just going to be alone forever?”

Jon’s chest squeezed. Everything in him rebelled at what he was hearing; every instinct begging him to fix it.  

But he couldn’t. 

He couldn’t fix it. 

“Sorry. I should… I should go home. I hope I, uh, I hope I hear back from you soon, Jon. Stay safe.”

The tape clicked off. 

Jon stared down at it for a long, long moment, thinking about what he should even begin to say.

In the end, it was probably about ten minutes before he gathered up enough courage to answer, after listening to the tape again for good measure. He picked up the yet-unnamed kitten from where she had fallen asleep on his lap— she made a sleepy little mrra? In response— then picked up the tape recorder, made his way into his room, and shut the door.

He clicked record.

“I am receiving your messages, Martin,” Jon started. “This was the fourth one. The third was earlier today— the date is still Thursday, April the fifth. I’m…” he paused. “I suppose I’m alone, too, right now,” He settled on, “but the longer I spend here, the less true that really becomes. I’ve got Daisy, and Jason, and the other, ah, the other members of the gang— some of them are quite nice, actually— and there’s Cass and Barbara at the library…  And I’ve got the kitten, as I mentioned earlier. I need a name for her.”

He paused for another moment, just staring at the tape recorder, trying to think of what else he even wanted to tell Martin. 

“Daisy’s out on patrol, with Jason— or, well, with the Red Hood. I’m not sure what it entails, exactly, but I do know she’s Hunting, and… I’m worried.” He felt the truth of his words click into place as he spoke; a sharp twist of anxiety in his gut. “She can handle herself. I know that. I know that. But she was so sure back in the—“ his throat threatened to close on him, and he had to breath and steady himself before pushing on; “back in the Coffin, that she didn’t want to serve the Hunt anymore. And now…”

He shook his head and chuckled softly. “I suppose we haven’t got much of a choice. Either of us. Things are different here, and we need to be… useful. Our, ah, abilities are the only way we can really…”

He sighed. “We keep each other in check as best we can. I don’t know that I would have made it this far without her.”

He hovered his hand over the button to stop the recording. Before he did, though, he added on: “I miss you. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there when… I’m sorry I haven’t been there. You stay safe, too.”

Click.

He put the tape recorder to the side and dropped his head into his hands, fighting back the wave of emotion that washed over him. God, when had he become so sappy? Talking into tapes in the hopes that Martin would hear, when all signs pointed toward it being a waste of time. Stupid.

He was pulled out of his little thought spiral by the feeling of a tiny paw patting him on the wrist. 

He peered out from the cover of his hands. The kitten was sitting there, on the bed, looking at him with the most affronted expression Jon had ever seen on a creature so small. 

He scoffed and rolled his eyes dramatically. “Well excuse me, Officer, I didn’t realize having emotions was a crime…”

“Mrreow!”

Jon laughed a little wetly. “Oh, that was a proper meow there! Good on you. Should get a medal for that one.” He ran a hand absentmindedly down the kitten’s back, listening to her purrs pick back up again as she claimed her spot on his lap.

“Hmm, you like that, don't you? Is that a good name for you?”

“Mrrp!” 

“Officer… Blackwood?”

She purred louder. Jon smiled. He took out his phone and snapped a picture of her— wide eyes and comically huge ears— and sent it to Daisy.

How’s the name Officer Blackwood for this little girl?

After a minute and a half more of gently petting the newly dubbed Officer, Jon got a text back.

You’re ridiculous, you know that?

Sounds perfect.

—

Chapter Text

—

It turned out that the Red Hood had a goddamn fully-functional secret hideout. Sure, maybe Daisy shouldn’t have been surprised— he had to have some sort of base of operations for his nightly activities— but she had kind of assumed his vigilantism was tied more into his crime-lording; that when he picked her up outside the diner and said “I’ve set aside some gear for you to try before we head out,” he would be taking her to some warehouse or something, somewhere that matched what she had come to expect from him.

This was not what she had expected. This was…

Well.

Her first surprise came when Jason drove the car into a wide alleyway about five blocks south of the diner— an alleyway which seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be a dead end. He drove directly towards a brick wall, zero hesitation— Daisy glued to her seat in shocked horror— and then right before the moment of impact the ground fell away beneath them and they drove down a ramp under the brick wall and into a wide tunnel. 

“What the hell was that?!” 

Jason grinned. “Do you like it? It only opens like that if I’m in the car— pings off my helmet.” 

“Did you have to drive that fast?” She felt her heart jackrabbiting in her chest.  

“No,” Jason said, smug as anything; “I just thought it’d be funny. And I was right.”

He drove around a lazy, gradual turn, and then the tunnel emptied out into a much larger cave that was apparently functioning as a parking garage. Aside from the nondescript, medium-sized car they had driven there in, there was a small, sleek, fast-looking car; an old, beat-up looking flatbed truck; and a large black van. There were also three motorcycles and a collection of about a half-dozen bicycles off to one side. 

“Are these all yours?” Daisy asked, stepping out of the car. 

Jason got out and slammed his own door shut. “Almost.” He pointed to the motorcycles; “the bike on the left there is Camryn’s. She’s around here somewhere.”

Jason led Daisy towards a metal door set into the far wall; he input a code and then scanned his thumbprint, and as the door opened he turned to grin back at her.

“Welcome to my top-secret evil lair!” 

Daisy laughed as she followed him in. “I can believe it’s secret, but you vastly overestimate how evil you are, Jason, I mean really…” she trailed off as she stepped through the door— “Oh. Wow.”

She found herself standing in a large, naturally-formed cave, dark shadows framing a space which was a strange mixture of comfortable and practical— a couch over a rug near a small kitchen setup on the right side, contrasting with the multiple racks and shelves of weapons and a table covered in gear and armour on the left. There were a few other doorways and passages visible along the walls, with the centre of the space dominated by training mats. One section of the room was home to a complicated computer setup, with three monitors and a very comfortable looking office-style chair. 

The chair in front of the computer was already occupied; Camryn lifted a hand over the backrest in greeting as Jason shut the door behind them, but didn’t look up from whatever she was working on. 

“Hey, Red. Daisy. Stuff’s all out there for you.” She gestured at the table on the far side of the room, and Jason gave the back of her chair a little pat as they passed by her.

“Thanks. Any luck?” 

She nodded. “Yeah, actually. Turns out the company that owns the place is in the middle of going under— I’ve arranged for you and Darcy to meet with them tomorrow to sign the paperwork.” 

“Sweet, good job,” Jason grinned. “How much?” 

“Fifty grand.” She waved a hand in the air, “Pennies to us, now. Don’t worry about it.”

“That cheap?” Jason turned and leaned in towards the screen, “isn’t real estate going kind of crazy right now?”

Camryn made a so-so motion with one hand. “Depends. Some of the other stuff we looked at is insane, but Burnley’s alright. Plus, I mean, who wants to buy an abandoned diner with the Red Hood squatting in it?” 

Daisy followed Jason over. “You don’t own the diner?” 

Jason waved a hand dismissively. “Not yet.”

Camryn gestured at the left-hand screen, which was some sort of spreadsheet— the title in the top corner revealing it to be a budget. “Didn’t have the cash before. Now we do.”

Jason hummed thoughtfully. “Speaking of cash, did you get everything I asked for?” 

“Sure did;” she pointed at the tables covered in gear; “everything’s over there. Knock yourselves out— or don’t, actually. That’d be really inconvenient.”

“We’ll do our best,” Jason replied dryly. “Come on, Daisy.”

—

“Everything fit okay?” 

Daisy stared at herself in the mirror, twisting to get a better look at what she couldn’t see from the front. 

It did fit. It fit surprisingly well, considering she’d only given Jason her measurements the night before— where he’d gotten a tailor-fit armoured bodysuit on such short notice, Daisy had no idea. The main piece consisted of simple all-black sturdy fabric over a thin, comfortable underlayer; it was tight enough to be supportive in the right places but not too tight, enough weight that she knew it was sufficiently protective but not nearly as heavy as the armoured vests she had worn as police, and somehow it had no less than six pockets hidden throughout— and those were only the ones she had found so far. 

She stretched her arms above her head; held each of her knees up to her chest in turn; stretched as far as she could into a lunge and twisted her shoulders from side to side. It didn’t limit her range of motion at all.

“Fits great!” She called back to Jason, opening the door of the small changing room to find him checking over the weapons laid out on one side of the table. 

He turned to face her, eyeing the suit critically for a moment then meeting her eyes with a subtle smile and a satisfied nod. “Looks good.” Then he grabbed something off the table and tossed it to her: “Catch.” 

Daisy caught what turned out to be a bundle of fabric. Unfolding it revealed a dark red-brown leather jacket, not unlike Jason’s own, except that hers had a hood. Slipping it on over her shoulders, Daisy was unsurprised to find that it fit perfectly.   

“Thanks.” 

Jason grinned and took two steps backward, gesturing expansively at the table and everything laid out on it. “Now,” he declared, “welcome to Vigilantism two-oh-two, taught by yours truly.” 

Daisy lifted an eyebrow, the corner of her lip tilting up in amusement. “Not Vigilantism one-oh-one?”

“This isn’t an introductory level course, Daisy,” Jason shook his head in playful mock-exasperation, “you’ve already got some experience. We’ve just gotta take it to the next level.” 

“Right… and the next level would be…?”

Jason picked something up off the table— a long knife, which he started to spin and twist between his fingers while he talked. “There are three things that any vigilante needs to keep on top of, to be successful.” He held up his free hand, counting on his fingers as he explained. “One: information. We don’t go out there without knowing the lay of things— that’s everything from having a planned route, to the current political situation between Gotham’s criminal elements, which Rogues are running free, everything down to the weather. And, of course, if we’ve got a target we’re looking for, we need to know everything we can about them, too.”

He paused to let Daisy take his words in, then continued. “Two: training. I’m not expecting you to fight any of the big players, but you’ll need some basic gymnastics and martial arts, and you’ve got to know the hand signals I use— and, of course, you’ll need to learn how to use the gear I’ve brought you, which is the third thing: equipment. Good gear can make a world of difference out there, even though some people like to pretend they get by just on wits and strength.” He dropped the counting hand and gestured to the table. “We’ll get you swinging in no time. Now—“ he paused dramatically— “have you thought of a name?” 

Daisy nodded slowly. “I have, actually. I was thinking I could go by Alice, for now.” 

Jason blinked, looking a little confused. “I mean— that’s fine, but— why?” 

Daisy grinned. “It’s my name.” 

Jason rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I get that, but why—“

“No,” Daisy cut him off, “I mean, back home, my legal name is Alice Tonner. Daisy’s a nickname, but nobody uses my actual name, and I realized…”

A grin slowly broke out on Jason’s face. “You don’t legally exist here,” he finished for her, letting out a short laugh, “you can use your real name and nobody will know— that’s great! Alright, Alice it is. Come here, let me show you the gear I got you.”

—

Daisy’s gear consisted of a belt with basic first aid supplies, a pouch for her phone, and all sorts of small explosives; an assortment of weapons including a wicked-sharp knife— larger than the one she’d taken off that would-be mugger on her first night in Gotham— a semi-automatic pistol, and a set of smaller, throwable knives that she didn’t know how to use; a red domino mask; and a simple headpiece that framed her face and ensured her hair would stay out of the way, since it was too short to tie back properly.

(Daisy’s hair had been so horribly matted, after the Coffin, that she’d cut it all off before showering that first night in Jason’s apartment.

Before, it had been long; falling down nearly to her hips, usually kept in a simple braid, except on the occasions where Basira wanted to try something fun with it, which was usually a weekly event. In a life filled with sacrifices in the name of practicality, her hair had been something of an indulgence; it’d nearly gotten her killed while Hunting three separate times, some horrible creature— or something horribly human— thinking to grab hold of the braid and bare her throat. 

But it was worth it. For the simple joy of Basira at her back, weaving it into whatever shape she’d found on the internet while they laughed together over some stupid show, for the quiet mischief of flinging her braids into people’s faces with a small spin, for the satisfaction of watching it grow and keeping it healthy and thinking: Yes, I am human. I can care for something. I can do more than destroy. It was worth it. 

She missed her hair.)

The headpiece also helped to hold in place a small earpiece. “It’s a communicator,” Jason explained, “it’s already connected to the one in my helmet, and we can use them to tap police lines.”

“Cool,” Daisy said, adjusting the band that held the thing in place around her head. It sounded very useful.  

Once they had gone over all their gear and how it worked— except for the grappling hook gun, which Jason said she would need to be shown— they left it all on the table and moved to the training mats. 

Jason gestured for her to stand across from him. “I want to see how you fight,” he explained, “so I know where your skills are at. Police training includes some hand-to-hand, right?”

Daisy nodded, then reconsidered and made a so-so motion with one hand. “Regular police, not so much— some basic moves and holds and how to use the baton— but when I was Sectioned they… encouraged me to get some extra training.”  

“Great. Hit me.”

Daisy spent the next ten minutes or so trying, and failing, to land a single hit on Jason. Despite this, he was grinning by the end of it, and when he called them to stop he slapped her encouragingly on the back. “You’re better than I thought you’d be!”

She swiped sweat from her forehead. “Seriously? I couldn’t even hit you.” 

“Yeah, but I wasn’t expecting you to. I was trained by goddamn assassins, and Bats before that. Trust me, you’ve got a good baseline— better than most people starting out.” 

Daisy huffed. “Alright. If you say so. What now?”

Jason grinned again. “Now try to block me.”

Daisy spent the ten minutes after that mostly on the ground, much to her chagrin. Jason would come at her, always with something different; she’d block or dodge his first swing, and sometimes the second, once even managing to evade four takedown attempts in a row, but he always managed to hook a leg or twist her elbow or something that left her sprawled on the mat within about thirty seconds. 

“Awesome,” he said earnestly, helping her stand. “This is going to be great. That’s enough for now.”

Daisy moved back to the table, where a water bottle waited for her. She took a drink. “What next?”

Jason followed her, grabbing for his own utility belt. “How are you with a knife?” 

—

“Are you sure this is safe?”

Jason shrugged, tugging on the grapple line he’d hooked onto a fire escape three storeys up. “Probably not, but it’s far from the most dangerous thing we do. And when you spend so much time on rooftops, mobility is pretty important.” 

Daisy grimaced and aimed the thing again. “This one?” She tapped the trigger button on the handle with her finger. 

“Yep,” Jason confirmed, reaching out to adjust her aim by what was really a very small amount. “Remember— launch, wait, then release.”

“Right,” Daisy agreed. She took a deep breath, focused hard on the fire escape above them, and squeezed the trigger.

She’d practiced firing it shorter distances; but this was her first time trying to actually catch something with it. The hook— retracted and aerodynamic— shot past her target railing, and when she let go of the trigger the hooks flared outward and the mechanism retracted, pulling the hook back toward the railing until—

Thunk.

“Good job!”

Daisy smiled— a little nervously, but pleased nonetheless. The line had gone taut; the hook successfully caught on the fire escape, although it was actually fixed one rung down from the top of the metal balcony, the line looped over next to Jason’s hook. She gave it an experimental tug, and it held firm. 

“Okay, what now?”

Jason held onto the launcher above his head, and mimed squeezing with the other. “When you press this button on the side of the handle, it’ll pull you up. There’s the dial on the back to control the speed, see it?”

Daisy looked at the device in her hand. They’d gone over all the parts of it already. “Yep.”

“What’s it set to?” Jason prompted.

Daisy looked at the little numbers on the thing. “Uh. One.” The slowest setting, naturally.

“Okay, great,” Jason grinned. “Now you just…”

He pressed the button and it lifted him, slowly, a few feet off the ground before he pressed it again and stopped, hanging from that arm. “Go up. You might want to hold on with both hands.” 

Daisy took a deep breath, held the grapple gun firmly with both hands, and clicked the button to retract the line. 

She knew she couldn’t have been going all that fast, but it felt for a moment like her shoulders were being wrenched out of their sockets— her stomach dropped as the ground fell away from her, the brick of the alleyway rushing past her, and she was up, up, past Jason, past the first floor before she remembered to click the button again. 

Dangling some ten feet over the ground, Daisy kicked her feet to spin and face Jason as he ascended and came to a stop next to her, laughing. 

“What?” She demanded. 

“You just— you were so surprised, that little yelp—

“Shut up.” Daisy huffed, looking up toward their goal: the second storey fire escape. The idea was simple: retract the line until she was level with it, then swing over the railing. 

In practice, it wasn’t so easy. Jason, of course, had no trouble whatsoever; swinging then pushing his feet off the brick wall and letting the line pull him upward in the same motion, pressing the button that disengaged the hooks before he’d even cleared the railing. 

Daisy, meanwhile, moved in starts and stops, and by the time she drew mostly level with Jason her shoulders felt like they were going to mutiny. The idea of swinging, frankly, felt like hell. Luckily, Jason took pity on her, and reached out to pull her over the railing. As soon as her feet were securely on a solid surface, she dropped the grapple gun entirely— letting it dangle in the air beside them— and tried to work the fire out of her shoulders.

“That fuckin’ hurts,” she hissed. “You do this all the time?”

Jason grabbed her abandoned grapple and pressed the button to disengage the hooks and retract the line. He shrugged. “You‘ll get the hang of it— hah.” 

Daisy rolled her eyes at the pun, shaking out her wrists.

“I forgot how much the first time sucks, honestly,” Jason admitted. “You get used to it. In a couple months, you’ll be swinging like a pro.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Daisy took her grapple back from Jason, “but I’ll take your word for it.”

—

Once they had managed to maneuver up onto the roof, Jason explained their goals for that evening as well as some ground rules.

“You remember last night, after you and Darcy dealt with the fucker that tried to grab Tamsin?”

“Samir,” Daisy remembered. She’d helped chop his body up into tiny pieces. “What about him?”

“He gave us a name,” Jason explained, “Alec— and a location. By the time I went to check it out, place was empty. Part of tonight’s patrol is gonna be meeting up with a couple of contacts who might know something about the guy.”

“Alright,” Daisy nodded. “What else?”

Jason tapped something on the side of his helmet. “I'm not planning on running into anybody important today,” he said, “all the big rogues are in Arkham or pretending to be reformed. But if we do— you listen to me, okay? If I tell you to stay back, stay back.”

Daisy nodded seriously. Jason knew Gotham’s many villains far better than she did; she trusted his judgement on it. “What about, uh, Bats?”

Jason shifted on his feet, and when he spoke, it was with a new sort of tension. “They shouldn’t be on my fucking turf at all. If they show up… One-on-one, I can take any of them, especially around here. Just stay clear, you understand?”

“Yeah.” Daisy fidgeted with the grip of her knife where it was strapped to her thigh. “What if there’s more than one of them? Or, I don’t know, they get a lucky hit…”

“If I’m out of commission and it’s just you and a Bat, you tell them that I made you work for me, and then feed them bullshit information until you can get the hell out of there. Unless it’s just Robin,” he added, with no small amount of derision, “you already know you can take the kid, but I doubt Daddy Bats is going to let him out alone after the stunt you guys pulled last time.”

Daisy rolled her eyes. “But how do we fight them?”

“You don’t.”

“If I have to,” Daisy countered, “what should I know?”

Jason heaved a short sigh before answering, ticking off names on his fingers. “Robin,” he started, practically spitting the name, “is fast, and tricky, and chatty. If he’s there, it’s probably just as a distraction, but if you need to fight him— he’s got a Bo staff and batarangs, and your best bet is to either get in real close and corner him to limit his maneuverability, or shoot him in the fucking foot. Just be careful not to off him, got it?”

“Because he's a kid?” 

“Sure, yeah, and killing any Bat would make our lives hell, honestly. But— hm. It’s important that they think we’d kill them. Does that make sense?”

Daisy nodded. “You’ve got a reputation to keep up.” 

“Exactly. So, that’s Robin.” He ticked up a second finger. “Batman— I’m serious. If you’re in a position where you have to fight him, you should be looking for a way out. You’ve got smoke bombs— use them and run. There’s an emergency button on the inside of your left wrist; it’ll send your location out to me, Camryn, Darcy, and Sage. Get underground, if you can, or into a crowded public place like a bar. If you need time to get away from him and you have to fight him, just, don't ever stop moving. He’s big, and he’s strong, you don’t want him getting any kind of grip on you. Keep your distance if you can. He wears loads of armour, shoot him in the chest if you want.” 

Daisy nodded. “Okay. Got it.”

He ticked up a third finger. “Nightwing’s been in town a few days now, since just after you guys met Robin— doubt that’s a coincidence— and he’s a bitch to fight. He was in the circus, you know that?”

Daisy went still. “The… circus?” Her voice was dark. Cold. Circus.

Jason waved a hand through the air. “Not a spooky circus. Like— a regular one. Dickie grew up doing acrobatics and shit, and he’s been fighting crime since he was nine. I haven’t actually fought him since I got back to Gotham, but I know what he’s like. He’s got his own batarangs— he calls them wingdings— but what you really have to watch out for is his escrima sticks; they’re electrified, getting hit with one is like getting hit with a taser, so don’t get hit. If you have to fight him, try not to get in close— not sure what kind of armour he’s got these days, so stick to nonlethal shots— and if you need to stall, just let him talk. He loves the sound of his own voice.”

Daisy nodded, still a little nervous about he was in the circus. “Is that all the other vigilantes in Gotham, then?”

Jason shrugged. “There’s always a handful of wannabes. Alfred might be in their ears, too— and, uh. There’s Oracle.”

Daisy gestured wordlessly for him to continue.

He sighed. “Oracle is… the reason I change my phone number so often. If she is who I think she is, then she used to be Batgirl— another child-sidekick hero, like Robin.”

“Oh,” Daisy tilted her head. “Who do you think she is?”

Jason seemed to shrink in on himself a little bit; shoulders hunched, head down, arms crossed. “It’s… it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to talk about it. She got hurt, is all, and she— well, seems like now she’s the Bats’ eyes and ears, and she keeps trying to call me whenever she finds my number. We’ll have to be careful with our comms, too,” Jason added. “Make sure she hasn’t wormed her way in. Which reminds me—“ he turned to face her head-on. “Codenames only in the field, got it? I’m the Red Hood, you’re Alice. You never know who might be listening.”

He’d brushed right past it, but Daisy didn’t miss that something very personal had clearly happened with whoever Oracle was; she wasn’t sure what, but his hunched posture reminded Daisy of Jon’s when he was heaping unearned guilt on his own shoulders. She’d need to keep an eye on that. 

“Right,”  Daisy nodded. “Codenames. Anything else?”

“I sent a map of Gotham to your phone with our route and points of interest. You can’t be looking at it all the time, obviously, but you should go over it before we start— it’ll tell you where to go if we get separated.”

Daisy pulled out her phone, looked over the route in question— it seemed simple enough, a meandering loop that would take them to a warehouse where they were to meet with some of Jason's contacts, as well as Leslie’s clinic, and then down past the water on the south side of Crime Alley before returning to base. 

Just before she put her phone away, Daisy received another text— it was from Jon. Opening it revealed a picture of the kitten he’d found that day; looking up at the camera, obviously making biscuits in his lap, ears ridiculously large. Accompanying the image was a small message:

How’s the name Officer Blackwood for this little girl?

Daisy rolled her eyes dramatically. Jason leaned in. “What is it?” 

“Jon’s being a sap,” Daisy explained, showing him her phone screen. “He found a kitten today, on the way back from the library. I think he’s planning to keep it— is that alright?” The thought suddenly occurred to her that maybe Jason wouldn’t want them keeping a pet in the diner, but Jason just made a little aw at the image and nodded. 

“Of course, yeah. Be nice to have a cat around— Officer Blackwood? Any significance to the name?” He passed the phone back. 

Daisy scoffed. “Martin K. Blackwood is the man who Jon refuses to admit he has a massive crush on. It’s honestly a little concerning.”

“The one who makes tea for him?”

Daisy whipped her head around to Jason and broke out into a grin. “Oh, the very same— Christ, Jon’s in deep.” She laughed, then typed out her reply.

You’re ridiculous, you know that?

Then she followed it up with:

Sounds perfect.

Jason laughed, reading the text over her shoulder, and then spun away and walked across the rooftop in the direction their patrol would take them, a sort of optimistic spring to his steps, sliding his helmet back over his head as he did. 

Daisy put her phone away and went after him. 

—

Chapter Text

— 

Daisy was not actually supposed to be fighting. She was supposed to be shadowing Jason, seeing how he handled himself, watching his back and keeping an eye out for any unnoticed threats. She was supposed to be learning how to be a vigilante— how to watch the streets and the sky, how to grapple, how to navigate and parkour across Gotham’s rooftops— she was not supposed to be actively in combat at all… unless something went terribly wrong.

So, of course, it all went terribly wrong almost immediately:

The meeting had been a trap. 

The moment they had walked into the warehouse, expecting to meet with two of Jason’s contacts in Gotham’s underground with information on Alec, it had become clear that there were far more than two people in the building. Daisy’s instincts had gone haywire— she’d drawn her gun and fired up into the mezzanine across from them before she realized just how screwed they were, what must have been a goddamn machine gun rendering the space around the door where they’d been standing little more than a cloud of concrete dust over a bullet-riddled floor as Jason tackled her to the ground behind an overturned table which was obviously not adequate cover, so he’d thrown a grenade to give them a chance to run, and, well—

It had turned out that several of the crates littering the space when they arrived had been full of something very flammable. Daisy didn’t know what, exactly, but she did know that when Jason had thrown that first of his small explosives, it had been followed by disproportionate shouts of alarm, three separate explosions, and an entire third of the warehouse being rather abruptly on fire, including the space near the front door. They’d been surrounded by enemies and fire, then, for several terrifying moments, but the source of the heavy gunfire had been taken out by the explosions, and after a few well-placed shots of their own Daisy and Jason managed to break through the enemy line and dash behind a series of hopefully non-flammable crates— their route taking them away from the worst of the crackling fire and heavy, dark smoke— until they found themselves between those crates and a wall. There, they quickly reloaded their firearms, breathing hard and fast as they ducked out in turns to exchange fire with whoever the hell had set them up— Daisy knew she’d taken out a handful of them, but there had to be dozens more, and then—

“Get down!” 

Daisy dropped and covered her head; to her left, Jason— the Red Hood, at that moment more so than she had ever seen him before— lobbed something up over the crate they were using as cover before ducking down beside her, and a moment later another small explosion shook the building— there were screams, indistinct shouted orders, and then—

Daisy, acting on instinct, fired three shots into the smoke to her right. A short burst of answering fire went wide, and there was the clattering sound of metal hitting the ground— she’d hit her target, but she knew there’d be more coming. 

“They’re flanking us!” She hissed. 

Hood swore and lobbed something else over their shelter, this one exploding with an uncomfortably loud bang and a flash that briefly lit up the entire room, casting wild shifting shadows through the smoke, then grabbed Daisy by the elbow and pulled them both to their feet and out into the open; they sprinted ten feet to the shelter of an old, rusted forklift, nearly tripping over a prone form on the ground— whoever they were, she knew they were already dead— a fresh round of gunfire at their heels despite the flashbang and the smoke. They practically dove for cover, Daisy jarring her elbow against the machinery and nearly dropping her gun as she struggled not to devolve into a coughing fit; she ducked around the far side of it and fired another two shots, up almost directly above them— there was a short, cut-off shout, and then a body hit the back of the forklift as it fell from the mezzanine.  

Three feet away, Hood aimed and fired and aimed and fired and aimed and fired, again and again with uncanny focus and precision, each shot followed by a dull thud as a body hit the ground. How many had they taken out? How many were left? Where could they go, where wasn’t on fire?

There— a door, half-hidden behind a pile of old cardboard boxes; Daisy lobbed what she hoped was a smoke grenade into the area where most of the gunfire was coming from, and then dashed to the door.

“Alice, what the hell?!” Hood didn’t take his eyes off his targets, but who those targets were did shift— no doubt covering for her as she shoved the boxes aside, uncovering the door and wrenching the handle— locked. She backed up a step and kicked it open with a loud bang!

“Hood!” She called, after ducking inside. “Come on!”

 She fired four more shots to cover for him as he sprinted into the doorway— tried for a fifth, only for the gun to click uselessly in her hand, empty, empty, and she was out of extra ammunition— then they were both inside, she slammed the door shut, and all at once the sounds of bullets on concrete and the crackle of fire nearly vanished. 

They found themselves in a hallway; one blessedly free of smoke. They wasted no time; dashing along it, steps light and near-silent, carefully checking each corner to ensure the way was clear before they hurried onward. They only needed to find a way out, but none of the rooms they passed had any windows— thinking back, Daisy realized there were no windows on the first floor of the warehouse at all. 

In retrospect, that seemed like a pretty serious fire safety hazard. 

They slowed as they approached the stairs leading up— here, the smell of smoke was stronger, and glancing up Daisy could see wisps of it seeping into the stairwell above them— Jason ascended and then carefully peered around the corner on the upstairs landing to make sure—

He jerked backwards as a bullet pinged off the edge of his helmet and put a hole into the wall behind him— a spark and a small chunk of red flying off of him where it’d made contact— and then, without looking, he fired back around the corner. There were shouts; he fired again, and there were groans. Metal clattered to the floor. 

Jason stepped out around the corner, guns held out in front of him, but instead of firing another shot he relaxed his posture slightly and gestured Daisy forward. 

There were two bodies on the ground; one dying, another clearly already dead, both soaked in a slowly spreading pool of blood. They stepped carefully around the bodies and turned into the upstairs hallway; the air suspiciously warm, but the space clear of other people— or so they thought. The moment Jason opened the door into the first room, he was met with a mechanical hiss and a cloud of green gas, so different from the dark smoke gathering above them; it sunk toward the floor, almost weaving through the air and snaking down the hallway; and in an instant Jason had whirled around and shoved Daisy backward the way they’d come. 

That was a mistake. 

A hulking silhouette came into focus through the haze; lit from behind by what must have been a window, wearing a gas mask and wielding a metal baseball bat. Daisy recovered from the shove quickly— but not quickly enough. 

The bat came down and met Jason’s helmet with a horrible, echoing clang that Daisy could feel in her teeth— he didn’t fall, but it was a near thing, stumbling further down the hall away from Daisy and bouncing off the wall before lifting his gun and—

His attacker grabbed hold of Jason’s wrist with his free hand, and the shot went wide. He lifted the bat again; Daisy felt her stomach drop out at the realization that Jason, stunned as he was, wasn’t going to block it.

So she held her breath, drew her knife, and dove into the cloud of green gas.

The man didn’t see her coming; with the bat held high above his head, just starting its heavy arc down toward a dazed Jason, Daisy’s knife slid into his back. 

The man choked and dropped the bat to the floor; she pulled her knife free and dug it into the meat of his throat as she shoved him to the floor, blood spurting forward, coating the wall and Daisy in equal measure— her grip on the knife slick with it as she straightened back to her feet.

Jason stood leaning against the opposite wall, staring at Daisy— she couldn’t tell what expression he wore, but it must have been at least in part one of shock— and then after a beat passed, he burst into motion, fumbling at his belt and pulling out a small metal contraption

“Jesus Christ, Alice, don’t— don’t breathe, shit,” he cursed, pushing off the wall towards her.

She wasn’t. Something told her breathing in whatever they had quickly become surrounded by was a very bad idea, her instincts on the matter very effectively overriding the pressure in her lungs as she held her breath. 

Jason brought the contraption he’d pulled off his belt up to her face, angling it toward her mouth— “rebreather,” he explained, a little breathlessly, and she let him position it in her mouth and clip a little attachment over her nose to pinch it shut, and then when he nodded, she allowed herself to breathe carefully through the device.

They both stood there a long moment, just breathing, surrounded by a cloud of poison, the unsettling warmth of fire emanating from somewhere deeper in the building, a body on the floor beside them. Daisy frowned around the rebreather and gestured at Jason, making a questioning sound.

Jason shook his head, then froze and winced with his whole body. “My, uh— my helmet’s got a filter in it, I’m fine.”

Daisy nodded, then waved her hand around through the gas and tilted her head. 

“Oh, yeah, it’s— it’s fuckin’ fear toxin. I don’t know where the hell they got it, but don’t breathe it in, it makes you hallucinate and shit.” 

Daisy nodded. She hadn’t breathed it in, and she felt fine— but it was clearly something to be taken very seriously. 

They made their way into the room which was the source of the gas; Jason nearly tripped over the now-empty canister that had expelled the stuff, holding one hand up to his helmet and another out for balance, and Daisy grimaced as she followed, breathing as carefully as she could as they moved toward the window. It was already open, it turned out; a small fire escape sitting innocently beyond, the kind with a ladder that you had to drop down to the alleyway below. The ladder was already deployed. 

The roar of crackling fire reaching Daisy’s ears much more clearly through the open window.

Instead of heading down, Jason stepped out of the window and angled his grapple over the roof of the building opposite, then reached to grab Daisy around the waist; she got the hint and ducked out the window, wrapping her own arms around his shoulders; and then he launched his grapple, and they swung together out of the burning, fear-gassed building into the cold, clear night. 

—

They didn’t get far.

On the next rooftop over, still uncomfortably close to the burning warehouse, Jason dropped Daisy and opened a compartment on his utility belt. 

Daisy, figuring they were far enough from the smoke, took the rebreather out of her mouth and unclipped it from her nose, gratefully taking in a full breath of mostly-clean air. 

“How much of it did you breathe in?” Jason asked her, digging a little frantically through the pocket and pulling out a small metal cylinder.

Daisy waved him off. “None, you pushed me away and I held my breath. I’m pretty sure I’m fine.”

 Jason approached her with the cylinder. “Just— just in case, here’s an antidote, okay? It won’t hurt you if you don’t need it.”

His hands shook, ever so slightly, as he took Daisy’s arm, rolled up the sleeve of her jacket and then her bodysuit, and pressed one end of it to her skin. There was a small prick, a bit of pressure, and it was over. 

“Alright, good,” Jason nodded to himself. “Good. Good.” Then he paused, eyed her critically. “Are you hurt? That’s a lot of fucking blood.”

She looked down at herself, and yeah, that was a lot of blood, but: “None of it’s mine, don’t worry.”

“What?” Jason sounded a little faint. “No, Alice, you’re bleeding.” 

 She rolled her eyes. “I stabbed the guy that hit you— I’m fine. From the sound of it, he hit you pretty hard. Are you okay?”

He shook his head and grabbed her by the shoulder, and it was only then she noticed how hard he was breathing; he pushed her toward the ground, and she pulled back. 

“Daisy, you have to sit down— shit—“ he grabbed at his helmet, pressed the release mechanisms along the edges, yanked it off. 

“Hood,” she said, frowning. “Codenames , remember? I think you need to sit down. Do you have a concussion?” 

His eyes were wild; pupils huge, face slack, staring at Daisy with sudden, dawning horror. “No,” he breathed, rushing toward her and, again, trying to get her to sit down.

Daisy felt unease grow into a heavy weight in her stomach; the gradual realization that something was wrong. Her concerned puzzlement had her going along with Jason’s insistence, sitting on the rooftop, her back to the warehouse a block away. “Hood, seriously— what the hell?”

“No, please, Daisy…”

“Hood,” she emphasized, “Codenames in the field. You’re freaking me out…”

He tried to push her down onto her back, putting pressure on a non-existent wound in the centre of her chest, and she batted his hands away; his eyes flickered across her form, apparently cataloguing non-existent injuries, and for all that he was focused on her it almost seemed like he couldn’t even hear her, and above all else he was obviously so goddamn afraid and—

Oh. 

Oh no. 

She swore under her breath. “Hood, I thought you said your helmet had a filter in it?” 

He blinked hard and frowned. “Daisy?”

“Alice.”

“Right, right. It— it does, but that’s not— that’s not important right now, we need to get you to Leslie, we…”

“I’m not hurt!” She hissed, but he ignored her, reaching into his belt again for his first aid kit. 

His helmet was on the ground next to them. Daisy grabbed it, turned it over, and swore. Loudly. 

There was a massive crack down the side of it. She remembered the sound of the bat making contact— and the glancing bullet, fired from close range in the stairwell, the shootout and the fire and the explosions before that. It was no wonder it had sustained damage, but this…

She swore again as Jason tried to wrangle her to the ground a third time; pushed him back and grabbed him either side of his face, the both of them kneeling on the cold rooftop. 

“Jason, ” she stressed, “do you have another antidote?” 

His eyes cleared for a moment, understanding dawning on his face alongside an entirely new type of horror. “No,” he whispered, shaking. “Shit. Fuck, no, I don’t— I only keep one, I’ve never needed—“ 

His eyes drifted over her shoulder just in time for one side of the burning warehouse to collapse, and he flinched. Violently.

“Not again,” he whispered— rasped, really, eyes shiny with unshed tears, and Daisy felt her own throat tighten. 

“I’m sorry, I’m— I’m so sorry, I didn’t—“ 

“Jason,” Daisy swallowed. “Jason, it’s okay—“ 

He tackled her to the ground, boxing her in, covering her entire body with his own; her instincts told her to slam a knee into his crotch and throw him off, but she held back— realizing the way he held himself above her was… protective, like he was trying to shelter her with his body, whispering broken reassurances—

“You have to be okay, please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I couldn’t— I can’t— the door—“

He broke on a sob, collapsed to his elbows, then stretched a hand out in front of him, staring off toward the crackling fire—

“Please help me— Dad! Come back!”

Daisy shoved Jason off her, and he went without much fight, curling in on himself with his hands over his head. 

Daisy didn’t know what to do.

Then he started flinching.

“Nng— ah!” His whole body jerked to the side, and he clutched his arm to his chest. “Stop, stop, please!”

Daisy didn’t know what to do, but she needed to do something. Shaking with adrenaline, she stepped closer and placed a hand on Jason’s shoulder. 

He jerked away, crying out and kicking— Daisy backed off, took a deep breath. Thought about her options— severely limited as they were. She fumbled for her phone as Jason screamed—  

She found Darcy’s contact and pressed call. 

He picked up on the third ring. “Daisy? Aren’t you out with Hood?” 

Now that she was here, she didn’t know what to say. “Do you have—“ she started— then Jason cried out again, another plea for his nonexistent tormentor to stop, no, I’m sorry! Don’t—

She drew a little further away, but Darcy clearly heard something, because his next words were spoken with authority, tinged with anger. “What’s going on?” He demanded.

“Fear gas,” Daisy explained, “we— the meeting, it was a setup, we got out but he gave me his only antidote before we realized his helmet was compromised. He might also have a concussion, I’m not sure, I don’t— he’s not really present, he isn’t answering me anymore, I don’t know what to do.” 

“Where are you?” There was movement in the background, other voices— was that Jon?— and something about the seriousness of Darcy’s tone calmed Daisy a fraction. “Are you safe?” He added.

Daisy nodded, then realized he couldn’t see it. “I think so. We’re alone, at least; on a rooftop about a block away from the warehouse— do you know where it is? It’s on fire.”

“Of course it is.” A beat, and then “I’ve got your location. Sit tight, we’ll be there soon.”

“Okay,” Daisy nodded again. Behind her, Jason whimpered in pain. “…Try to hurry.”

Daisy had been through a lot of horrible things in her life— but she thought the next fifteen minutes were still pretty far up there in terms of awful experiences.  

Jason woke up in his coffin. 

At least, Daisy was pretty sure that was what was happening. He pushed his arms out above him, punched the air over and over—

“Batman! Batman!” Daisy winced at his volume— Batman was the last thing they needed right then. 

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon— something, gotta have— no no no no no, I’ve gotta— hrrghk—!”

It kept going like that, Jason twisting and punching the air and sobbing and then— then he was choking— on air, on nothing, on dirt and mud, making desperate grasping motions with his hands that Daisy knew all-too-well, leaving the phantom feeling of earth between her own fingers; she remembered what it was like, to have the air squeezed out of your lungs, to dig and dig and dig hoping praying that there was open sky somewhere above— she realized, distantly, that Jason wasn’t breathing, and she started to worry something else was wrong, but then—

Then he gasped for air, and his eyes flew open, and he started coughing, and crying, still, but quieter, more lost than actively suffocating. 

“Bruce? Where— where are you? Dad?”

He seemed calmer. Daisy forced her own breathing under control; banished thoughts of the Coffin back to that little box in her head where they belonged, and slowly made her way to his side. 

She took his hand, and unlike before, Jason curled into it; holding on tight, desperate, grasping her wrist like a lifeline. 

“It’s alright, Jason, you’re okay. You’re going to be okay. Darcy’s on his way…”

To her surprise, he looked up— eyes wide and red, hair wild, breathing uneven, gasping and heaving, but he was looking at her.

He opened his mouth to speak, and she felt a spark of hope, and then—

“Talia?”

That spark vanished in an instant. “No, Jason— it’s me. It’s Daisy.” 

He pushed himself up and forward, releasing her hand only to wrap his arms over her shoulders and bury his face into her neck.

“Talia, I’m— I’m trying, I’m trying so hard, but I can’t— I don’t—“

Daisy swallowed, frozen in place.

He was silent a moment, then he curled tighter around her, and Daisy lifted her own arms to return the embrace. “I'm sorry, Jason,” she whispered. Christ, he was just a kid. Only nineteen, she remembered, and only sixteen when he died. She held him tighter. He went stiff in her arms. 

“What— no, please, don’t— not again, no, no—“

Daisy couldn’t see very well; the lenses of her domino mask blurred over with tears. “I’ve got you,” she whispered, running her hands up and down his back. It didn’t seem to help. 

He sobbed and screamed, no longer holding onto her, but not really trying to let go either, and Daisy’s heart broke into tiny pieces.

“I don’t— I don’t understand, what are you—?”

A beat, then he shoved himself away, holding Daisy’s shoulders at arms’ length and staring her not-quite in the eye, expression awash with horror. 

“Talia,” he searched her face, only it wasn’t her face, was it? “Where's Damian?”

“I’m sorry,” Daisy whispered. “Jason, I don’t know who that is. I’m sorry.”

His eyes locked on something just to her left, and he dove away from her. 

“Get away from him!” He yelled— snarled, the words fierce and angry and protective and scared and Daisy backed away, but he wasn’t looking at her— he was lashing out with his fists, then reaching over his head to draw a non-existent sword from his back and he was fighting, an intricate dance, martial arts that Daisy couldn’t hope to follow and— 

He was getting awfully close to the edge of the roof. 

Oh, shit.

Daisy scrambled after him, grabbing him by the wrist to pull him back just as he made to lunge forward straight off the edge. He whirled on her— expression distant and yet sharp, eyes glowing a bright, bright green— snarled and yanked his hand away. “How dare you?!” he demanded, “how dare you fucking touch him, you bastards!”

There was a shape on the edge of Daisy’s vision; a figure sprinting across the rooftop next to theirs, leaping the space between the buildings, barely more than a shadow. She didn’t have time to focus on it, though, because Jason lunged at her, swinging his non-existent sword— she dodged, but she knew if that sword had been real she’d have been dead— and he spun on the ball of his foot, ran back straight at her, and she tried to move again but she wasn’t fast enough and he collided with her shoulder, grabbing her and pulling her with him as he careened toward the roof edge. 

Time seemed to slow as Daisy watched the ground fall away beneath her; as she and Jason flew through the air; as she fumbled for her grapple, knowing full well there was no way in hell she’d be able to launch it in time, let alone find a proper anchor point, let alone hold onto both Jason and the handle while he was trying to kill her. They were five storeys up; high enough to kill them, or suck really, really bad if it didn’t. Daisy held onto Jason with one hand, pulled her grapple from her belt, reached up just as the surface of the roof disappeared from sight, and—

And another hand snapped out around her outstretched wrist. 

Time returned to normal; her shoulder gave an awful lurch as she slammed feet-first into the concrete siding of the building, Jason kicking his legs in the air and, luckily, holding her just as tightly as she did him. Another hand— covered entirely in black fabric, as was the first— reached down and grabbed hold of Jason around the arm, and then their saviour was heaving them both up back onto the roof. 

The moment he was back on solid ground, Jason scrambled away from them— luckily toward the middle of the building— and the newcomer followed, swiftly evading all of Jason’s relatively sloppy, nonexistent-sword based attacks and pinning him to the ground, bringing something small and metallic— familiar— to his neck. 

It was no wonder she’d had trouble seeing them coming— the stranger was wearing entirely black, from their shoes to their fingers to the mask that covered most of their head and face.

That was a goddamn ninja.

Daisy lurched into action, ignoring the flare of pain in her shoulder and the twinging in her ankle. “Hey! Get off him!” 

The ninja leapt away from Jason as Daisy reached them, lifting their hands up placatingly. Daisy stepped between them protectively, letting her lip curl in a snarl as Jason went mostly still behind her, his screams of rage and pain reduced to quiet sounds of fear and sorrow. 

“What did you give him?” she demanded.

The ninja held out the metal cylinder in their hand. “A sedative. You have allies on their way, correct?”

Daisy nodded. The ninja spoke perfect English, with a generic American accent, which came as something of a surprise. “Who are you?”

They shook their head. “A friend. A servant of the General,” they inclined their head toward Jason.

Daisy narrowed her eyes. “Why are you here?”

“We failed him.”

“You saved him. You saved both of us,” Daisy countered, still suspicious.

The ninja tilted their head in acknowledgement. “He never should have been in a position to need saving. We failed to warn him of the danger.”

Jason cried out again; weakly, now. 

“Dami? Please, wake up— Habibi…”

Daisy spun around. He had managed to get to his knees, one hand braced on the ground, but it seemed he couldn’t quite get to his feet. Daisy dropped down beside him. 

“My fault… my fault… ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry…”

Daisy took Jason by the shoulders and eased him back so he was sitting on his heels. He listed sideways; his gaze unfocused, tear tracks running down his cheeks. 

“B?” he stared just over her shoulder. “No, I didn’t… what?”

He started shaking. “N? What… no, no, please…”

Daisy couldn’t handle this. She looked back over her shoulder; the ninja was just… standing there, staring off toward the burning warehouse. 

When Daisy folded Jason back into a hug, he didn’t fight it. All he did was shake, staring off over her shoulder, arms hanging limp at his sides. “Please,” he begged, “I’ll do better. I’ll be better. Please don’t go…”

“I’ve got you,” she whispered, rocking them back and forth. “I’ve got you.”

—

Julian was the first to make it up to the rooftop, heralded by a slamming car door and the now-familiar zip! clink, and whirr of a grappling gun. Daisy watched him pull himself over the edge, scanning the space before his eyes landed on their crouched forms. He jogged over. 

“Oh, shit,” he breathed. “That’s bad. How’d you get him so… calm?”

Daisy grimaced. “We—” she started, but the ninja was gone, of course; had vanished the moment the car came into view. “I, uh, I gave him a sedative. He almost threw us both off the roof.”

Julian whistled. “Well, here— I brought this up, since I’m the best with a grapple.”

He handed Daisy another one of those metal cylinders; what she now recognized as an injector, hidden within a protective metal casing. 

“Antidote?”

Julian nodded. “You bet.”

She pressed one end of it to Jason’s neck, pushed down on the other side like he had done for her earlier. Within thirty seconds, he’d gone nearly-limp in her arms, and she eased him down to laying on his back with his head in her lap. 

He stared up at her dazedly. “Daisy…?

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Yeah, it's me. You back with us?”

He blinked, long and slow. “I c’n’t…” he slurred, “mm. Evr’thin’ hurts , f-fuck…”

She smiled sadly. “Yeah, you had a really bad trip, but you’re alright now.”

He swallowed and nodded slightly. “Mm. good. Can’t, uh, can’t… move?”

“We had to sedate you.” 

He exhaled sharply, twitching a hand up toward his belt. “Who else ‘s… here?”

“It’s just me and Julian.” Daisy put a hand on his head, gently running her fingers through his hair. 

“Darcy and Jon are in the car,” Julian added, uncharacteristically soft.

“It’s okay. You’re safe,” Daisy told him. 

Jason nodded again. “M’kay. I’m j’st gonna… lie down.”

He was already lying down, of course, but Daisy watched him close his eyes and his breathing even out. She didn’t pull her hand away from his hair until he’d gone completely limp, obviously asleep. 

They ended up picking the lock on the roof-access door, Darcy coming up to help them carry Jason down to the car. They set him in the backseat, laid across Jon and Daisy’s laps while Julian sat in the front with Darcy driving. 

Jon watched, expression contemplative, while Daisy situated Jason as comfortably as she could, brushing his hair out of his face. As they started driving, Jon spoke.

“Fear toxin,” he nodded slowly. “Oh. That's— hm.”

Daisy sighed. “Is your patron airdropping you context again?”

Jon smiled sheepishly. “Not, ah— not exactly. Seems Beholding doesn’t appreciate the…” he searched for the word, wrinkling his nose up in distaste. “Feels like mockery.”

Daisy lifted an eyebrow. “Are you telling me you’re offended by fear toxin?”

Jon shrank back into the seat. “No!” He said, offended. 

“You’re a terrible liar, Jon.”

“It’s not— I just—”

She waved him off. “You’re fine, calm down.”

“Your name’s Jon?” Julian piped up from the front, twisted around in his seat. “No offense, but I like Archie better.”

Jon levelled the most done look at Julian that Daisy had ever seen. “That would be because you came up with it.”

Julian laughed, then, and Jon rolled his eyes, and Daisy smiled— a genuine smile, this time. She relaxed into the seat, holding Jason’s head and shoulders stable as they drove to Leslie’s clinic, letting some of the tension drop away.

Later, Jon would ask her what happened, and she would tell him— she would tell him about how it had all gone wrong, about her fear, her helplessness, and about the masked stranger who saved them.

Later, he would tell her about his own night; about the fourth tape from Martin.

Later, Jason would wake up, and they would talk about everything— and Daisy would ask him in a whisper: “who’s Damian?” and Jason would tell her. 

Later. 

But not yet. 

First, they would go to Leslie’s, and then they would go home, and get Jason settled on their couch— with a kitten purring on his chest, with Sage camped outside, with Julian and Darcy drinking hot chocolate from cheap powder at their little dining room table, Camryn on the phone as they filled her in.

There would be time for questions later. For now, they were safe, and that was what mattered. 

—

Chapter Text

—

Jon dreamt of the Coffin again.

Of course he did. He dared to sleep at the same time as Daisy; of course, of course he would share this horror with her, no matter how much he didn’t want it. Jon suspected it kept him from starving, and he knew Daisy would tell him to shut it, but he didn’t want to hurt her— he hated seeing her so damn afraid—

Click

Jon woke with a start in his bed and nearly lurched to sitting, just barely stopping himself as he registered the kitten perched on his chest, head buried under his chin.

On the bedside table, a tape recorder whirred. Jon let his head fall backward as the sound of tapping keys filtered into the room, followed by Martin’s voice. 

“Oh, again—?”

On the tape, a door slammed open.   

“Martin, good, you’re here— I need to talk to you.”

Jon’s eyes went wide.

“O-oh! You’re back!” 

That was Basira.

“Yeah, I’m back, and there’s something you need to— what the hell is that?”

Martin’s voice wavered slightly. “What’s, uh, what’s what?”

“Is that a goddamn tape recorder? Turn it off!” Stomping footsteps, then: “Seriously Martin, you’d think you’d know by—“ 

The tape clicked off. 

Jon reached over and picked up the tape, preparing to press record—

There was a knock at his bedroom door.

“Jon?” Jason called from outside, voice rough and slightly slurred— which made sense, Jon supposed, since last Jon checked the younger man had been sleeping off a sedative on their couch. 

Jon carefully picked up the Officer and set her on his pillow before he swung his legs out over the side of his bed, then stood and padded to the door. He opened it just in time to see Daisy half-stumbling into the living area— Jason right in front of Jon’s door with his hand poised to knock again, morning sunlight filtering in through the window. 

“Jason, you’re awake,” Daisy beat Jon to it, coming up beside him and peering unsubtly at the side of his head. “How’re you feeling?”

He shrugged. “Like I was in a gunfight in a burning building, got hit in the head, had a godawful fear toxin trip, and then got knocked out and slept on a couch? I can still taste smoke.” 

“How’s your head?” Daisy brought a hand up to check, pushing back his hair to look at the area where he’d had a nasty bruise the day before— Leslie had clicked unhappily at the discolouration on his scalp, but there wasn’t much she could do for it— and Jason batted her hands away and ducked out of reach with a scowl. 

“I’m fine,” he insisted, “All I need’s a damn shower. And some food, maybe.” He turned to Jon, then, his expression curious and just a tad suspicious. “Were you talking to someone in there?”

Jon froze. “Um. No.” 

Jason just lifted a brow.

“Really, I wasn’t! I, um, I was making a recording?”

“A recording of what?” Jason asked. “It didn’t sound like your voice.”

Jon cast about for an explanation— Daisy steadfastly refusing to help, of course, just standing there with a raised eyebrow and a hand on her hip, obviously fighting an amused smile—

“Impressions!” He near-shouted, “I’ve, ah, I’ve been learning how to do… impressions.”

“Impressions,” Jason repeated, flatly. 

“Yes.”

He leaned around Jon, peering into his room— Jon tried to shift to block him, but Jason just lifted his heels and looked over Jon’s head, the bastard. 

“Is that a tape recorder?”

Jon felt a flush spread through his face. “It, ah… lo-fi charm?”

Jason sighed. “It’s fine, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. As long as whatever you’re not telling me isn’t a security risk, it’s none of my business.”

Jon considered this. Were the tapes a security risk? He didn’t think so, but then… they did have some sensitive information on them. 

He hesitated to answer a moment too long.

Jason leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “Is it a security risk?”

Jon ran a hand through his hair, tugging on it. “It… shouldn’t be. It’s— well. I’m sort of using the tapes as a diary? So I suppose there is some information on there that is, uh, private?”

Jason sighed and shut his eyes for a moment, tipping his head back. “Private how? You put names on there?”

Daisy sighed. “He has. Mostly yours, I think.”

“Hm.” Jason frowned considering. “I’m not sure leaving that lying around is a good idea…”

“I, um, I keep them in my room, and nobody else listens to them…”

“Can I see where you’re keeping them? If that’s alright,” Jason added, clearly trying to put Jon at ease.

Jon deflated. “Sure. Yes— one moment.”

He went into his room, into the closet, and up above to where he was keeping the backpack that once had held his at-the-time meagre collection of clothes, when they’d first arrived at the diner. Now, the backpack contained four tape recorders.

Jason followed him in, and Jon carefully spread all of the tape recorders— five, including the new one— out on the bed.

There was a moment of silence, Jason staring at them in puzzlement, before Jon nervously asked “What? What is it?”

Jason turned his head slowly to face Jon, and said: “why the fuck do you have five tape recorders?” 

Jon was momentarily taken aback— it hadn’t even occurred to him that that would be unusual, there was only five of them; back at the institute there’d been dozens, just laying around, ready to turn on whenever someone was to record a statement— or else their life was about to get significantly worse. In comparison, these tapes were downright friendly; they even stayed in his backpack when he put them there. 

“Ah,” he said, intelligently, and Daisy scoffed in the doorway. 

“Yes, Jon, why do you have five tape recorders? You only really need one…”

He shot her a glare that he hoped conveyed you’re not helping!— based on the smug look on her face, she was well aware. 

Jon picked up the first tape he received, started to rewind it. He was a godawful liar, he knew that— and what was the harm, here, in a little honesty? 

“It’s part of my, ah, ‘spooky Archivist powers’” he finger-quoted.

Jason blinked. “Tape recorders? Like, you need them for some reason, or…?”

“No, no, they just… appear. Used to be whenever I recorded a Statement, or when something supernatural was happening.”

“And now?” Jason probed. “They appear whenever you compel someone?”

Jon shook his head slowly. “Not… exactly, no,” he said, and did not elaborate. 

Jason lifted his eyes toward the ceiling and leaned back against the wall again. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but could you at least—“

With a click, the newest tape recorder turned itself back on.

“Jon, hey, I’m not— not in the tunnels, don’t want to say too much, but— but Basira’s back, and she says she found— she’s got a lead!”

Everyone in the room froze. Jason’s mouth clicked shut, then opened again—

Jon gestured for silence, pointing at the tape— held up a hand in the universal gesture to wait.

“She said she, um, she doesn’t know how, but apparently there’s this woman— Annabelle, her name was— who heard we were looking for you— she reached out to Basira, told her that she knows where you are.” 

Martin sounded breathless, excited, and Jon felt his eyes go wide.

They knew?

Jon put down the recorder in his hands, sat down on the bed, and picked up the new one. 

“Well, at least, she said she knew, but she— Basira said she wouldn’t say where. Just that you and Daisy are alive, and out of the Coffin, and together— and very, very far away. And…”

Here, Martin hesitated, and Jon swallowed. What else was there?

“Basira thinks she knows more, but, uh, apparently Annabelle told her she wants to meet in person.”

Jon wasn’t sure why, but he felt on a visceral level that that was a very bad idea.

“I told her I didn’t think it was a good idea,” Martin said, echoing Jon’s thoughts, “but she was just, like, ‘of course you don’t, Martin,’ which was just— rude, really, but…” Martin sighed. “I suppose she has a point.”

Jason stepped closer, staring at the recorder, and Jon could practically see the gears turning in his head. 

“I mean, the only person I willingly talk to is you, and, and I don’t even know if you can hear me!” Martin was clearly trying for a joke, but it fell incredibly, awfully flat.

“Anyway, uh, Basira’s talking to Melanie now, and then… I don’t know. I guess I’ll keep waiting.”

A pause. “Talk to you soon, I hope.”

Click.

There was a long moment of silence, and then Jason lifted a hand up to his hair, pulling the fringe up and leaving it a spiked mess. “What the fuck, Jon.”

Jon set the tape aside and looked up at Jason, letting his eyes settle just to the left of his face. “Ah. Yes, well, I suppose… that is, ah. Martin.”

Jason stared at Jon like he’d grown a second head. “Martin, like, your boyfriend from another reality?”

Jon’s eyes snapped to Jason’s, and he’s sure he made some sort of embarrassing affronted sound. “My—? Martin’s not— he isn’t my boyfriend! He’s, he’s my friend, or at least I hope he is, he—“

Jason waved him off. “That wasn’t the important part of that sentence, Archie. You’re, what, receiving messages from your home dimension? That seems like a pretty important bit of info you neglected to mention!”

Jon got up and pushed past him into the main room, bringing the fresh tape recorder with him. “Yes, yes, fine. Martin’s— well, he’s got the rib I left behind, and I think it’s created a sort of connection between us, so anytime he talks into a tape recorder, a matching one just— appears, wherever I am.” He slapped the thing onto the table, went into the kitchen and rummaged around a drawer for a sharpie and some tape. “Happy?”

“Not really, no.” Jason sat down at the table, pulled the recorder towards himself— Jon snatched it back protectively. 

“I need to label this,” he explained sharply, scribbling down the date and time on a piece of masking tape which he then tore from the roll and stuck to the smooth side of the recorder with far more force than was really necessary. 

Daisy came out of the room, then, carrying the Officer, who she deposited into Jon’s arms without a word. Jon glanced back and forth between Daisy and Jason and the kitten, who proceeded to try and burrow into his neck— as she seemed to enjoy doing. Daisy, meanwhile, walked back around the table to sit down in the chair next to Jason’s, which she scooted closer so she could bump their knees together. 

“You two need to get your act together,” she said, deadpan. “Yes, Jason, Jon has been receiving messages from where we came from, and attempting to send replies. It hasn’t worked.” Jason leaned forward like he was going to talk; Daisy lifted a hand to quiet him. “No, we didn’t tell you. I know it’s important— even if it’s only one-way, we’ve got a connection home— but we’ve barely been here a week. We’re still getting our bearings. And obviously, these people— Martin and Basira, especially— are important to us, and we didn’t want to say anything until we were absolutely sure we could trust you.” 

At this, she turned to face their friend. “So, Jason—“ she looked him in the eye— “can we trust you?”

Jason took a deep breath. “After what happened last night?” He looked off to the side. “I’m pretty sure I owe you my life. And Jon, I mean—“ he barked a laugh— “do you know how much you’ve made possible? I mean, the money’s great, but Gotham’s going to be safer with you in it. You’ve both made more of an impact on this hellhole in a week than most people make in a year.”

He leaned back in his chair. “I don’t exactly know how I can prove it to you— but yeah, I’d say you can trust me.”

“You can’t tell anybody about the tapes,” Jon leaned forward, gently stroking the Officer where she was nestled against his chest. 

“‘Course not,” Jason rolled his eyes. “Wasn’t going to. You’re obviously careful with ‘em.” He paused, considering. “But… well, you said they appear wherever you are, right? What happens if you’re out in public or something?”

Jon sat down across from Jason, setting the Officer down in his lap. “Happened yesterday, actually,” he admitted, “while we were at the library. I was in another room, alone, which I suppose was lucky.”

Jason nodded. “Could you pause it, do you think, once it started playing?”

Jon considered this. “I could try, but…”

Daisy made a face that told Jon she was of a similar mind to him. “…But we don’t want to lose out on any of the message,” she finished for him.

“He mostly seems to be sending them late at night,” Jon added, “or, ah, very early in the morning, if that helps.”

“Hm.” Jason scratched at his head, winced slightly— must still be tender, then, Jon thought— and leaned forward. “Keep a bag on you that you can stuff it into if it appears when you’re out,” he advised. “You’re right to be careful about who hears it. Now…” he gestured at the tape on the table. “What do you normally do with them, once the message is done?”

“Record a response,” Jon answered simply. “Although, I’m not sure if he’s getting them. I’m hoping there’s just a delay…”

“He hasn’t acknowledged your replies at all?” Jason asked.

“No,” Jon shook his head, “but I’ve decided to keep replying for as long as he keeps sending tapes. If nothing else, it serves as a sort of diary, as I mentioned.”

Jason gestured at the recorder. “Could you show me?”

Daisy reached forward and hovered a finger above the record button on their newest tape, looking to Jon for confirmation— which he gave in the form of a single nod— before pressing down.

Click.

“Hello, Martin— it’s, ah. It’s Jon, and…”

“And Daisy,” Daisy added, “and Jason.” 

“Hey,” Jason said, only a little awkwardly, leaning forward toward the recorder. 

“We told him about the tapes,” Daisy explained, “and he heard that last one, about Basira’s lead.” 

“Martin, I don’t— that name, Annabelle, it sounds familiar…” Jon’s brow furrowed— he really didn’t know why it felt familiar or why it felt so wrong, but it was like the knowledge was right there on the edge of his mind, just out of reach… “and I don’t think meeting her is a good idea. At least not alone— if you hear this, please, tell Basira to be careful.”

“Update from our side; my first trip out as a vigilante was a disaster,” Daisy added wryly. “I mean, it started out alright— got a little crash-course in vigilantism, that was fun, then Jason beat up a couple of guys who were harassing the street girls, and we stopped a mugging before it happened just by being there. But then we got to this warehouse where we were supposed to be getting information on one of Black Mask’s guys, and it was just…”

“An ambush,” Jason supplied, “by the time we got out of there, whole place was on fire, and I managed to get hit with, uh, fear gas— stuff makes you hallucinate, not fun— and then we had to cut things short, go to Leslie’s and then back here. I crashed on their couch, s’why I heard the tape earlier.”

Jon hummed. “When we got to them, Jason was in pretty rough shape. Daisy sedated him, said he— he almost threw you both off a roof?”

Daisy nodded. “Yeah, he tried to fight me, I think he thought he was protecting someone? Damian?”

Jason went very, very still; his eyes glinted just this side of unnatural. “Right. Listen, if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not do this one on tape.” 

Jon’s eyes widened slightly— right, of course, this was obviously very personal for Jason, and he didn’t even know the people on the other side. “Sorry,” Jon pulled the recorder to himself. “We’re all alright now, Martin, that’s the important thing. You stay safe.” 

He turned off the recording.

For a moment, none spoke; Jason stared down at the table, eyes distant.

“Jason…?” Daisy leaned in close, speaking quietly. “Who’s Damian?”

Jason took a deep breath. 

“Damian,” he said, slowly, “is my brother.”

Jon blinked; tilted his head slightly. “Like—?”

Jason shot him a glare as Jon pressed his mouth shut. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Sorry, go on.”

As he spoke, their friend fidgeted with a knife on the table. Jon wasn’t sure where he got it. “Damian is my brother— not by parentage, not by… not through Bruce. He’s my brother by choice, my brother by vow— and I would protect him with my life.” 

Jon supposed that explained why he’d come up in a fear-based hallucation. 

“How old is he?” Daisy pushed, gently.

“Nine,” Jason said. “He’s nine years old. He’s the born son of Talia al Ghul, the Daughter of the Demon’s Head.”

“Talia,” Daisy nodded, “you mentioned her, last night, too.”

“Talia’s family to me almost as much as Damian is,” he explained, a wistful little smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “She’s the one who took me in, after I… came back. I was in the hospital for months, most of that in a coma, and Bruce didn’t find me; he didn’t even realize my grave was empty. Talia took me home to the League, and she helped me get better.”

“The League?” Jon asked, carefully indirect. 

“The League of Assassins,” Jason elaborated, “led by the al Ghul family; Ra’s al Gul at the head, then Talia, Damian— and me.”

Daisy frowned, and then understanding dawned on her face— “Do you have, like, ninjas that follow you around?”

Jason blinked at her, evidently a little taken aback. “The League aren’t ninjas— they’re not Japanese!” 

Daisy waved a hand through the air dismissively. “Whatever. Dressed in all black, call you the General— sound familiar?”

Jason’s mouth fell open slightly. “You spoke to one of my Shadows?!”

Daisy nodded. “You, uh. Threw us off the roof. They caught us. They’re the one who gave you the sedative, actually.”

“There was someone else there?” Jon interjected— “I didn’t see anyone…”

“Good,” Jason scoffed. “It would be an embarrassment if you had. Bad enough they had to interfere at all.”

“Who are they, then?” Daisy asked, seeming genuinely curious.

“Allies, and they’re loyal— that’s all you need to know.” Jason shook his head. “Batman doesn’t like the League operating in Gotham. There’s only a handful of them here, just in case I need access to Family resources and to help deliver messages. They aren’t supposed to show themselves unless shit has gone seriously south.”

“Well, I’m glad this one did,” Daisy leaned back in her chair. “Saved both our asses.”

Jason ran a hand down his face. “Sounds like it. I’ll have to find out who that was, get a full report.” Then he looked over at Daisy and sighed deeply; expression twisting into something awkward and uncomfortable. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” he said, “but I’m glad I wasn’t alone. I probably wouldn’t have made it out of the building without you.”

Daisy nodded, once, firmly, then cracked a small smile. “I wasn’t about to let you get taken down in some warehouse ‘cause of bad intel— I’ve got your back.”

“Thanks,” Jason said, matching her smile. “I say anything else that seemed important?” 

Daisy shrugged. “I got the feeling you don’t really hate the bats as much as you say you do—“ Jason made to interrupt, but she lifted a hand to quiet him and continued— “obviously you’re pissed at them, I assume with good reason, but especially near the end there… I don’t know. Whatever you saw, it was… bad.”

Jon watched this entire exchange with rapt attention; Daisy had explained her perspective of events the night before, but neither of them really knew what had been going through Jason’s head during his experience. Some part of Jon desperately wanted to know— to Know, no doubt— but he was also well aware that one’s deepest fears were an intensely personal thing. Neither he nor Daisy had any right to those details— not unless Jason chose to share. 

“I relived their failure,” he said eventually, voice low. Jon got the feeling that if Jason hadn’t only just slept off a fear-trip and sedation, he’d be shaking with anger— just a few days ago, talk of Robin had him throwing plates to the floor in his rage. Now, he just looked bitter. “The Joker had me, and they weren’t fucking there. I dug out of my own goddamn grave, and they weren’t there. I was lost, and alone, and afraid, and they weren’t there. And then…”

Jon leaned forward, full attention on the other man. 

Jason swallowed. “Then I relived my own failures— imagined the ways they could have been worse. And— and if anything happened to my baby brother under my watch, it would—“

It would destroy him, Jon knew; the ghost of the feeling pinging through his own chest. 

“Talia promised me that Damian won’t be sent on any dangerous missions without me. I trust her. But there’s still a part of me that thinks— there’s always people out for our heads. He could die. He could die because I’m not there. But I can’t… There's kids here, in Gotham, who need me too, and every time one of them falls through the cracks it’s like…” he trailed off.

“No more dead Robins,” Jon said, echoing what Jason had told them the first time Jon compelled him. He met the crime lord’s eyes. “No more dead kids.” 

Jason laughed; a harsh, pained thing. “Yeah. Yeah— not if I have anything to say about it.”

Jon reflected, as Jason shook his head and excused himself from their kitchen table to make use of their shower, that Jason himself was still quite young, really. Scarily competent, yes, but only 19– and how much time had he lost to his death and the coma? 

It put things into perspective, Jon thought— and in that context, the protective fire he saw in Daisy’s eyes made perfect sense.

—

As the shower turned on, Daisy turned to Jon with a considering sort of frown. 

“Did he mention where the League or whatever is from?”

Jon shook his head. “Don’t think so. Just, ah, ‘not Japanese’. Maybe— did he say anything last night?”

Daisy thought about it. 

“Habibi,” she realized; “not sure what it means, but when he was hallucinating about Damian he said— Habibi.”

Jon tilted his head, eyes flashing green momentarily. “Hm. An Arabic term of endearment. Means beloved. And I think…” he chewed on the inside of his lip a moment before nodding to himself. “The League of Assassins is primarily located in Saudi Arabia. I suppose that makes sense.”

Oh. 

“Why’d you want to know?” Jon wondered.

Daisy pulled out her phone. “I have an idea.”

—

Forty-five minutes later, Daisy walked into the apartment and kicked the door shut behind her, full grocery bag in hand.

“Alright, I think that’s everything— oh.” Jason was out of the bathroom— back in his Red Hood gear, sans helmet, sitting on the couch and lacing up his boots while Jon stood in the kitchen with a pinched expression, bowls of neatly cut vegetables behind him.

“You’re leaving?” Daisy stalked over to the table and put the bag down. “Why?”

Jason huffed and stood up. “Got shit to do. Can’t stay here and mope forever.” 

She frowned up at him. He wore his usual carefully-constructed cold indifference, but he wasn’t meeting her eyes, and his own were ever-so-slightly red, cheeks flushed. He’d been crying, and he looked exhausted.

“No,” she decided, and pointed at the table. “Sit. Take your damn boots off. You’re staying for breakfast.”

Jason’s shoulders pulled back, expression subtly incredulous. “I just said I’ve got shit to do—“

“Not at nine in the morning you don’t. Nobody from your world is even awake yet,” Daisy would know; she’d nearly given Julian a heart attack, waking the poor kid up to ask for his help. “You can relax for a couple of hours. Now take off your boots.” 

As Jason obviously tried to figure out whether he should just push past her, Jon carefully leaned over and into the bag Daisy had brought, pulling out a can of fava beans and a bundle of fabric wrapped around what Daisy knew to be still-warm pita bread. As soon as the bread was out of the bag, Jason’s expression shifted, and he inhaled sharply before spinning around.

“Did you get that from the market in Bexley?”

Daisy felt herself relax a fraction, quirking a corner of her mouth up in a smile. “Sure did. Thought we’d surprise you with it— a traditional Arab breakfast.”

“According to the internet,” Jon added, “and a very grumpy Julian.”

Daisy peered around to watch Jason’s face go through a complex series of emotions, seemingly unable to decide how he felt about this development, before he eventually settled on a sort of shocked confusion. 

“Why?” He stressed. “How— I’m not Arab! How’d you know I even like Arab food?”

Daisy stepped around him to help Jon unload the groceries— more vegetables, some spices, and the like. “Last night,” she explained, carefully, “you called your brother by an Arabic nickname. And, well, we figured out your League is from there, so we thought… Food.”

Jason looked no less confused; if anything growing more incredulous the longer Daisy spoke. “How the hell did you get all that from one nickname?!”

 Jon shrugged as he opened the can of fava beans and dumped it into a pot. “Eldritch god of knowledge decided to be helpful for once.”

“You mean the one that is notoriously unhelpful—“ Jason turned to Jon, then, seeing what he was doing, and made a sort of high-pitched sound of mild outrage as he strode the three steps across the room to the stove. “Stop, stop— just let me, Christ…”

“I was following the recipe!”

“That says teaspoons, Jon, you were about to dump a tablespoon of cumin on those beans.”

Jon picked up his phone off the counter and glared at the recipe on it for a moment before his expression softened into something sheepish. “Oh.” 

Jason rolled his eyes and started shuffling things around on the counter, effectively herding Jon out of the space. “You got all the spices and shit? I’m guessing if you went to Qamar’s he’ll have made sure you left with what you need.” 

Daisy nodded, reaching into the bag and presenting the rest of what she’d collected; a variety of spices including ground coriander, cayenne pepper, and chili flakes, as well as fresh garlic and small containers of apparently homemade tahini and hummus that the shop-owner— Qamar— had added to her bag free of charge with a broad, knowing smile. 

Jon eyed the chili flakes skeptically as Daisy passed them to Jason. The latter took one look at his expression and laughed. 

“What, can’t handle a bit of spice?”

Jon crossed his arms. “Of course I can! I’m just… not used to it.”

Jason shook his head. “That is the most British thing you possibly could have said.”

“Well, I’m sorry that my grandmother was not the most creative with my diet.” He gestured around at the spread as Jason started frying the onions Jon had cut while Daisy was out. “I don’t think I’ve eaten half of these things since I was five years old.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Just quit eating actually decent food at the ripe old age of five, huh?”

Daisy winced. She didn’t know everything about Jon’s childhood, but she knew enough to know Jason was treading in potentially-sensitive waters. 

But Jon just sighed and sat down at the table, ceding control of the kitchen to Jason and lifting his phone in the air, waving it back and forth a few times. “Do you need the recipe?”

“Nah, it’s just ful. I know what I’m doing. Daisy, pass me the tomatoes?”

She did.

Jason clearly knew his way around a kitchen. Within another ten minutes or so, the bean-based stew known as ful medames was simmering on the stove, and twenty minutes after that they were all settled around Jon and Daisy’s little kitchen table; an assortment of dishes laid out between them, including the ful, hummus, bread, and an assortment of fresh sliced vegetables— nothing like the breakfasts Daisy was used to, but then, that was sort of the point. 

Before they started eating, Jason took out his phone and set the camera up carefully up on the back of the couch, facing the table; he set a timer and gathered Jon and Daisy to either side of him behind their small spread, a casual arm over each of their shoulders— Jon grumbled about it but reluctantly, stiffly allowed the contact. 

The camera clicked. The screen glitched out for a moment and then shut off. 

Jason grabbed it off the counter and clicked it back on. “Huh. Weird.”

“What is it?” Daisy followed and leaned over his shoulder to look.

“It’s fine, it’s just— the picture’s all… corrupted.”

Daisy looked at the screen, and sure enough, where there should have been a pleasant image of the three of them around their home-cooked meal, there was instead a mess of colourful static that kind of hurt to look at. 

“Huh. Weird…”

Jason took a quick picture of the food— it came out perfectly normal. Then he lifted the phone and took a picture of Daisy, and it seemed to work just fine. But when he turned his impromptu testing on Jon…

Glitching. The phone shut off. 

“What the hell?”

“Ah,” Jon grimaced. “I may not… it may be my fault. I don’t think digital cameras work on me.”

“More spooky eldritch bullshit, great,” Jason huffed a sigh and clicked his phone back on— at least it seemed like they hadn’t damaged it at all. Sure enough, the picture of Jon was almost entirely an awful eyesore of colourful file corruption. Then he swiped back one to the picture of Daisy, to check that one, and— 

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

It wasn’t the chaotic corrupted mess of the pictures Jon was in; but every part of Daisy in the picture was distorted, like she was being viewed through cloudy water— smudged and fuzzed out, almost like those privacy-filters people sometimes put over people’s faces in pictures and videos when they didn’t want to be identified. Only, the distortion covered all of her that was visible— and she couldn’t tell where the edges of it were, the effect somehow smoothed out with the rest of the picture in a way that made her eyes feel weird. She had, of course, been rendered completely unrecognizable. 

Jon moved around the table and glanced curiously at Jason’s phone. He showed him the pictures, and Jon nodded with a small “ah.”

Jason sighed and shut off his phone. “This happens sometimes. Magic shit does weird things to cameras, and you two are walking magic shit. Sometimes older cameras work better, but I don’t know if it’d be the same for you guys… damn.”

“Actually,” Jon was looking off to the left, thoughtful. “Usually, it’s only digital files that are affected by… this sort of thing, back home. It’s why we started using tape recorders— we were digitizing the Archives, and real statements wouldn’t record to my laptop. It should work the same for pictures— if you’ve got a film camera…”

Jason was nodding along. “Yeah, yeah— s’just downstairs.” He glanced longingly at the food, but then shook himself and made for the door, slipping on his boots without doing them up all the way. “I’ll be right back.”

Daisy flopped down on the couch. The food smelled really good, actually; the whole place smelled like spices, and Daisy found she was really hungry. 

Jon had a weird look on his face. 

“Hey, what is it?” Daisy snapped her fingers in the air.

Jon looked to her, then shook his head. “I just… We don’t even show up in pictures anymore.”

Daisy sighed. “Honestly, could be useful. Makes it easier to protect our identities.”

“I guess so.”

Jason was really only gone for a couple of minutes; returning triumphant with a small SLR camera and a roll of film. The process, then, was much the same; setting up the camera, pulling the two of them to his sides as the timer clicked down and it took a short burst of pictures; then he did it again, just in case, and then— finally— they sat down to eat.

The food was delicious. Of course it was— of all the times she’d had Arab food, she knew it was always better homemade with care. 

Basira had shown her that.

It wasn’t often that either of them cooked anything particularly complex— on their nights in together, they were more likely to order takeout— but still, the flavour of lightly-spiced ful on oven-warmed flatbread brought her back to soft laughter and hands carding through her hair; to standing on Basira’s tiny balcony, watching the sun set and waiting to eat together during Ramadan. 

It smelled like family, and it tasted like home.

Jason met each of their eyes in turn. “Thanks for this,” he said. “It's been a while since…” he switched tracks; “meals like this are meant to be shared, you know?”

Daisy nodded. Jon did, too, then he surreptitiously swiped the back of his hand under one of his eyes.

Jason scoffed. “Too much spice for you there, Jon?”

“No!” Jon’s head snapped up in a scowl, and he took another big bite of stew-laden bread as though to prove his point. 

Jason leaned back in his chair. “I should make you guys dahl sometime. We had it practically every week in the League.”

Daisy hummed in agreement, but before she could respond, Jon cut in with a quiet: “I haven’t had dahl since my mother died.”

They both stared at him for a long moment, and he stared back— Daisy got the impression he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. 

“I’m sorry,” Jason said, eventually. “I know—“ he paused a moment, then picked back up— “losing a parent sucks. I know what that’s like.” 

Jon shrank down a bit, waving a hand through the air dismissively, as though he could banish the topic. “It’s alright, really— it was quite a long time ago. I would like to try your dahl, is all. If the opportunity should present itself.” 

Jason nodded. “Sure thing.” Then he took a short breath and changed the topic: “You guys find anything interesting at the library?”

They both nodded, and Jon was the one who spoke. “Interesting, yes, although I’m not sure any of it’s useful.”

Jason considered this. “Now that I know about the tapes… I’ll ask around— carefully, don’t give me that look— see if there’s anything we can do with them. Maybe… hmm.” He nodded slowly to himself. “Yeah. I’ll let you guys know, alright?”

“Sure,” Daisy agreed, Jon echoing the sentiment. “Now eat your food, Jason.”

He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, just a bit, Daisy was certain of it. “Yeah yeah, whatever.”

They ate.

And when they were done, they faced the rest of the day; fueled by good food and confident in the knowledge that whatever happened, the three of them had each other's backs.

—

Chapter Text

—

April 6, 15:31

Cass: you’re late. Why? 

Jon: [Officerprisoned.jpg]

Jon: we’re at the vet, getting her shots and everything. 

Cass: baby!

Cass: wow

Cass: more pictures please?

Jon: :)

Jon: [Officerlap.jpg]

Jon: [Officerstring.jgp]

Jon: [Officernap.jpg]

Jon: [Officernap2.jpg]

Jon: [Officernap3.jpg]

Jon: her name is Officer Blackwood

Cass: please can I meet her?

Jon: I don’t think cats are allowed at the library

Cass: You bring her. I won’t tell Babs.

Jon: deal

Jon: we’ll be there in about 45 minutes

—

Barbara caught them, of course; coming into the study area about an hour after their arrival to find Jon and Cass at work while Daisy napped with a kitten sound asleep on her chest. They both woke, and all heads lifted to watch as the Head Librarian wheeled closer, seemingly unsure what to say for several moments. 

Jon shut his laptop, prepared with an apology and an excuse, but it turned out to be unnecessary; after a long silence, she seemed to purposefully ignore the kitten and turned her focus to Jon.

“Have you experienced any concerning effects from the book yesterday?” 

Jon blinked in slight surprise— god, so much had happened since then, he’d almost forgotten. “Ah. Just some… unpleasant dreams,” he told her. “But no worse than usual for me.”

That was, admittedly, an extremely low bar, but Barbara nodded, apparently satisfied. “Let me know if those don’t go away,” she instructed.

“Right,” Jon nodded.

“Now,” Barbara’s smiled. “I brought you guys some snacks!”

—

Jon and Daisy only ended up spending a few hours at the library that day, because just before six in the evening, Jon’s phone pinged with a very interesting text from Jason.

Julian’s coming to get you both, the message read.

Jon frowned and typed out his response.

What for? It’s still early 

Jason replied almost immediately. I got you guys a lead.

Jon’s eyes widened— 

A lead on what?  

An informant in WayneTech, Jason answered, they’re working on something right now that I think might help us get in contact with your world.

Jon excused himself from the table; woke up Daisy. They didn’t really explain anything to Cass, but she didn’t seem to mind— she could clearly tell it was some sort of emergency, and waved the two of them off, promising to tuck their books away for them.

She stared after them as they left, her gaze… curious. 

—

Julian was already outside with the car when they left the building, watching them through the rolled-down window as they hurried over.

“Yo, why d’you have the Officer here?”

“Cass wanted to meet her!” Jon defended, holding the kitten up to his chest. Daisy opened the car door and Jon scooched in ahead of her before she swung into the car and pulled the door shut.

“Cass?” Julian asked.

“Friend of ours,” Daisy explained. “Kid who studies in the same section as we work in. Her sister works here.” 

“Huh. Cool,” Julian nodded, “you still can’t bring the Officer to the meeting though. Hood said it was a masks-on sort of thing, definitely not kitten-friendly— oh, right, Daisy, I brought your gear. And a mask for Archie, it’s in the bag back there.”

Sure enough, at their feet was a bag containing what Daisy recognized as being her outfit and equipment from the night before; she started pulling it out as Julian turned the car on and waited for an opening to get onto the road.

“Here,” she said, pushing a hoodie and a red domino mask toward Jon. 

That had become his standard for meetings like this— Jon’s regular style was just a bit too distinctive, but hoodies were very much not a part of it, so Jason had insisted on both one of those and a mask anytime Jon was doing anything where maintaining secrecy was important. Daisy thought it was very sensible— at least, it had worked out so far.

As they pulled away from the curb and into rush hour traffic, Daisy set about trying to wrangle herself into her vigilante gear, which turned out to be a rather difficult process to attempt in the backseat of a moving vehicle. Jon pressed himself against the door to avoid flailing limbs, holding the Officer at a safe distance; and while they struggled, Julian put on some music. It was some kind of eclectic folk group— full of piano and words that were hard to make out between the honking cars outside and Julian humming along to the melody, but which Jon seemed unusually intrigued by.

Once they crossed the bridge to the north island, traffic eased off slightly, and Daisy watched the city blurr past and let the music wash over her as she clipped her belt in place, checked her weapons, and slid the jacket over her shoulders. 

For long we’ve remained in shadow,

And in far-forgotten tales never told;

The city shall be ours,

Once again, once again.

Beside her, Jon was frozen in his seat, face slack and eyes distant. Daisy frowned and elbowed him in the side. 

He jumped, twisting in his seat to face her. 

“What’s with that look?” She asked.

“Oh, ah…” Jon fumbled, glancing toward the front of the car and swallowing nervously. “Nothing, it’s nothing. I just, um, recognized the song…”

“Oh, yeah!” Julian piped up from the front. “The Mechanisms are great! Hood never lets me play ‘em in the car. You a fan?”

“Something like that,” Jon answered.

“Sweet,” Julian grinned at them in the rearview; then he apparently caught Jon’s eye and saw his expression— pinched, to say the least— and quietly turned the music down. 

They turned down a side street, and Daisy tapped the window. “Julian, the diner’s the other way…”

Julian shook his head. “Sorry, Boss said to take you straight to the meeting point. Don’t worry about the Officer, I’ll take her back to base for you, alright?” 

Jon shifted in his seat, obviously a little uneasy with the idea of leaving the kitten in someone else’s care— but there wasn’t really anything for it, and there wasn’t any reason not to trust Julian to bring her back for them.

They pulled to a stop, and there was Jason, leaning against the wall beside the entrance of what looked like a small restaurant or bar; The Bloody Lamb, according to the small sign hanging above the door.

Jon slid his regular jacket off, pulled the hoodie over his head, and stuck the mask to his face; and then the two of them got out of the car to join their friend— not as Jon and Daisy, no; in that moment, they were Alice and the Archivist.

“Good,” Jason nodded at the two of them as they approached. “Right on time. C’mon.” 

—

Jason led them to an empty booth in the back of the bar; a nondescript place, nearly empty at that time of day save for a handful of patrons sitting at the front, one already well on his way to face-down drunk on the counter; and what looked to Jon like a couple out on a date, sitting at a small table off to the side sharing a basket of fries, laughing and bumping their knees together under the table. 

Jason— in full Red Hood gear— ushered Jon into the booth first, then slid in after him, with Daisy sitting down on his other side. They left the other side of the booth open, and… they waited.

After a few minutes, Jason pulled out his phone, huffing out a short agitated sigh at what he saw. 

“What is it?” Daisy leaned over towards him.

He showed both of them the screen— open to a basic messaging app, with a contact simply labelled C.L.

Confirmed for 6:30 at the Lamb, read the last incoming message. The time on Jason’s phone read 6:33.

A server came over to their table— an older woman, and remarkably casual about their presence; she smiled politely at them, holding a few menus in one hand. 

“Are you waiting for some more people?” She asked, inclining her head towards the empty side of the booth. 

Jason nodded. “Two more, they should be here. And no menus, please, we won’t be long.”

She nodded in understanding. “Well, can I get anything started for you while you wait?”

Jon lifted a hand. “Ah, could I get some water?” He thought having something to hold might help his nerves; for all that he was slowly getting used to working for Jason, this was still largely unfamiliar territory. 

“Of course. Hood?”

Jason nodded. “Get me an apple juice, served in a whiskey glass.”

“Excellent choice,” she winked, “for you, hon?” She faced Daisy. 

“Nothing for me, thank you.”

“Nothing coming right up!” She smiled again, and Daisy rolled her eyes, but smiled back. 

She bustled away and returned within another minute, carrying a glass of water and what looked, for all intents and purposes, like a not-quite-full glass of whiskey, even though Jon knew it was apple juice.

As she left them again, the door swung open, and in came two more people. 

The first person Jon noticed was the obvious bodyguard; a large, muscular man with a scowl and a lump under his jacket-front where Jon knew he was poorly concealing a pistol. Walking in front of him and looking supremely uncomfortable was a scrawny, jumpy little man— shorter than Jon, clearly wary of the entire situation in a way that reminded Jon of himself when he’d first arrived in Gotham. He carried a leather briefcase.

The smaller man spotted them from across the bar and hurried over, sliding into the booth across from them followed by his bodyguard.

“H— um. Hello, Mr. Hood, sir.”

Jason leaned backward, swirling his glass of apple juice menacingly. “You’re late.”

“Ah, y-yes, my apologies, traffic— you know how it is— or, maybe you don’t, no, but— um…” he trailed off, wincing, clutching his briefcase to his chest.

Hood sighed. “You bring what I asked you for?”

The man nodded fervently. “Yes, it’s— it’s just here.” He opened the briefcase and reached in, pulling out a folder filled with—

“Blueprints?” Daisy leaned forward as Jason flipped the folder open. 

“Y-yes, ma’am, ah, those are—“

“Security system,” Jason interrupted, spreading the papers out across the table; “floor plans, good. And… this for the machine?”

The man nodded again. “I’ve also, ah, taken the liberty of including my own operating instructions.“ He reached forward and tapped one of the papers, which seemed to just be a typed document. 

“You print this on something traceable?” Jason tilted his head.

“N-no, sir, I printed it at home and, ah, wiped it from the system afterwards…”

“Good. This won’t work if they’re expecting us.” 

“Is that… everything, then, sir?” 

Hood picked up the papers and shuffled them back into the folder. “Almost,” he leaned back in his seat and turned his head towards Jon. “Just need some insurance, I’m sure you understand…”

The man swallowed nervously. “What, um, what do you mean…?”

Jason nodded at Jon. “Alan, I want you to meet the Archivist.”

He paled. 

Jon smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way. “Hello, Alan.” 

Alan flinched. 

“Archivist, if you could— just ask our friend here if he’s told anybody else about what he’s doing here today, and if he’s going to.”

Jon nodded. “You will be afraid,” he warned the smaller man— who was already afraid, anyway— “but no true harm will come to you.”

Alan’s eyes were wide, his back stiff, and Jon looked at those fearful eyes head-on, leaned forward over the table, and Asked:

“Alan, who else knows about our meeting here today?”

Alan shook. “Just my bodyguard,” he said. The bodyguard in question was watching the proceedings with marked disinterest. “And I left a note for my wife, in case I don’t come back. Assuming I make it home by morning, I’ll be getting rid of it before she wakes up.”

Jon nodded. “Do you intend to inform anybody, in any way, about what you’ve given us today or what we might do with it?”

Alan shook his head “No. I’m going to take my pay and try to forget this ever happened.” 

Jason nodded, satisfied, and then— before they could finish the meeting and pay for their drinks— Jon’s phone rang.

He fumbled for it a moment— it was in a pocket under his hoodie, damnit, who was calling him he was in a meeting—

It was Julian. 

Jon’s stomach sank. 

He answered the call.

“Archie, hey, I’m— I’m so sorry, I don’t know how it happened, I just—“

“Julian,” Jon interrupted, his phone in a death-grip by his ear, “what happened?”

A deep breath on the other side. “It’s the Officer. She ran away. I just— I just opened the car door, and she bolted, and I chased her but she’s so small and she got under a fence and by the time I got through she was gone…”

Jon felt the blood drain from his face, and let the phone fall a few inches from his ear— though not so far that he couldn’t hear Julian’s rambled explanations. He looked around the table, eyes wide, and found every person staring back at him. 

“I’ll be right there, Julian, thank you for calling me.” 

“Right, yeah, I’ll uh— I’ll keep looking.”

“Okay.”

Jon hung up.

Jason was stiff in the seat next to him. “What is it?”

Jon put his phone back in his pocket. “It’s the Officer— she’s escaped. I need to get back, I— I’ve got to help find her.” 

“Shit, yeah— Alan, pleasure working with you,” Jason placed a sizeable wad of cash on the table, “we’ve got to go.”

They stood, one by one, leaving Alan looking distinctly alarmed— and his bodyguard vaguely perplexed— at the table. They left the building and Jason led them to where he’d parked his own car.

Jon got in the front passenger seat. Daisy sat in the back.

It wasn’t far to the diner, only about a fifteen minute drive, but to Jon it felt like a lifetime; he thought of the Officer, lost and scared and all alone on the streets of Gotham— she had a collar now, they’d gotten her one at the vet that morning, but would anybody find her? Would they return her if they did? Oh, he was so irresponsible, he should never have taken her to the library, he should have just taken her home where Sage could look after her— of course she bolted, she didn’t know Julian, she was probably looking for Jon and it was his own fault she ran—

As they turned onto the street the diner was on, Jason cleared his throat. “I can’t stay to help,” he admitted. “I’ve got another meeting, this whole WayneTech thing is on a massive time crunch— Alice, I’d like you with me, too.”

“How big of a time crunch are we talking?” She asked.

“Plan is for the three of us to break in tomorrow night. We’ve got to get these documents to Camryn to analyze, and get our hands on what supplies we’ll need for it— there’ll be some dangerous people involved.”

Daisy nodded. “Right. Of course.”

“Archie— if you don’t find her by the time we’re done, I’ll drop Alice back off and she can skip patrol to help look, alright?” 

Jon nodded shakily as they pulled up to the diner. “Alright. Thank you— I’ll give you a call either way.” 

“Sounds good,” Jason nodded as Jon opened the car door— there was Julian, waiting for him, holding the jacket he’d left in the other car. He slammed the door shut behind him and jogged over; only vaguely registering as it drove away again. He took off his hoodie, gratefully switching back to the jacket Julian handed to him. The poor man seemed close to tears.

“Archie, I’m so sorry man—“

Jon held up a hand to stop his apologises. “It’s— it’s alright, it’s my fault really. Where did she go?”

Julian frowned, but didn’t argue; just pointed to the fence surrounding the back of the building next door, some sort of abandoned office building. 

“Right,” Jon nodded. “Let’s get looking, then.”

—

What followed was not the longest, most stressful half-hour of Jon’s life, but it was a particular kind of stress that he had never experienced before. He and Julian scoured up and down the street, maneuvered through the rather treacherous largely-abandoned landscape— the yard next door had at some point been used to dump large trash, appliances and furniture and a pile of old wood full of rusted nails; and beside that property was an empty lot, home to old, long-broken construction equipment. 

Jon called out for the Officer all the while, but there was no response, and after about thirty-five minutes they returned to the diner to strategize.

“Any luck?” Sage asked as they walked in.

“No,” Jon admitted, absolutely miserable. He sat down at the table in the dining area; pulled out his phone to a text from Daisy.

Find her?

He typed out a response. Nothing yet.

Sage gestured at the counter, where there was a small dish of watered-down wet kitten food. “Try leaving this outside, might help her find her way back.”

“Ah, good idea—“ Jon pushed away from the table, started to stand, and it was at that moment that the door opened again.

“Mrrew!”

Jon whipped his head around to face the door. 

There she was— in the arms of a stranger, a thin woman with short, dark hair— and Jon was on his feet, rushing towards her, holding his hands out toward the Officer.

He exhaled sharply in relief as the woman handed him the kitten, and he tucked her under his chin— she was a little cold, but seemingly unharmed, butting her head up against him and purring louder than he had ever heard her do.

“I take it she’s yours?” The woman asked, leaning against the doorframe with a soft little smile. 

Jon nodded, fighting to maintain his composure. “Yes, yes, she got out, I was so worried—“ he held the kitten away from him so he could look her in the face as he said, as sternly as he could manage— which was still more relieved than anything— “Officer Blackwood, you know better than to run off like that!”

She chirped. Jon imagined it was an apology.

“Oh—“ she nuzzled back under his chin, pawed at his jacket front until he held it open for her to worm her way inside. “Yes, yes, alright…” After a few moments, she managed to turn around, and her head popped back out again; the tags on her collar— one of which had the address to the diner on it, bless that receptionist for suggesting it— jingling quietly.

The woman had a hand held over her mouth, poorly stifling her giggles. “I see she is well-loved, then.”

 “Yes, she is.” Jon said simply— he knew he looked ridiculous and silly, with the kitten in his jacket, but he didn’t really care. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Selina…” he realized, a moment too late, that she hadn’t told him her name.

Selina blinked at him, tilting her head curiously. “Of course. And your name is…?”

“Jon,” he answered, then lifted a hand up toward his face— right, mask, he was still wearing the mask, so— “ah— or, the Archivist, rather.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Right. Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, either way.”

Jon mentally kicked himself. Stupid. He smiled nervously. “Ah, yes. You as well. Do you want me to walk you out, then?”

Behind him, Jon heard Julian make a choked-off sort of sound, something like a protest that died before it really left his throat. Jon glanced over his shoulder to see both him and Sage staring at him, eyes wide with alarm— or, rather, staring at the woman still leaning casually against the door. Julian shook his head minutely; Jon could taste a hint of fear. 

He turned back. 

“That won’t be necessary,” she smiled, something just a touch predatory in it, “but how about you come to mine for tea sometime— bring your little Officer, there, she can meet my own. Kittens learn to be cats from other cats, after all.”

Jon nodded slowly. “That sounds… good, yes. When are you—?” He bit his tongue. “Ah. Whenever works for you.”

“How’s tomorrow?” She asked. “Say… two o’clock?” 

Jon nodded again. “Sure, yes.” 

“Give me your phone, I’ll send you the address.” 

He unlocked and handed over his phone; she tapped around on it, presumably sending herself a text. Sure enough, when she handed it back, a new contact stared back at him; Selina Kyle, with a little cat emoji next to it. 

“See you tomorrow, Archivist,” she smiled again, and gave the Officer a gentle scratch on the top of the head, which she leaned into with a purr.

“Right, ah, see you then!”

She left. The door shut behind her. Jon turned around to face the interior of the diner, where Julian and Sage were both staring at him like he’d gone mad.

“What?” He asked defensively. 

“Dude,” Julian stared blankly at him. “That was fucking Catwoman.”

“What?” This time the question was laced with shock. 

“Did you just get a date with Catwoman?” Sage’s eyes flickered between Jon and the door.

“What?!” Jon needed to stop saying that— “No! No, that wasn’t—“

“Sorry man, she was totally flirting with you.”

Sage laughed, the sound a little bit hysterical. “Jesus Christ you’re oblivious, aren’t you? I don’t know how you didn’t fumble that.”

Jon felt a sort of tension rising in his chest and shoulders, leaving his breath short and his voice pitched high. “She was not flirting, there’s nothing— I’m not even interested—“

“You’re not?” Sage seemed legitimately shocked. “How? She’s Catwoman!” 

“Yes, I heard you the first time,” Jon grumbled, fussing over the Officer where she was still tucked inside his jacket. 

“Is it really safe for you to go…?” Julian’s brow had pinched. “Aren’t you supposed to, like, meet in public for the first date…?”

“It’s not a date!” Jon hissed.

“Yeah, whatever you say. Might want to clear that up with her before tomorrow.”

Jon sat back down at the table. “I’ve got to call Daisy and let her know that the Officer is back,” he said, flipping to Daisy’s contact and pressing call— effectively ending the conversation. Julian rolled his eyes.

She picked up on the third ring.

“Yeah?”

“We’ve got her,” Jon cut right to the chase. “She’s not hurt. Just a little cold.”

Daisy made a relieved exhale on the other end. “Good. I assume she won’t be leaving your sight for the rest of the night?”

Jon cracked a small smile. “No, I should think not.”

“How’d you find her?”

Jon heard other voices in the background. “We didn’t— someone brought her back. I’ll explain later.” 

Daisy hummed. “Alright. We’re almost done here, then Hood and I are going out on patrol.”

“Okay, I’ll see you when you get back.”

“Try to sleep some before then, alright?”

Jon huffed. “I will try. No promises.”

“Great. See you.”  

She hung up.

Jon put his phone away, looked at the clock; turned to Julian and Sage, who were still watching him. 

“I’m going to go get the Officer some dinner,” he declared, standing up. “I appreciate both of your help today.”

“No problem,” Julian grinned. Sage just nodded. 

The Officer purred the entire way up to the apartment.

—

“I will try. No promises.”

“Great,” Daisy glanced around the room; everyone was watching her. “See you.”

She hung up.

“So?” Jason prompted.

Daisy set her phone face-down on the table. “The Officer has been located, and is back in the Archivist’s care.”

“Good,” Jason turned back to the others at the table— Darcy on their side, a trio of weapon’s dealers on the other. They had just agreed on terms for the purchase of some specialized equipment they would need for tomorrow’s operation, and the three dealers were staring openly at Daisy with varying levels of confusion and fear. 

She was well aware how her phrasing sounded; she’d done it on purpose. How could she not? Jon’s the one who named his cat Officer, she could hardly be blamed for it. And if it earned them a little extra respect…

Well, then that was just a pleasant side-effect. 

Daisy grinned, showing her teeth.

Jason tossed a wad of cash on the table and stood. “Here’s half; you’ll get the rest when we’ve got the goods.”

Their leader nodded and took the cash. “Pleasure doin’ business with you, Hood.” 

Daisy followed as Jason flung open the door, and as they made their way into the empty storefront— they were meeting in a back room behind a hair salon, this time— she tossed a hand up in a casual wave behind her.

She could get used to this whole vigilante thing. 

—

It was around 9:30 when it happened.

“Shit,” Jason tapped something on the side of his helmet; Daisy looked up from where she was binding a man’s hands together behind his back as he groaned on the pavement, his would-be victim talking hurriedly on their phone at the mouth of the alleyway. 

“What?”

“A distress call— from Tamsin.” 

 The woman from the other night— Daisy remembered her. “What’s the trouble?”

“Don’t know. Come on, leave him.” Jason fired his grapple over the roof and let it carry him up and away.

Daisy aimed more carefully; by the time she fired her grapple, Jason was already over the lip of the rooftop.

The person at the end of the alleyway paid them no mind as Daisy gripped the handle over her head with both hands and pressed the button to retract the line; she felt her stomach drop as she was lifted into the air, the ground falling away beneath her as she went up, up, up—

She clicked to a stop just below the edge of the rooftop, scrambling at the side of the building with her feet and attempting to leverage herself over the side. She wound up at a weird angle, her legs straight in front of her and hips pushed out over the alleyway— she managed to heave herself forward and grasp the roof edge with one hand, then the other, and finally she pulled her shoulders and body onto the rooftop and rolled over onto her back, breathing hard.

“You good?”

She gave Jason a thumbs-up then rolled back onto her front and got to her feet. “Didn’t even need your help that time.” 

He nodded. “Good progress. We’ll work on it— now come on.” 

Tamsin’s apartment wasn’t far from where they were, luckily— a few blocks over. They made their way across the run-down cityscape, jumping the gaps between buildings with running leaps and crossing wider streets through a combination of scrambling up and down fire escapes and struggling with a grapple gun. 

As they ran, Jason tapped something on the side of his helmet again. 

“Hey— yeah, I got it, I’m on my way now. Yeah, do it.” 

A pause. 

“Yeah, patch her in.” 

A moment later and Daisy’s comm crackled in her ear, and a woman’s voice came through.

“About damn time,” she hissed. She sounded like she’d been crying. 

Jason’s voice came through on the line, too, the slight delay making for a strange sort of echo for Daisy. “Hey, Tamsin, it’s Hood— and Alice— we’re on our way to you. What’s—?”

“They took him.”

“Who?” Daisy asked.

“My son! They took my son— you promised he’d be safe, Hood!”

Rather than anguish or fear, the dominant emotion in Tamsin’s voice was clearly anger, a seething sort of rage, a wordless how dare they that came through loud and clear.

Jason led the way across another gap, dropping a storey down in the process; Daisy followed, tucking into a roll on the landing. “I did,” he confirmed, “and he will be. We’ll get him. What happened?” 

A pause. A shuffle on the other side. “I was late picking him up from daycare— because of the job I was doing for you— and Kristy agreed to keep him until ten. She was alone with him, and she can’t fight three goddamn thugs on her own— they showed up, took them both. Right before I hit the distress call.”

Daisy frowned. “How did you know?”

The line was quiet for a moment. “Hood didn’t tell you?” 

“No— tell me what?”

Jason huffed. “You asked me not to tell anyone, Tam.” 

“Well, yeah! But— huh. That’s…” a pause. “You didn’t tell anybody?”

“No. Just Camryn, when you met her— and Julian knows, I think, but you already knew each other.” 

“What don’t I know?” Daisy was getting irritated; she and Jason climbed down the outside of a fire escape.

“My… metahuman abilities allow me to see through another’s eyes. I use it to make sure my Jacob’s safe.”

 “Could have just said that,” Daisy rolled her eyes. “Explains why Mask’s after you. It is Mask, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Tamsin confirmed. “Looks like.”

Instead of returning to the rooftops, Jason led Daisy to a rundown-looking apartment building.

“We’re here,” he said, and aimed his grapple at a small second-floor balcony— or, rather, he aimed it at the balcony above, and swung seamlessly onto the target ledge just as a sliding door opened into the building.

“C’mon, Alice!”

She aimed, fired; gave the line a tug to make sure it was secure; she was lifted up, swung gently over the railing, and landed on her feet. The call cut out.

Tamsin was waiting for them inside, and sure enough, she was absolutely seething with rage, pacing back and forth between the kitchen and living areas in what was a small but rather welcoming space— signs of a small child all around, from the child locks on the lower cabinets to the plastic dishes on the counter to the bucket of foam blocks beside the couch, but of course, no child.

Jason leaned his hip against her small dining table and crossed his arms. “What can you tell us?”

She stopped pacing. “They were taken in a dark minivan— didn’t get a look at the license plate, didn’t see the bastards’ faces— and driven south. I’m fairly sure they crossed a bridge about five minutes ago, last I checked they were still driving— hold on a moment.”

Tamsin shut her eyes, then, and after a few seconds she opened them again, and—

Oh.

All at once, fear filled the room— pure and unadulterated, so strong in the air that Daisy could taste it— and Tamsin was at the centre of it, but it wasn’t hers. No, this was the fear of a small child, flowing not from but into Tamsin, and Daisy saw—

Well, seeing wasn’t the right word. Smelling was closer, perhaps, but not quite right either— it was a sense all its own that had her whipping her head toward the room’s south-facing window, following the thread of that powerful fear toward its true source; that had her inhaling sharply and meeting the woman’s tear-filled, unseeing eyes and straightening her spine.

“I can find him,” she said. 

Tamsin blinked herself back to them, eyes hard as the fear-thread vanished. “How?” She demanded.

Daisy pointed out the window. “I can sense fear, and whatever you just did, I could… see it, sort of. If you do it again, I think I can follow it.” 

Jason was tapping on his phone. “Julian’s almost here with the car,” he told them. “What’s happening with your kid, Tam?”

She blinked herself back into another place, and that fear-thread snaked back in through the window; Daisy forced herself to keep her eyes on the room, despite how she was itching to follow that trail to its source. 

“They’re out of the car,” Tamsin grit her teeth. “Fuck, I can’t— they’re in a parking garage, underground maybe? Kristy’s carrying him, they’re— they’re afraid, but not hurt, I don’t think…”

Daisy’s mouth watered. She swallowed. “How far’s the car?”

Jason tapped the side of his helmet. “Forty seconds. Let’s go.” 

Daisy nodded and turned to step back out onto the balcony, turning her head to the south and following that trail of fear— she couldn’t see its origin, behind half a city’s worth of buildings, but she knew it lay well outside of the Red Hood’s territory.

It hardly mattered. They had a little boy to rescue.

—

Chapter Text

—

Gotham never slept.

Even this late at night, the city streets weren’t truly empty; though the traffic was light enough that, through the liberal disregard of speed limits, they were able to make better time than they otherwise might have. 

Daisy sat in the front seat as Julian drove; under her direction, they traced that bright beacon of fear through darkened streets. In the backseat, Tamsin sat pitched forward with tears running down her face from eyes that did not see; she kept a running commentary on what her son was experiencing: punctual notes on the angle of light, the texture of the floor and walls, temperature and smell and sound. 

Her voice shook with rage.

Beside her, Jason tapped rapidly on his phone— presumably taking notes, or else texting those details Tamsin shared with someone else in an effort to find out where they were going before they got there.

Their path took them across two bridges; the first to cross out of Red Hood’s territory and into Gotham’s middle-island, and the second— which came into view a few minutes after they drove past the city reservoir— had them crossing into lower Gotham, Robinson Park on their left, and then—

“Turn right!” Daisy told the driver. 

Rather than south, the trail now led her west; they turned down a street lined with storefronts, then another, then an area dominated by new construction— ahead of them was a parkade which seemed to be closed for remediation, scaffolding blocking their view inside, though curiously the barricade restricting access seemed to be broken; all that stopped them from driving in was a large sign reading CLOSED — DO NOT ENTER.

They parked across the street. 

Daisy jumped up to crouch on her seat, leaned over the centre console to look out the driver’s side back window; attention focused entirely on the entrance to the building across from them. “He’s in there,” she said, lowly. 

Tamsin inhaled sharply. “He’s— they’ve written something down, and they’re telling him to look at it— I think it’s a message. For me.”

Jason looked up from his phone, tapping the side of his helmet. “What’s it say?”

A pause, then: “Tamsin Mills, we have your son. Cooperate and he will not be harmed— then, ah, there’s a phone number…” she rattled it off, Jason nodded and typed it down. “Tag the Archivist, and call this number when he is alone—“

“They want him?” Daisy’s focus snapped to Tamsin, her lip curling up. 

“Do not contact police, do not contact the— oh.”

“What?” Julian asked.

“Do not contact the Red Hood,” Tamsin read off. “… Little late for that.”

Jason scoffed a laugh. “Where are they?”

“Top floor,” Tamsin and Daisy said at the same time. 

“I can’t see outside,” Tamsin clarified, “but I saw some light from the ramp up on the way in. They’ve got him in a little room now, looks like an office.”

“There a window?” Daisy couldn’t see through the scaffolding.

“Yes,” Tamsin confirmed. “They have him facing away from it, but yes. I think it’s east-facing— I see moonlight.”

Daisy looked east— there was the moon, bright and clear in the sky. A rare nearly-cloudless night. 

“Alright,” Jason put his phone away. “I’ve got the building layout, let’s go.”

Julian twisted around in his seat. “Boss, what’s the plan?” 

“Tamsin stays in the car. Julian, with me— there’s a helmet in the glove box.” Daisy opened it, pulled out the helmet, and passed it to Julian; it looked like the Red Hood’s helmet, only a darker shade of red.

Jason kept talking. “Alice, I’ve sent you the floorplan; climb the scaffolding, go in through the window, grab the kid. Got it?”

“Got it.” Daisy pulled out her own phone— Jason had sent her a map of the building, marked with a circle around the office on the east side of the top floor which was the only place they could feasibly be keeping the kid. She opened her car door.

Tamsin was still channeling Jacob’s fear, but Daisy didn’t need it anymore— hadn’t for several blocks. She found she knew where she was going without even once more referencing the map she’d been sent; ducking between shadows and avoiding pools of light, grateful for her dark clothing. She made it to the side of the building just as Jason threw a grenade into the lower floor of the parkade. 

She was generally aware of the chaos and mayhem happening just a few metres away; but Daisy wasn’t a part of it. No, she was Hunting, scaling the rickety scaffolding that lined the sides of the building, a shadow in the night, eyes glowing behind her domino mask as she drew closer and closer to her target; to that delicious young fear, now joined by the panic of those who had caused it as the Red Hood tore through them. Unlike the previous night, when they’d been ambushed and surrounded, this time Jason was the one with the element of surprise; they hadn’t expected anyone, except maybe Tamsin, to even know they’d taken the kid yet; let alone for her to have called for help. Let alone for that help to be knocking on their door with explosives and gunfire.

Daisy kept pace with her allies; moving slowly to avoid alerting anyone to her presence, using the sounds of the fight to mask the creaking of metal underfoot. She leaned in over the metal railing on the third floor, caught Julian’s eye; he gave her a thumbs-up with a tilt to his head that let her know he was grinning his signature grin behind the helmet. There was concrete dust on his shoulders. 

The fourth floor proved more challenging for all of them; Jason and Julian because the defenders were ready for them, Daisy because her instincts told her there was somebody else there.

A quick investigation revealed they weren’t actually on the scaffolding with her. Rather, there was a sniper on the roof of the still-under-construction three-storey building across the street opposite her; they hadn’t spotted Daisy, but their sights were trained through a gap in the scaffolding towards where she knew her friends would enter into that part of the building. 

“Sniper to the east,” she whispered into the comm. “Hood, stay back.”

“Copy.”

Daisy didn’t think she was a good enough shot to hit the sniper from this distance, not with a pistol, but there was a small crane over the building, and a plan came together in her mind.

She shuffled a little further along the scaffolding to get the angle right; took out her grapple and aimed it toward the arm of the crane. Then she lifted a hand to her ear and clicked on her comm again.

“Could you make some noise for me?” She said quietly.

Hood was silent a moment. “What are you planning?”

“Going to swing across, take care of the problem. Don’t want them to hear me.”

Julian piped in. “Don’t die!”

“Thanks,” she said dryly, “I’ll try.”

“I’ve got you,” Jason said. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Daisy confirmed.

There was a burst of gunfire; the sniper leaned forward; Daisy launched her grapple. 

It latched over the arm of the crane. Daisy gave it a tug; it held firm. 

“One more,” she muttered into the comm.

“Flashbang in three, two…”

She jumped from the scaffolding.

There was a loud bang behind her; a flash of light. The sniper cringed away from the sight and rubbed at their eye, cursing, as Daisy swung towards the rooftop— 

“Shit,” she breathed.

She was too high up. Her feet cleared the roof by almost two metres; as she swung in an arc away from her target, she fumbled a finger around the handle to the adjustment buttons, and—

She was weightless a moment, at the far end of the swing; she kicked her legs to twist around and face forward, waited until she started falling and the line was taught and then—

Click— drop— click— swing, and there was the roof, very close, how the fuck did other vigilantes do this, what was she thinking—

Her feet touched down. She dropped the grapple— it continued to swing away— and fell into a roll that jarred her shoulder and popped back up to her feet.

She’d done it.

The sniper was laying on his front, barely ten feet away. A wiry man; covered in gray fabric that concealed him against the rooftop. He hadn’t noticed Daisy.

She dropped into a crouch and pulled out her gun.

He was hers.

A grin spread on her face as she stalked forward. He wasn’t going to know what happened; he wasn’t even going to see her coming. She pictured herself grabbing him by the shoulder and throwing him backwards onto the hard surface of the roof— the fear that would alight in his eyes as she lifted her gun, knowing he was caught, knowing there was nothing he could do, no escape, maybe she’d make it slow— maybe she’d hit him somewhere nonlethal, let him limp away, stalk him through the streets— or chase him to the diner, she had promised Jon they could share a meal, and when the Archivist was done with him she’d put a bullet in his chest and watch him choke—

“Alice, eyes on the prize.”

She stopped. Tilted her head to the side. She didn’t quite… understand, what the voice in her ear wanted, but…

“Focus, Alice. The kid. Just knock the guy out. Leave him alive. We’ll figure it out later.”

Right. The kid. She had a mission. 

Daisy took a deep breath— focus. Focus— and stepped forward. 

He still hadn’t seen her; and Daisy was determined that he wouldn’t. She crept forward, gun out in front of her, raised and ready— and although something in her still whispered all the ways she might end his life, slowly, painfully, fearfully, Daisy firmly reminded herself that she did not have the time for a chase. 

By the time the sniper became aware of her presence, it was far too late; his head twisted towards her just as Daisy closed the last few feet and brought the barrel of the gun down hard over his temple, and he was out like a light.

She bent down to grab the sniper rifle and tossed it off the roof edge, then looked back across at the parkade and lifted a hand to her ear. “All clear on this side. You’re good to go.”

“What the hell was that?”

Daisy grimaced. “Hunt wanted me to kill him,” she summarized, “how’d you know?”

“Comm started spitting static. Creepy stuff. You okay now?”

She thought about it for a moment; she felt fine. Better than fine, even; energized, but otherwise normal. 

“Yeah, I’m good. Just gotta figure a way back across.”

“Copy. See you up there.”

Now for the trouble: the only good anchor points for her grapple were the crane, directly above her, and the scaffolding, which was what she was trying to land on. If she used the scaffolding itself, Daisy was confident that she would slam loudly and painfully into the side of it, probably fall, and probably break several important bones. 

She took the time to bind the unconscious sniper’s hands behind his back before she jogged across the roof to the crane, which her grapple was wrapped all the way around several times from when she’d let it go. She found the handle, retracted the hooks, and watched the whole thing zip down back toward her.

Actually…

Daisy eyed the crane. Judged the distance from it to the building across. She had to move quick, but maybe…

She fired the grapple again; straight up. It latched around the arm of the thing, near where it branched from the body; zip! clink, whirr, and she was airborne, dangling above the rooftop right next to the control-box; she swung back and forth until she could grab the bars along the outside of it, then retracted and stowed her grapple and slipped through the structure beneath the box so that she could climb up into it. 

She sat down in the seat. Looked around at all the buttons and levers and dials.

“Hey, Hood,” she said, tapping her comm, “how do you control a crane?”

“Why do you need to know that? What are you doing?”

There were a set of keys hanging from, presumably, the ignition. Did cranes have an ignition? 

“Need a way back across. I’m in the crane. Going to swing it around.”

“Boss, on your left!” Julian interrupted. Daisy heard a short burst of gunfire from the building. It occurred to her that they were being very loud, and they weren’t in Crime Alley anymore— someone was going to notice, and in this part of town, it was a tossup whether police or Bats answered the call. They needed to be quick. 

“Anyway, Alice,” Julian continued, “I dunno about Hood, but I know my way around those things. I’ll help you out.”

“Perfect.” Daisy grinned. “How do I turn it on?”

—

With Julian’s help, Daisy got the crane on and working within under a minute, and a couple minutes after that she had successfully spun it around so that the arm was facing towards the parkade— in fact, it turned out that the very end of it reached out over the street between the buildings, some fifteen feet up above the top of the scaffolding. Once she had it in position, it was relatively simple to climb out inside the end of the arm, attach her grapple, and use it to gently lower herself back onto the scaffolding on the side of the parkade. 

By the time she was back on the right building, Jason and Julian had cleared the fourth floor and were making their way up to the fifth— but from the sounds of things, they were struggling. Daisy switched course and moved away from the office to peer in over the railing-lined gaps in the side of the building, setting about picking off a few of the more troublesomely-positioned guards in her friends’ way, not bothering for non-lethal shots— she didn’t have the time or the accuracy to aim for kneecaps, and she didn’t particularly care if they survived. At least three bodies hit the concrete floor. 

Just as they were about to push further into the building, Julian made a punched-out sound into the comm, followed immediately by a breathy-yet-emphatic “Ow, fuck!”

“You alright?” Jason asked. Inside, Daisy could see them both duck back behind the cover of a wide support pillar as those guards who remained standing all moved towards a spot where she couldn’t see them— but judging by the layout of the building and the fear in the air, they were probably gathering near the office door. 

“Fucker hit me in the chest— hurts like hell, I thought you said this shit was armoured!”

A scoff. “It is. A bruise sure beats a damn bullet in your lung.”

As they bantered— and Jason assured himself Julian was alright, no doubt— Daisy made her way back along the side of the wall toward the office window. 

It was as she was shifting around the outside from one section of scaffolding to the next that she saw it: flashing lights in the distance, growing closer, coming towards them. If she strained her senses, she could just make out the unmistakable sound of far-off police sirens.

“Hey, guys— I see police cars coming this way. I say we have about…” she judged the distance of the lights reflecting off buildings in the dark, “five minutes, tops. Probably less.”

Jason swore. “Julian, go back to the car. Take Tamsin three blocks north, we’ll meet you there.”

“Got it, Boss. Good luck!”

Daisy spared another glance at the approaching lights before she ducked back into the cover of the scaffolding, the office window now in view. Carefully, so very carefully, she peeked inside.

There he was— the kid, so small, facing away from the window; and an older, friendly-faced woman in the corner, hands bound behind her back. In the room with them were three armed men: one with a gun trained on the woman, one holding the kid against his chest— a gun to his head, Christ— and one standing at the door, which was open, strangely enough; although she supposed a door wouldn’t do much to stop the Red Hood, anyway. 

Just as the thought occurred to her, there was another series of gunshots and Jason rounded the corner on the other side of the door in a crouch, before ducking immediately back into cover as the guards who were apparently standing outside her view beyond the door returned fire. 

The fear in the air was so powerful as to be nearly overwhelming. Every single person in that room, save Jason and herself, knew their lives were in grave, immediate danger. Daisy inhaled; exhaled; inhaled again, felt the Hunt singing in her veins, and she let it flow through her— everything but the mission fading from her mind, threads of fear marking targets and steadying her aim, showing her where to hit to kill and where to hit to make it hurt. Police sirens wailed, far too close. Jason spun out from his cover, fired twice; the Hunter pushed at the window, and to her surprise, it was not locked. 

She slipped inside. Nobody saw her, but their fear all kicked up a notch; she heard shouted orders, the cries of the injured and dying from beyond the door. Two more men ran into the office, speaking in panicked tones to the man holding a gun to a child’s head. She did not register the words; There were still four more men standing outside the room— plus the five inside. 

The Red Hood left his cover behind.

Four shots. 

There was nobody left standing outside the room.

All five within faced the door— three with their guns trained on Hood, though they did not fire, one on the woman, one on the child. They weren’t going to shoot the child, of course, they knew the child was their only possible way out of there— but the woman was expendable to them. 

The Hunter pulled a knife from its place at her thigh. The man shouting threats over a silently crying child’s head did not deserve a merciful death; she would cut his throat, careful to avoid major arteries, lest he bleed out too quickly. But first…

She shot the one with their gun trained on the woman. He was dead before he hit the ground. 

The Red Hood laughed. It was a dark, bitter sound that resonated with something deep within her blood. The song of police sirens was a constant background track; renewed shouts echoed from the building’s lower floors.

She moved forward swiftly and pressed her knife to her target’s throat before he could move; it was at this point that the others in the room became aware of her presence, and it was at this point that her mind cleared enough to understand what was being said, the man who had been at the door all along shouting commands to the vigilante who stood just outside. 

“Call off your goddamn dog, Hood!”

Jason tilted his head at her. “Alice, what do you think? Should I call you off?”

She grinned, all teeth. “I think you should let me cut him.”

Jason nodded. “A very reasonable idea, I think. What about the others?”

She still had a gun in her free hand. By way of answer, she shot one of them. 

Another responded apparently on instinct, firing a bullet that glanced off the Red Hood’s armoured shoulder and did, well, jack shit. Hood took out both his kneecaps for the audacity.

The man in Daisy’s grasp finally dropped his gun.

Daisy cut his throat and tossed him to the side.

The comm crackled in her ear. “We’re waiting three blocks north. Police are fuckin’ everywhere, you got the kid?”

The last man had dropped to his knees, gun on the floor, hands up in surrender. Smart man. Daisy stowed her weapons and crouched down to talk to the kid while Jason zip-tied the guy’s hands behind him. 

“Yeah, we got him,” Daisy confirmed, carefully checking the child— Jacob, she remembered his name was— for injuries. Jacob, for his part, was remarkably calm; concerningly so. Probably in shock, come to think of it, staring at Daisy with wide eyes on a tear-stricken face, shaking all over.

“You’re safe now,” she told him, “I’ve got you. Your mom sent us.” 

Jacob’s breath hitched and his tiny hands reached up hesitantly in the universal small-child request to be picked up. Daisy obliged, lifting him to wrap his arms around her neck as she held him securely to her front and stood back up.

Running footsteps in the parkade beyond; echoing, but abruptly very close, and then—

“Police! Drop your weapons!”

Ah, shit. 

“Go,” Jason hissed, and Daisy didn’t hesitate to turn and duck back out the window she’d entered through; the Red Hood making his dramatic exit speech to the dozen officers in tactical gear flooding the parkade, the bastard. 

“Sorry, fellas!” He was saying, and Daisy just knew he was grinning behind the mask. “Afraid I can’t stay to chat. Thanks for helping with the cleanup!”

“Drop your weapons, Red Hood! Hands above your head!” 

“Ugh, your screaming is so annoying, you know that? Really, just, rude— I was doing you a favour, you know?”

By this point, Daisy was on the scaffolding, Jason ducking out the window after her— police entering the office as they left it behind. 

“What about Kristy?” Julian’s voice hissed in their ears. 

“She’ll be fine,” Jason replied, his voice echoing strangely as Daisy heard it both through the comm and due to proximity as they both hurried away from the window. “Police won’t hurt her. And she’s Alley, she knows how to handle herself.”

Two police officers had followed them out onto the scaffolding. “Stop!” One shouted; “release the child!”

Daisy moved toward the outside of the scaffolding as Jacob held on even tighter. They did not want to shoot police, that was never a good move, but Jason fired a warning shot anyways, the bullet bouncing off a part of the scaffolding near one of their heads. Below them, the whole building was surrounded by cars and flashing lights and armed officers; Daisy supposed that was what reports of repeated gunfire, explosions, and screams would get you in this part of town. 

Across the street, the sniper Daisy had knocked out was gone. 

“Step away from the edge!” The same officer was shouting, increasingly desperate, only held back from stepping closer by the gun trained with what everyone knew was deadly accuracy on the seam between their helmet and armoured chest.

“Sorry,” Jason was saying, “places to be, people to see. Kid’s perfectly safe, by the way, no thanks to you guys.”

Daisy unholstered her grapple as Jason leaned out over the street, aiming his own somewhere further down that she couldn’t see; two more officers were coming out the window, a handful had started climbing the scaffolding, and Daisy heard shouts from the roof above them. It was time to go.

Jason nodded at her. She aimed overhead, to where the crane still waited, silent and looming; they fired their grapples at the same time, Jason leaping away before his had even made contact with anything, swinging down the dark street and drawing the shouts— and attention— of every police officer save the ones who were now just a few short feet away, rushing towards Daisy with reaching hands as she saw her grapple catch around the arm of the crane in her periphery and stepped back toward the edge.

“Hold on tight, kid,” she said, and pushed off of the scaffolding.

—

They met up with Tamsin and Julian three blocks north, as promised; Jacob was returned, unharmed, to his mother for a tearful reunion. Daisy took a moment to lean against the outside of the car, breathing deeply and feeling more alive than she had in…

Well, probably since she went into the Coffin.

“You did good,” Jason said, coming to lean next to her. “Kept your head.”

She sighed. “Hardly. How many people did I kill today? I’m— I hunt monsters, I’m not supposed to…”

Jason scoffed. “Human monsters can be just as bad. You saved a kid, tonight. You did good.”

“Right,” she smiled, just a little bit. “Yeah, I guess we did.”

“Come on,” Jason pushed off from the car. “Night’s not over yet.” He grinned, opening the passenger side door. “Let’s see what other trouble we can get into.”

—

They were being followed. 

They were back inside the Red Hood’s territory, having parted with the others as soon as they re-entered Crime Alley so Julian could take Tamsin home; they hadn’t gone far, still just on the southern edge of the north island, the sounds of distant cars and of the river nearby nearly masking the quiet click-hiss of grappling lines. 

Nearly, but not entirely, and it was the barely-there sound of a grappling hook firing— when Jason and Daisy were both standing solidly on the ground— that let them know they weren’t alone. Their first task: figuring out who it was. The Red Hood took to the rooftops, while Daisy was left in the shadows below, one hand on her grapple launcher, the other at her ear, waiting for an update or a request for backup. 

After about five minutes, Hood swung down off a fire escape next to Daisy where she had been left crouching at the mouth of an alleyway. 

“It’s Nightwing,” he hissed, then pointed up to another rooftop. “There; you remember what I told you about dealing with him?”

Daisy nodded. “Don’t kill him. Try not to get close. If I need to stall, let him talk.” 

“Good. Okay. Follow my lead.”

They launched their own lines; Daisy giving hers an experimental tug to ensure it was secure before trusting it to pull her up after Hood, the two of them climbing onto the rooftop and walking to stand out in the open— though with the convenient cover of a rooftop access structure just a few feet away— and wait for the vigilante to come to them. 

Nightwing approached cautiously— well, cautiously for him, anyway. If it were anyone else, doing a flip while jumping between buildings a hundred feet in the air would be suicidally reckless, but the fact Nightwing didn’t even finish the move with a cartwheel or something was unusual, from Daisy’s understanding. He walked faux-casually toward them, coming to a stop about twenty feet away with his hands out in front of him, making it clear they were empty while at the same time keeping him ready to move at a moment’s notice. Daisy eyed the handles of his escrima sticks poking out over his shoulders.

“Hey, Red Hood, is it? It's great to finally meet you!” He grinned; his teeth a blinding sort of white in the relative darkness. “And your friend. I’ve heard about you— new player, right? I’m afraid I haven’t caught your name.”

A pause. “… Alice,” Daisy said carefully, narrowing her eyes behind the mask.

It all seemed normal enough, except for the fact he was there. The Bats weren’t supposed to come to Crime Alley, ever, let alone approach the Red Hood; and Jason said that Kristy would have told the police Jacob was in safe hands, so why—?

Then his head turned briefly to the side, further into their territory. Just a tiny, barely-there twitch, but Daisy caught it, and she knew what it meant. 

“He’s not alone,” she murmured. Jason growled through his helmet and stalked forward another couple of steps.

“I thought I made it clear I don’t want any damn Bats in my territory, Nightwing!” He drew a gun. “Do you need a reminder?”

Nightwing cocked his head to the side, the picture of overconfidence. “Oh, I heard. You really expect to threaten Robin and not have me drop in for a little chat?”

Jason’s spine went visibly more rigid. So this wasn’t about the kid, then; Daisy shifted slightly on her feet, prepared for a fight, reaching out all around them with her senses trying to figure out where the other person might be. 

“Besides,” Nightwing continued, “it was only Batman you told to stay out. I’m not Batman.” 

Hood growled, the sound distorted and demonic through the helmet. “Well I’m telling you now. Stay out.”  

Nightwight took another step towards them and started to say something else— probably a witty remark or a pun or something— but the moment he moved, Hood lifted the gun in his hand and fired.

The bullet ricocheted off the roof just to the left of Nightwing’s feet, and the hero danced a couple of steps away; lifting his hands up higher, which was of course actually closer to his weapons. “Woah, geez! No need to be so touchy, I just wanted to introduce myself!”

“That was a warning shot, Dickwing—“ Nightwing tensed up just the slightest bit at the name— “and I’m sure your brother told you all about what happened the last time one of you fuckers showed your stripes around here. Get. Out.”

“Okay, okay, I’m going…” Nightwing wasn’t looking at them. He was looking just past them, gesturing subtly but insistently towards the river as he started backing away from them, and the way his eyes widened slightly was the only warning Daisy had— spinning around just as a form came flying out of the shadows directly toward Hood’s back.

“Batgirl, no!” Nightwing shouted, but it was far too late. The newcomer landed hard on the crime lord, and though he didn’t fall, it was a near thing; he pitched forward, grabbing the arm that snaked around his neck and throwing her off of him. She flipped and spun neatly in the air, so that before she’d even landed she was winding up a kick that should have hit the man square in the neck, but he brought his forearm up to block, did something that ended up effectively shoving her backwards, and she danced away— completely silent in contrast with Nightwing’s insistence on banter.

Hood didn’t waste a second, firing three shots in quick succession that had Batgirl dashing along the rooftop in a zig-zag while Nightwing pulled something small and metallic out of one of the gauntlets on his wrists and threw it.

Wingding, Daisy realized, as the projectile struck home; it functioned like a thrown knife, apparently, as it lodged itself into Hood’s pistol with a metallic thwack and sent the weapon flying from his hands and skittering across the rooftop. Hood swore and drew his second pistol. 

Nightwing was already pulling out another wingding, and Daisy was already moving; running toward the vigilante, knife in hand— she had a gun on her, but she didn’t want to kill him, and she didn’t trust herself to aim nonlethally while sprinting— while Batgirl leapt into combat with the Red Hood again. Another shot rang out behind her; Daisy swiped with the knife, forcing Nightwing’s second throw to go wide as he dodged backwards. Daisy dropped into a slightly lowered stance, bared her teeth, felt the Blood in her veins and in his and she growled— Nightwing took another, perhaps involuntary step backward before he pushed past her attempt at calling on the Hunt and drew his escrima sticks. 

She hadn’t fought someone like this before, and she realized belatedly why Jason had told her to avoid close combat with the vigilante. He fought like it was a dance; like it was a show, and Daisy was incredibly grateful for the solid armour in the fabric covering her forearms as she used them to block the goddamn electrified baton-like weapons he tried to hit her over the head with. 

“Spooky thing you did there, with the eyes. What’s your secret?” He pushed her back; she lashed out with the knife, he just stepped out of the way, not seeming all that concerned by the move. Was he going easy on her?

If you need to stall, let him talk.

“Oh, you know…” she answered, teeth still bared, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. “these masks can do all sorts of things.”

“Right, right…” they circled each other; Daisy saw that Batgirl had apparently knocked the other gun from Hood’s hand, too, and he was left with a knife in each hand as she ducked in and out of his range, looking for an opening. “Say,” Nightwing continued, “I’ve heard you have some interesting skills. Heard some people are calling you the Hound. Hood’s dog, really. How much truth is there to that?” 

Daisy did not particularly appreciate his phrasing. “Red Hood’s got a lot of territory to cover by himself,” she said, instead of a real answer. “Just doing my part.” 

She shifted her gaze toward Hood and Batgirl again, only to find the latter was staring at her instead of fighting Hood— her whole body rigid with something that made Daisy take notice. They locked eyes, then, and Daisy had the uncomfortable impression that the girl was seeing far more than she should have been. 

In that moment of mutual distraction, two things happened at once:

The Red Hood threw something in Batgirl’s face that exploded with a small pop, covering her mask in some sort of red goop—

—And Nightwing jabbed Daisy in the side with a goddamn taser. 

She lost eye contact with Batgirl as every muscle in her body clenched tight all at once, a sharp pain lancing through her from the spot where the weapon made contact— like something shoving its way under her skin, down to the tips of her fingers and toes and into her head, and for a horribly long moment everything froze— she couldn’t think, she couldn’t move, she couldn’t—

Daisy fell, gasping, and the electricity was gone but it took her body a couple of seconds to get the memo and in that time, Nightwing was on her, pinning her face-down to the rooftop and wrenching her arms behind her back. Metal closed over her wrists, and she swore. 

Barely ten feet away, Batgirl was still fighting, despite the red substance which had covered the upper half of her entirely-masked face. As Daisy watched, she reached up a hand, attempting to scrub it off— only for the entire hand to stick to her face. 

Hood moved in, grabbed the other hand, tried to throw her to the ground— she yanked the stuck hand out of her glove, leaving the fabric hanging from her face as she slammed an elbow back into Hood’s stomach. He twisted to lessen the impact; she moved a foot out in an attempt to trip him; he saw it coming, hooked his own leg around her outstretched ankle and sent her to the ground. 

She rolled away before he could pin her; springing to her feet and reaching up, possibly planning to rip the entire mask off her face, but then above Daisy, Nightwing yelled: “Batgirl, stop! Disengage!” his voice shook ever so slightly. 

She froze, hands still up in a fighting stance, breathing hard. 

“Hood,” Nightwing said, slowly. “Walk away. Walk away, I’ll leave Alice here, and we’ll get out of your territory.”

They were clearly all doing some mental calculations here; trying to estimate who would win, if they kept fighting, who would get hurt, and whether it would be worth it. For all that Hood was shaking with rage, he looked Nightwing in the eye and, after a long moment, took two careful, meaningful steps backward. 

The vigilante relaxed above her, just a fraction, and called Batgirl to him. After directing her to climb onto his back, he finally stood up and off of Daisy, and she twisted to watch him launch a grapple line from his gauntlet; maneuvered to her feet to watch as the two trespassers swung down into the street below and dashed toward the river, vanishing from sight.

Hood came up beside her, glaring after them. “Good fucking riddance,” he practically spat the words. “You alright?”

She shrugged, the motion awkward with her hands still trapped behind her back. “Fine. He’s not messing around with those taser sticks, is he?” 

He moved behind her and started messing with the cuffs, only to let out a frustrated sound and just— snap the metal with his bare hands, apparently. She raised an eyebrow at the scraps of metal left on her wrists, and he rolled his eyes. 

“After that little show you put on, breaking cuffs is practically nothing. What the hell was that?”

Daisy could peel the mechanism open, now that the locked part was wrecked. Wrists properly free, she frowned at him. “What was what?”

“When he tased you, you know…”

“I don’t, no,” she shook her head, a looming sense of dread creeping into her voice. “What did I do?”  

“You, well, screamed, I guess, but it was like— fucking demonic, all spooky and shit. Your eyes went like—“ he did something like clawed jazz-hands next to his face— “all glowy, and your hands— I don’t know. It was like…”

Daisy looked down at her gloved hands and realized the tips of the fingers were all torn, like something sharp had pushed out from inside of them, like…

“Claws,” she said, numbly. “Fuck.”  

—

Chapter Text

—

Even on the nights he didn’t share any dreams with statement-givers, Jon’s sleep had hardly ever been peaceful. He still woke in a cold sweat more often than he cared to admit; shaking off the horrid phantom itch of something burrowing into his skin; the agony of being burned; the terror of being followed, hunted; the barrage of not-right faces and plastic hands all around him, touching him; of falling and falling and falling—

And, of course, he didn’t need Daisy’s help to recall the press of the earth squeezing the air from his lungs.

This night, as it turned out, was particularly bad. He had tried to sleep, really, but he could only spend so long shivering in the dark before he started to see things hiding in it; the Officer, bless her tiny heart, could only do so much to banish the ghosts of his past. And so, just after ten, with Daisy still out and the apartment feeling far too empty, Jon decided to forgo trying to fall back to sleep and instead found his way downstairs and into the basement breakroom.

Sure, he could sit out in their living room, but Jon had found he felt safer, with people coming and going, giving him and the kitten nods of greeting and small pets, respectively, as they went about their own late-night business— some even stopping to join him in quiet or conversation. Plus, it didn't hurt that they had a far better selection of tea downstairs.

That night, for the brief period of sleep he’d managed, he had dreamt of Martin, and of spiders. Of spindly arms reaching through an open door, seizing him, taking him away. He had dreamt of cold, cold plastic, and the smell of lavender and vanilla, and Daisy calling for his help, and Melanie screaming and lunging. 

The tea helped, even if it was never as good as when Martin made it, no matter how much Jon practiced. He kept the kettle on, as he had done the previous night, so that if anyone came in weary and exhausted from too-little sleep, or else shaking from the come-down off an adrenaline high from facing Gotham’s many dangers, Jon was ready to offer what unsure, awkward comfort he could— even if the members of Red Hood’s gang tended to prefer coffee, or hot chocolate from that cheap powder.

Just before eleven, Julian returned to the diner with Tamsin and a child who could only be her son in tow. 

The little boy gasped. “Kitty!”

Jon smiled hesitantly and held up the Officer, who made an inquisitive “mrrp?” in response. “Yes, ah… kitty.”

The boy reached out, but his mother held him back. “What do we say?”

The kid turned his huge eyes on Jon. He couldn’t have been any older than five. “Can— can I please pet the kitty?”

Jon nodded. “Of course you can. Be gentle, though, she’s very small,” he added. 

The kid nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll be gentle with the kitty!” 

Tamsin set down the squirming child, and a moment later he was at Jon’s knee, reaching up with careful, almost reverent hands towards the Officer, who butted her head against them. The boy giggled. 

“My son— his name is Jacob,” Tamsin offered. “He’s just four. He’s had… a very eventful night.”

“He was kidnapped,” Julian explained, grabbing himself a mug and loading it with three spoonfuls heaped with that awful hot chocolate powder— Jon pretended not to notice. “By some of Mask’s guys, causing problems again,” Julian continued. “Alice and Hood got him back real quick, though. She’s getting good with the grapple.”

Jon nodded. The kid— Jacob— seemed unharmed, though he was sure the night was very stressful for everyone. 

“The kitty’s got no fur,” Jacob whispered, looking up at Jon with exaggerated concern. “Where’s her fur?”

“She’s not that sort of cat,” Jon explained. “The veterinarian said she’s likely a sphynx, which is a breed that doesn’t naturally grow fur.” 

The kid nodded seriously. “She’s got no fur. She needs clothes.” 

Jon fidgeted with his pyjama sleeve. “She’s alright— she hides inside my jacket when she gets cold.”

He shook his head, frowning up at Jon. “You’ve got to get her a sweater. Okay? She needs a sweater to stay warm.”

“Um...” Jon didn’t know how to respond. Tamsin was smiling fondly in the doorway; Julian was covering his mouth to hide the fact he was laughing quietly at him. He would get no help here. 

“Right, of course. Thank you, Jacob, I’ll be sure to get her a sweater.”

The kid beamed up at him. “Good! She’s a good kitty.” 

“Yes, she is.” 

“Her skin is very soft.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Momma,” Jacob turned around, “can I get a kitty?” 

“No, honey,” Tamsin shook her head. “We can’t take good care of a cat, remember? We aren’t home enough.”

The kid pouted, but didn’t argue further— too charmed by the Officer’s gentle demands for more of his clumsy affection.

After around thirty minutes of them all sitting around the table for a warm drink— even Jacob carefully sipping some lukewarm hot chocolate of his own— Julian’s phone pinged.

“Oh my god,” he groaned, staring down at the screen. “Again? Really?”

“What is it?” Tamsin leaned over.

“Hood needs a ride again. I’ll… be back, or whatever.” 

Jon stood at the same time as him. “Is something—?“ no, Christ, he had to figure out how to stop doing that. “If something is wrong, I would like to know, and, ah, to know if I should come with.”

Julian shook his head. “Don’t think it’s anything like that. Apparently Hood just got knocked around a bit, he says he’s fine but Alice doesn’t want him to drive or grapple to Leslie’s, so…”

Jason was rather prone to injuries, it seemed. It was a good thing he healed quickly, too.

Something occurred to Jon, then. “You drive for him a lot,” he said, curious as to why that was.

Julian shrunk in on himself. “Yeah. It’s whatever,” he grumbled. 

Tamsin laughed. “It’s what you get, is what it is. You’re lucky he didn’t fire you!”

Jon was rapidly becoming confused. “What?” 

Julian sighed. “Hood’s had me on night driver duty ever since I turned eighteen.”

Jon lifted an eyebrow. “That does not explain why.”

Julian looked up toward the ceiling. “It’s— he thought I already was eighteen.”

“Hood doesn’t employ minors,” Tamsin explained. “At least not for the sort of thing Julian usually does. Dangerous things.” 

“Ah,” Jon nodded, “that… makes some sense.”

“He’s still the best boss I’ve ever had, though, you know? Before and now.”

Tamsin picked Jacob up. The boy was starting to get very sleepy; he leaned his head against his mother’s shoulder and twisted to watch the conversation quietly. 

“I think he just wants to keep you close,” Tamsin teased, “you know how protective he gets. If you’re driving him all over Gotham all night, you can’t be off getting into trouble.”

“He literally had me in an active gunfight today!” Julian threw his hands up. “People shooting at me! How is that protective?”

“So he knows you’re capable,” Tamsin shrugged, “and he trusts you. Doesn’t mean he wants you doing the risky stuff where he can’t see you. He had you in bulletproof gear, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Julian huffed. “Whatever. Come on, Tam, I’ll drop you off on the way. Thanks for the drink, Archie!” 

Jon lifted a hand in farewell as Julian ducked out of the room, Tamsin following with the nearly-asleep Jacob in her arms. 

And Jon was alone again.

It wasn’t for long, though; within another ten minutes, someone that Jon recognized as one of Jason’s newer hires pushed into the room looking like she’d seen a ghost— and she sat down, and Jon offered her tea, and so the night continued.

—

It was almost one in the morning, while Jon was tidying up the place after a group of three people had come and gone again, that Daisy and Jason finally returned, both looking anxious and exhausted and distinctly troubled, each in their own way— and, yeah, that was a fresh bruise on the side of Jason’s head, already turning very interesting colours. 

“Fucking Batgirl,” Jason snarled, slamming his helmet down on the counter and opening the fridge with more force than necessary. “Goddamn Batman putting goddamn kids in the goddamn field!”

Jon winced. “What, ah, what happened?” He directed the question toward Daisy.

Daisy sat down next to Jon and let her face fall forward into her arms. “I’m turning into a werewolf,” she said into the table.

“What?” Jon exclaimed— the word coming out a higher pitch than he intended. “What—? How—?”

Daisy held up one hand— the tips of her gloves were torn outward, like…

“I’ve grown claws,” she drawled, lifting her head up. “Apparently they helped scare off Nightwing.”

“You met Nightwing?!”  

Jason growled as he thunked down into a chair across from Daisy, cup of lukewarm coffee from the pot that Jon had put on an hour ago in front of him. “Sure fuckin did,” he confirmed, “and the new sidekick.” He spoke the word with such intense derision that Jon felt the back of his neck prickle. 

Daisy sighed and, taking pity on Jon, explained. “We had a little run-in with Nightwing and Batgirl— she’s new, I guess. Jason’s… not fond of her.”

“I didn’t say that!” Jason snapped. “She’s— she’s like Robin.”  

Daisy rolled her eyes. “Hardly. I took Robin down half-starved. Batgirl gave you a run for your money.”

Jason’s eyes flashed green. “Batgirl is a kid.”

“You don’t know that,” Daisy shot back, “just because the last Batgirl was a kid, doesn’t mean—“

“It doesn’t matter!” Jason shouted, “after what happened to her— after what that fucking clown did to us, they have no right to that name!”

There was a moment of shocked silence, stretching long into awkward, before Jason started laughing. It was a sad sound; lost, verging on broken, like the air was being forced from his chest— a laugh that could easily become a sob, if he’d let it. “Batgirl wasn’t even really a kid when I knew her, anyway.”

Jon swallowed, forced himself to keep the compulsion far from his voice as he gently, so gently, met Jason’s eyes across the table. “Then… why?” 

Jason shut his own eyes and tipped his head back. “The last Batgirl was older than me— more Dick’s age, you know? They were friends. Dated a while, actually. She was more like a sister to me than anything; taught me loads of stuff. The sort of tips Dick never needed, tricks that Bruce didn’t have any use for. I wasn’t… like either of them.”

Jon watched, expression carefully open, already dreading where this was going.

Jason laughed again, once, short. “I was a skinny kid from the Narrows, you know? Not strong like Bruce, hadn’t trained in the goddamn circus my whole life like Dick. But Batgirl? She didn’t have any of that, either. She got it. I don’t think I’d have survived a month without her looking out for me, let alone years. And she’s the only one of them that didn’t have a thing to do with my death, or what happened after— she wasn’t going to be saving me or killing the clown from a goddamn hospital bed.”

“What happened to her?” Daisy asked, voice smaller than Jon had heard her in a long time. 

Jason took a deep breath. “The Joker put a bullet in her spine— right before he killed me. Worst part is, he didn’t even care about her, he just did it to get to her dad. And now,” he stared down at the table, venom in his eyes; if looks could kill, Jon knew Batman would be dead. “Now there’s a new Batgirl. They gave away her fucking name, just like they did mine, because Batman never learns a goddamn thing!”

“That’s…” Jon said slowly, frowning, “that’s not fair. We don’t know what—“

“We know enough!” Jason slammed a closed fist down on the table; both his and Jon’s mug jumping and rattling against it from the impact as Jon and Daisy both stared at their friend, tense— the whole room ready to snap. “We know enough,” Jason repeated. “We know there’s another kid in a mask with a stolen name. All because nobody's bothered to show the Bats what happens to baby birds who leave the nest too young.” He bared his teeth; his eyes pulsed green. He stood up.

“You know,” he said, pacing across the small space, “if it weren’t for you two showing up, and all this shit with Mask, I’d have already made my point. Robin would already be retired— permanently.”

Jon jolted backward in his seat. What?

“What?” Daisy asked, leaning over toward Jason. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jason spun to face them. “It means that I had it all worked out— Batman knows who I am, and I told him if I ever saw his precious new son, he was dead. All I had to do was prove I’m a serious threat, then wait for him to send the kid away…”

“Where would he send him?” Daisy asked, tilting her head. 

Jason ran a hand through his hair, tugging the white section in the middle straight up. “I don’t fuckin’ know. Some safehouse, or off with his little kid hero friends— doesn’t matter; all my old access codes still work. I checked. I can get into any of those places, and without the Big Bat around to protect him…”

“You were going to hurt Robin,” Jon realized— the phrase equal parts questioning and accusatory. 

“Yeah, no shit I was going to hurt him!” He planted his hands on the table, staring the both of them down, making clear that he was deadly serious. “I was going to make him pay for what he did— make them all pay, make Batman understand that you can’t put a kid in a costume and expect them to make it out unscathed!” 

 Daisy stood up— nearly as tall as Jason, staring at him in a mixture of shock and hard anger as they faced each other over the table. “Do you even hear yourself right now?” She demanded; “be pissed at your dad all you want, but what the hell happened to intel?”

“Intel?” Jason sneered back; “the only intel I need is the fact that they replaced me— and they replaced her! Batgirl was my friend—!”

“The very first thing you told me about what we do,” Daisy interrupted, voice low, verging on a growl, “is that we don’t act without knowing everything we can. This sounds a lot more like jumping to conclusions and reaching for excuses to beat up children.”

Jason abruptly pushed away from the table and spun, letting out a violent snarl that turned into a pained yelp as he put his entire body weight into punching the wall— which, as they were in a basement, was made of concrete.

“Jesus fuck—!”

Jon winced.

Daisy sat back down. “Are you done?” She asked, after a long moment of Jason cursing and clutching his now-injured hand. 

Jason shot her a glare, but it was missing the green edge that it had before. He let his hand hang limp at his side— bloodied, he’d hit the wall more than hard enough to break skin; Jon was a little worried he’d broken more than that. 

“You want more intel?” He huffed. “ Fine, I’ll get you more intel. Maybe then you can stop acting like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Daisy just nodded politely and smiled. “Thank you,” she said, with only a small flash of teeth. 

Jason turned to Jon. “At least your night turned out alright, yeah? Good Samaritan brought back the Officer, and I heard you met Tam’s kid.”

Jon nodded. “Yes, ah… yes… Uneventful, really…” he winced— just slightly, but evidently not as subtle as he’d have liked, because Daisy caught it immediately.

She froze. “Jon,” she turned her head to face him, “what happened?”

He winced again, opting to stare down at the Officer, curled in his lap, instead of facing the others head-on. After the stressful night they’d had, he really didn’t want to add any more to their plates— but, well, he supposed they needed to know.

“The person who brought the Officer back, may have, possibly, been, ah… Catwoman?”

“What?” Jason exclaimed— though it sounded more shock than outrage, thankfully. 

“Catwoman— like, the villain?” Daisy asked, and Jon nodded in confirmation. 

“Her name is Selina Kyle. She seems… nice?”

“Nice,” Jason repeated incredulously, “she seems nice?”

“She asked me to come meet her cats,” Jon added. “Tomorrow. Or, well, today, I suppose. Two o’clock.”

“And you agreed?” Jason shook his head. “Jon, she’s dangerous!”

“She found the Officer!” He shot back. “She found her, and brought her back, and I heard all this from Julian and Sage already, so you can lay off me.”

They did not, in fact, lay off him. “They knew?” Daisy was shaking her head. “They— oh, I could tell there was something going on when Julian picked us up. He was nervous.”

Jon swallowed. “He didn’t say anything about it, did he?” At Daisy and Jason’s unimpressed stares, he nervously elaborated: “it’s just— well, Julian and Sage, they both got it in their heads that Selina was flirting with me— but I really don’t think she meant it like that! Spending time alone with somebody doesn’t automatically make it a date—“

“Oh my god,” Jason whispered, eyes distant and distinctly horrified. “This can’t be happening.”

“What?” Jon asked.

“You’re going on a date with Catwoman!”

“It’s not a date!” 

“No, Jon, you don’t understand, it’s—“ then Jason stopped himself, took a deep breath, and visibly switched tracks. “Okay,” he said, carefully even. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do…”

—

April 7, 13:46

Cass: Are you coming to the library today? 

13:53

Cass: Daisy?

—

April 7, 13:55

Cass: Are you and Daisy coming to the library today?

Jon: Unfortunately not. I’ve got other arrangements, and Daisy is taking the day off to relax.

Jon: she had a rough night 

Cass: is Daisy ok?

Cass: she didn’t answer my texts

Jon: I think she’s asleep

Cass; ok

—

Julian followed Jon out of the car— a spring in his step, a grin on his face, and a gun in his pocket. 

Jon looked from the address on his phone to the Coventry apartment building it had directed them to, then sideways at his completely unnecessary escort. 

“Surely you can stay out here…” he tried.

“Nope!” Julian said, popping the p. “Boss’ orders— see you all the way inside, make sure there’s no murder basement, let your new friend know what’ll happen if she hurts you…”

“You do not need to give Selina a shovel talk, Julian.” He rolled his eyes, stepping up to the door. “I’m fairly certain she knows not to cross the Red Hood. And besides, Sage is right across the street, I have an emergency beacon, and Tamsin’s tagged me— I’ll be perfectly safe.”

Tamsin’s ability was a strange experience, Jon had found; he had held out a hand, she had gently tapped the backs of his fingers, and… nothing. He had felt no difference at all. 

That is, until she had taken a step back and something shifted— an uncomfortable pressure behind his eyes, in his head, building to painful over a few seconds— and then as quickly as it had started it was gone, and Tamsin was blinking back to herself, a hand on the side of her own head. “Oh,” she had said. “That doesn’t usually happen…”

Jon hadn’t been surprised. The Eye was rather possessive; it seemed unlikely it would willingly share the contents of his psyche. 

Despite the discomfort, it seemed her ability still worked, so they had simply agreed Tamsin would keep her check-ins short and sparse.

“Fine,” Julian sighed, following Jon up the short steps to the building’s front door. “No threatening the Catwoman. I still need to check it out before I leave you two alone.”

Jon’s jacket wriggled, and he undid the top enough for the Officer to push her head out under his chin. She peered up at the building, twisted around and sniffed the air, and a moment later— before either of them could press the call button for Selina’s unit— the door opened to reveal the woman herself.

“Are you two just going to stand out here all day, or do you want to come in?” 

“Hello, Selina,” Jon smiled, stepping in through the door followed by his, again, completely unnecessary escort. “This is Julian,” he told her once they were all inside the lobby of the building. “The, ah, the Red Hood insisted on sending him along to make sure it was safe…”

“Oh, I know,” Selina said with a wink and a mischievous little smile. “He’s welcome to have a look around. Wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”

“Quite,” Jon agreed. 

Julian, on the other hand, only seemed more suspicious. “How did you know that?”

Her smile widened as they filed into an elevator. “I have my ways,” she teased, and punched the button for the fourth floor. 

Jon frowned as the elevator started its ascent, because… how did she know? Selina hadn’t seemed surprised at all by Julian’s presence, and had apparently taken his scouting out her apartment in stride— was this sort of thing regular procedure in Gotham? Jon didn’t think so. But then, he didn’t exactly have much experience…

Selina leaned toward him and lifted a hand to her mouth to stage-whisper: “you were talking about it right outside. I heard everything.”

Next to Jon, Julian fell back against the wall, laughing with his head in his hands. “Of course you did,” he lamented, “of course, because we can’t have a single bit of opsec where our Archie’s involved, can we?”

“No, I suspect not,” Jon agreed, just a touch self-deprecating, sighing and shaking his head.

“Come, now,” Selina purred, leaning past Jon to smile coyly at Julian. “We all know each other’s names, there ought to be some degree of trust between us…”

Jon wasn’t sure if that was meant as a threat or not, but he didn’t think it was wise to ask. Evidently, Julian felt the same, because he dropped the subject as the elevator door opened into a wide hallway. They were greeted by clean, carpeted floors and wallpaper that wasn’t peeling even a little bit— a rarity in Gotham, from Jon’s limited understanding. 

“Nice place,” Julian said, speaking Jon’s own thoughts; “guess that’s what a life of crime will get you.” 

Selina stopped at a door close to the end of the hallway, key in hand. The doorknob was attached with a custom metal plate shaped like a cat. “Please,” she said, tone chastising. “I’ve retired from that life, didn’t you hear?” 

Julian rolled his eyes. “I heard you got a pardon after helping put the Riddler back in Arkham last time. Less than two weeks clean isn’t what I’d call retired.”

The door swung open, and Selina swept into the apartment, ignoring the remarks.

Jon moved to follow, and Julian stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Nuh-uh, Archie. I go first.”

Jon rolled his eyes, but didn’t protest as his crime-lord-appointed guard made his way into the apartment, trailing after him as Julian peered into every room and every corner to make sure Catwoman wasn’t hiding anything nefarious. 

It was a very nice apartment. Open-concept, with a large comfortable-looking couch and a reclining chair arranged around a coffee table being the first thing Jon saw, closest to the front door; a large flat-screen TV against the wall on his left in between the door to a small laundry room and the kitchen, which was separated from the rest of the space by a bar countertop. The kitchen itself appeared well-cared for, with clean marble countertops and shiny metal appliances, and just beyond it was a simple wooden table with six chairs. The rest of the main space was filled by a veritable castle of cat-trees, a full four of them all placed within easy jumping distance of each other. 

Along the right wall were a series of three doors, which turned out to lead to a bathroom, a small office, and a large bedroom, respectively. A long balcony was accessible from both the living room and the bedroom through large sliding glass doors.

And cats. By Jon’s count, there were six of them; two lounging on the cat trees, one over the back of the couch, one curled up in Selina’s bed, one up on top of a cabinet in the kitchen, and one which had jumped down off the couch as soon as they all walked in, winding its way around Selina’s ankles as Julian explored.  

Selina picked that one up. “Jon, meet Sekhmet. She’s a few years old, now, and I’ve had her and her sister Bastet—” she pointed up toward the cat hiding above the cabinet— “since they were newborns. Their mother is my Isis; she used to be one of the strays I cared for. She was injured protecting her kittens, so I took them in. All spayed, now, of course. Sekhmet is the most friendly of my clowder— Bastet’s shy, and Isis is around here somewhere…”

In Jon’s jacket, the Officer chirruped, and Sekhmet’s ears perked as she leaned forward and sniffed the air. From her hiding place, Bastet also seemed to take interest, eyes locked on the Officer as she sniffed. 

    “Over on the couch here is Mikey— he’s missing a leg—“ Selina gave him a scritch on the head as she walked by, arriving at the cat tree where she deposited Sekhmet and picked up a lanky kitten, seemingly about six months old. “This one is William Shakespurr. I fostered the rest of his litter— they’re all off to their forever homes, now, but he has some health concerns and needs a special sort of care, so I decided to keep him.” She set him back in the tree as Sekhmet jumped down and wound herself around Jon’s ankles, looking up at him with a loud “mrraow!”

“Here we have Kahn, my oldest,” she ran her hand down the back of an older cat sitting calmly on one of the trees, “and…”

There was a tap-thump from the bedroom, followed by the pitter-patter of cat paws on wood; a moment later, the final cat emerged from the bedroom, elegant and pure black with intelligent yellow eyes and her long feather-duster tail held high. 

“There you are! This is Isis,” Selina smiled and bent to pick up the final cat, flipping her onto her back and holding her like a baby. “She’s my soulcat, as I’m sure you understand.” Isis was busy lunging forward to rub her face against Selina’s chin and then— with the sort of ease that indicated this was a regular occurrence— she climbed across the woman’s shoulders and settled around her neck like a fluffy, purring scarf. 

The Officer started to squirm her way out of Jon’s jacket, clearly wanting to get down and see what all the fuss was about, so Jon gently lifted her out of her space inside and crouched down to where Sekhmet was waiting not-so-patiently, making a variety of sounds which ranged from trills to meows to almost-growl grumbles and which Jon interpreted as introduce us now, you criminally tall fiend! 

“Carefully, now,” Selina instructed as the Officer and Sekhmet tentatively reached their noses out toward each other. “Isis and her litter are fond of kittens— they help with all the fosters— but it’s always best to introduce slowly.”

Jon nodded and paid careful attention as Sekhmet moved to sniff the top of his kitten’s head and then gave a few tentative licks.

Within seconds, Sekhmet had the Officer tucked to her side as she set about methodically grooming her; for her part, the Officer put up with this attention remarkably well, and even attempted to groom the older cat back. It wasn’t very effective, but it was extremely cute. 

Jon left them to it.

Julian hadn’t gone so far as to ransack the place, but he took the time to open every drawer and every cupboard; even in the bedroom, all while Selina watched with nothing but a raised eyebrow at the invasion of her private spaces. Of course, the only thing of note that he encountered was the Catwoman gear, stowed away in the bedroom closet— Jon was fairly certain there was more, hidden away in secret compartments and the like, just based on Selina’s permissive smugness if nothing else. 

On instinct, Jon looked up. He was standing in the middle of the bedroom; there was a large bookshelf along one wall. He stared at it.

It moves. It moves, and if you move it there is a ladder that will drop down, and above the bedroom is a hidden storage room. Within that room is a cache of illegal experimental weapons, an extravagant diamond necklace which nobody has yet noticed is missing and replaced with a fake, a computer on which is stored evidence for sixteen high-profile felonies, a painting worth over one-hundred million dollars that made international news when it disappeared from a museum along with—

“Alright!” Julian clapped in the living room, jolting Jon out of his Beholding-induced trance and back to reality. “Everything looks good here.”

Jon stepped back out of the bedroom.

“Archie, you know what to do if you need us?” 

He nodded.

“Good, good. Selina…”

She straightened from where she’d been gently stroking the Officer, curled on the couch with Sekhmet. She crossed her arms. “Yes?”

Julian crossed his own arms back at her. “Archie here has backup less than two minutes away. You try anything, and I mean anything—“

“Julian,” Jon groaned, “please, I told you not to do this…”

Selina just chuckled softly, but Jon could tell that her gaze on Jon’s unwanted guardian was assessing. “It’s quite alright,” she assured them both, side-eyeing Jon. “They care for you like a kitten, don’t they? I can understand why.”

“I am thirty years old,” Jon complained, then gestured at Julian. “He’s barely an adult!” 

“It was lovely to meet you,” Selina said, while ushering Julian towards the door. “Really very nice. You tell the Red Hood and the others that their little Archivist is in safe hands with me, alright?”

Julian, having been successfully pushed back into the doorway, tried to start back up again— “I’ll hold you to that, just so you know! If anything happens—“

“Yes yes, the terrible and vengeful Red Hood will hunt me down,” she said dismissively, “maybe bring his new partner along to sniff out my fear like a bloodhound, make my death slow and bloody. I am well aware, thank you.” 

“And he needs to be back by seven!”

“Thank you , Julian. Goodbye, now!”

She closed the door in his face.

—

Thirty minutes later found Jon sitting on Selina’s couch, covered in several cats, while his host prepared some tea and snacks for them in the kitchen. 

“You’re new to Gotham, aren’t you?”

Jon nodded, stroking Kahn in his lap. “Ah, yes. I’ve been here… a little over a week, now.” 

“Only a week? You’ve made quite the impact.” Selina put a tray down on the counter, where Isis was sitting and surveying the goings-on of the apartment. “I’ll admit I was surprised when you introduced yourself… how you did , but it makes a little more sense if you’ve only been doing this such a short time. It takes some getting used to, doesn’t it?”

Jon snorted a half-laugh. “You don’t know the half of it.” 

“I hope you’ve been finding your way alright— making some friends, hm? Even if they are crime lords and cat burglars.”

Jon shrugged absentmindedly. “There are far worse traits for a friend to have. None of you have even tried to kill me yet.”

Selina turned to face him, a confused sort of half-smile on her face. “Do your friends usually try to kill you?”

“Well, Tim succeeded, sort of; blew us both up— although I don’t think we were friends, by the end,” he said, Mikey trying to nibble on his fingers as Jon scritched his fingers along the cat’s chin. “Daisy tried to cut my throat, once. And… well, Melanie stabbed me, but I think I deserved that one…”

“Sounds like you’ve had a rough go of it, huh?” She clicked her tongue. “Poor kitten…”

Jon realized he’d said a little bit more than he meant to, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care— his focus much more on the cats vying for his attention. “It’s— it's alright, really. All worked out.”

“Well,” Selina leaned against the counter. “You don’t have to worry about any of that with me— I don’t bite,” She grinned playfully, then added on, “unless you ask nicely.”

Jon just nodded absentmindedly. “Sounds good.” And then he finally actually looked up, because Selina was making her way over with a plate of store-bought jam cookies and two mugs of tea, which she placed on the coffee table before settling perched on the recliner so she was sitting adjacent to Jon, her feet tucked up under her and Isis settling across her shoulders. 

He took the offered tea, made according to his request— two sugars, no cream, just like it always was— and took a sip. 

He almost cried. It wasn’t the same, nothing was the same, but for a moment— for just a small moment, it reminded him of the tea Martin used to make him. Not like right before the Unknowing, though, or even from before Elias killed Leitner, when the other man was bringing him tea at least once a day, when it was the only thing keeping him sane and it was the best thing he had ever tasted— no. 

No, it was like the tea Martin used to make him before the Prentiss attack, just after Jon had gotten over his professionalism and admitted that he did, in fact, prefer his tea with sugar in it. It was like those first experiments and tweaks with the ratios, where it hadn’t been quite right but Jon couldn’t have told you how or why. It brought him back to that incredibly hesitant feeling of warmth at the knowledge that somebody cared enough to do even that much for him, to even try making tea that he liked. And Jon—

Jon had a cat trying to eat his hair. Selina laughed— a hand halfway up as though she’d thought to cover her mouth then decided not to bother. It was short, but fond and sweet; leaving behind a playful smile as she watched Jon set his tea down to remove William Shakespurr from the back of the couch, untangling tiny needle-claws from his hair which had— until that moment— been in very good shape. 

As he settled back into the couch, now with the kitten sharing his lap with Kahn rather than in his hair, Selina picked up her own tea and asked: “So, what brings you to Gotham? It seems you’re from very far away.”

Jon sighed. “Yes, you could say that. Daisy and I are here doing, ah, research, I suppose. We’re… stuck here, in a sense, until we find what we need.”

“Daisy— the one who tried to kill you?”

Jon flushed. “That wasn’t— it was a misunderstanding. Sort of. Things are good now, she’s a friend.”

Selina nodded and leaned back, relaxed. “Ah, yes, I know how that can be. What are you researching?”

And because Jon was about as terrible at keeping secrets as he was good at uncovering them, he answered, without much thought: “Oh! Dimension travel.”  

Selina smiled and tilted her head. “What, did you get sent to Gotham from another reality without a way back?”

Jon just stared, eyes wide. It took him far too long to see the amused tilt to the woman’s face, to realize— she was joking, she didn’t know, she couldn’t know. “I— uh. Well, um—“

Her face shifted. She was looking at him strangely, but— small mercies— she didn’t call attention to his little display. “I just meant that Gotham’s not exactly known for its resources in that department. I can’t think of anyone else here researching other realities.”

Trying to salvage whatever scraps of his cover were left, Jon leaned forward and spoke quickly and confidently. “Apparently WayneTech has some recent developments in the field.”

“WayneTech? You’re involved with WayneTech?” Selina asked, incredulous. “I thought you worked for the Red Hood!”

“Uh, I do! We’re… going to visit, to look at some of their research…”

Selina perked up. “Ooh, impressive! When are you going?”

“Uh. Tonight.”

“I’m amazed you could get the clearance! I mean, you work for the Red Hood, and— sorry, I looked you up— you have no credentials at all. Who’d you have to pay off for that?”

At Jon’s tense expression, she grinned. “You did bribe someone, didn’t you?”