Red Is Dead

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—you find a familiar friend in an alleyway

—red hood x f!reader

—2.4k

The rain fell gently, a soft patter that barely disturbed the stillness of the evening. The air even smelled of damp soil and blossoming flowers that filled your nostrils as you made your way home. You felt a sense of calmness wash over your body as you walked. It was honestly pretty surprising that a city as crime-ridden and lively as Gotham could invoke any serenity.

You weren't even from the city, but people talked. They criticized the city for being perilous since it was full of criminals and villains alike reaping havoc on the city every night—well, except from the looks of it, tonight.

Maybe tonight was their night off, you thought, before following with a small laugh.

You glance at Tom, your newish bodyguard, steadily walking behind you—poised as always. Your father had insisted he hire one since Gotham was unsafe, and some people would love nothing more than to see your father hurt—even if it meant going through you to do it.

Your father had insisted, more like forced, that you take him with you on your little expedition. Truthfully, you had really no idea why you had decided to leave the apartment you stayed in when you were in town and walk down the strip.

It was most likely to try to get a certain blue-eyed boy out of your head. It was odd; you couldn't get that guy out of your head since Bruce's gala. You two had slept together—on a roof. It was a one-night stand, and you couldn't forget about it. What was wrong with you?

"It's quiet," you say, trying to hide your embarrassment from laughing at seemingly nothing.

"Quite," Tom agrees. You sigh as you drudge your legs, irritated by his lack of conversion.

"Did you have to take a communication class before you got this gig?" You offhandedly ask as you walk past an apparent new burger place with a flashy sign that reads 'Between The Buns.'

"I don't believe so," he hums, not sparing the tacky sign a singular glance. You glance back at him, humming a sound of acknowledgment.

"You didn't need to trouble yourself with walking me home, Tom," you assure, stopping in front of him to admire another storefront, this time of a flower shop named 'The Flower Pot,' which is oddly next to an alleyway.

"It's my job to protect you, Miss," he informs, voice steady.

"I know, but—" you begin, turning your head to look down the alleyway, noticing a figure hunched against the shop's bricked wall, softly cursing. Your eyes widen, taking note of the shiny red of his helmet that you could see even in the shitty lighting.

"What's the matter?" Tom questions, wondering what you're looking at. You spare him a glance before sprinting over to the hunched-over figure. Tom yells your name, trailing behind you.

Once you reach the figure, chest heaving, you look over his abdomen, seeing blood spatters seeping through what looks like a shirt. You breathe out, hand coming to cover your mouth.

"Oh my—oh, he's, he's dead! Oh my—Tom! Tom!" You squeal, pointing at the bloodied and beaten person in front of you—that looked a helluva lot like a certain vigilante you spotted in a tabloid. Tom stepped closer to the guy, carefully observing him to see if he was in fact dead.

As he tried to reach down and grab the guy's wrist, his hand came up to grasp Tom's.

"Not dead," the guy murmured, moving his hand to hold his abdomen. "Kinda wish I was, though." Your eyes widen again, eyes scanning his helmet and the guns strapped to his thighs, and ears taking notice of the modulation of his voice.

"Hey, wait. You're that Hood guy," you announce, pointing a finger at him.

"Maybe, maybe not," the guy shrugs, clutching his abdomen tighter, clearly trying to suppress losing any more blood.

"No, you're totally him," you tilt your head, bringing your hands to rest on your hips. "I heard about you from the Gazelle—Red Hood, right?"

"Hey, hey. Keep your voice down," the guy urged, slightly sitting up, hissing at the action. He leaned back against the wall, throwing his head back as he did. He flicked his eyes back to yours, briefly taking note of your soured expression.

"Fine. You caught me," Hood groaned out, bringing his hand up to observe them. Cursing as he sees them caked in a mix of fresh and old blood. You look at Tom before bending down, putting your body weight on your toes.

"Fuck. You need to go to the hospital," you murmur, looking into his eyes.

"No hospital," Hood's gaze flicks to yours; his tone is unmistakably serious.

"You'll bleed out and die," you attest, eyes glaring at his.

"I'm not going to a hospital," he says, turning his head away from you.

"I can't—are you serious?" You dryly laugh.

"Dead," he insists.

"Well, I'm not leaving you to die," you cross your arms over your chest, clearly not budging.

"Why? Would it hurt your feeble conscience?" He gibed, hissing as he brought his hand to grip his abdomen.

"I—you can't just ask me to let you die, Red," you affirm, bringing your hands to put more pressure on where blood seeps out.

"I'm not," he hisses. "I just said no hospital."

"So, then, where do you suppose we take you? You hiss, agitated at his lack of cooperation and appreciation that you didn't just leave his ass to bleed out. "That fucking burger place across the street?"

"Wouldn't chance it," he begins, wheezing as Tom picks his shirt up a little to expose the bloody gash, carefully pressing his handkerchief that was tucked nicely in his coat pocket onto it to try and stop the bleeding. "They might put me in the burgers."

"Gross," you roll your eyes at Red before turning to Tom. "What the hell are we going to do with him?" Tom takes a breath before pulling his phone out to text someone.

"No, seriously, they would put me in that meat grinder," Red deadpans.

"Shut up," you grumbled, pressing his abdomen harder. "Let me think."

"And then feed me to everyone," his voice is indifferent before it turns curious. "Wonder if I'm tasty?"

"Oh my god, you're impossible," you deeply sigh.

"The limo is pulling up," Tom supplies, tucking his phone into his jacket pocket and glancing at Red. "I'm sure you don't want to hear this, but I work for your family, so it's your call. Where do you want to take him?" Tom says coolly.

You look back at an anguished Red, silently cursing from pain. Taking a deep breath, you look at Tom, nodding to Red.

"I'll take him to my apartment," you declare. Red lets out a dry chuckle as Tom helps him up, bringing his arm to grip Red's lower back tightly, while Red's arms drape over his shoulders.

"Woah, woah. I'm not just some stray cat you can take in cus' I'm cute," Red groggily says.

"I don't think you're cute," you plainly say as you and Tom guide him into the back of the limo. The driver holds the door open, paying no heed to what is happening.

"I actually think you're a bit of a dick," you shrug, getting him situated in his seat as you sink into the seat next to him, gently placing your hand to put more pressure on his wound.

"Do those things have to be mutually exclusive?" Red quips, tilting his head back on the headrest.

"To me, yes," you simply say, hearing Tom mutter something to the driver. "To be considered cute, you can't be a dick, and if you're a dick, you aren't cute."

"Mhm. You're an odd one, alright," Red murmurs, putting pressure on the wound himself. Your eyes flick to his as you feel his hands lay on top of yours on his abdomen, surprised to find his eyes already dulling into yours.

"You—we probably, um, we probably only need one pair of hands for pressure," you feel your face heat as you pull your hands off of him, laying them on either side of your thighs instead.

"Okay. We'll be there in fifteen," Tom says, turning to look at you and Red. He raises a brow at how you sit straight up in the seat and your hands tightly tucked to your side. You are grateful when he doesn't question why. "Also, just for the record, I had no prior knowledge of this happening. Yes?" Tom asks, tilting his head towards you.

"Got it. You don't want to be my accomplice," you amend, tipping your head towards him.

Once you reach your apartment, Tom helps you bring Red inside to rest on the couch. You assure him you will be fine. He says he is only a call away if you need anything.

You were honestly surprised that Tom willingly left, but maybe he was finally starting to see you as an adult and not a child, or perhaps he didn't want Red's blood on his hands if he did die while under your roof. You hoped the former.

"So, uh, are you thirsty?" You yell from your place in the bathroom, opening the cupboard under your sink and fumbling with the cleaning supplies to try and grab your small first aid kit. "Hungry?"

"Not really," Red gravels, pressing a button on his shiny red mask before ripping it off to reveal a simple black domino mask.

"You should probably have some water at least," you say, heading into the kitchen to fill a fresh glass with tap water from your sink. You walk into the living room, gently placing the water next to him on the side table while you sit on the coffee table, shuffling through the first aid kit.

"Thanks," he gruffed, reaching for the cup of water and chugging down almost the whole glass, wiping some of the water that dripped down his chin with the back of his gloved hand.

You looked up, a hint of humor in your eyes at him before you saw it. His lips. You knew those lips. You were sure of it. You fiddled with a piece of gauze you dipped in saline in your hand as your eyes examined him further.

"What?" Red curiously says, taking notice of fervent staring. You dart your eyes back to his before moving back to the gauze.

"Sorry. You—you just look a little familiar," you admit, moving closer to him. He gently lifts his shirt so you can clean the wound.

"Ya," he winces as he feels the gauze gently pat around the gash. "Knew that wouldn't last long," he utters as he rips off his black domino mask, tossing it to his side.

You are slightly startled by his swift movement, pulling back. "Wha—Jason," you exclaim, shock and disbelief coating your face. "You—you're," you stutter, unsure of what to say.

"Ya," he awkwardly says, cringing from pain as he scratches the back of his neck. "Fuck."

"Shit. Okay, okay. We need to take care of this before we dive into—you use your hand to gesture towards him—that." He lightly nods as you delicately place the gauze onto the gash.

"Fuck—fuck!" He curses, throwing his head back, jaw clenching as he grinds his teeth.

"You okay?" You halt your actions, staring at him with more gauze in hand.

"Does it look like I'm okay?" He grits, tipping his head down to look at you. Your eyes are wide at his tone. He sighs. "M'sorry. Just—just keep going," he exasperates, laying his head back down, inhaling and exhaling slowly as you finish placing the gauze and taping it thoughtfully to ensure it was secure on his skin.

"It should be okay tonight, Red. But you should really get it checked out tomorrow," you begin, closing up the kit. "You know, by a doctor."

"You can," he pauses momentarily. "Just call me Jason."

"Okay, Jason," you smile a little, "Please get it checked tomorrow." He nods as you get up to put the first aid kit back in your bathroom. You come back to see him staring up at the ceiling.

"I, uh, died," he mumbles as you take a seat on the couch cushion farthest from him. You let out a laugh, turning your head to look at him. His face is still looking at the ceiling, but it lacks humor.

"What do you mean?" You question.

"Just—I don't know," he raises his hand, trying to shoo away the question. "Forget it."

"Jason," you softly say, hand lingering closer to his own. "Tell me." You bring your hand to lay on top of his; he turns towards you swiftly at the contact. You lightly smile to let him know it's okay. He takes a deep breath before revealing more.

He doesn't go into details about what occurred during his time in Arkham, but he did talk about his resurrection from Lazarus Pit; you didn't even know what the hell that was. He just said it can revive someone from the dead if they have just died.

"Then you became Red Hood?" You quietly asked, your hand gripping his tighter. You had not even realized it, but sometime during the conversation, you had scooted closer to him.

"Then I became Red Hood," he agrees, a light glint of humor dancing across his face. You hum a sound of acknowledgment, contemplating your following words.

"Does your dad know?" You ask, tilting your head a little. He raises a brow, clearly confused.

"Does my—" he begins to question before he lets out a slight huff, "Bruce?" You nod.

"He does," Jason affirms without the sarcastic commentary he would typically enforce since you just looked so sincere.

You both sat in silence for a bit, heads leaned back on the headrest of the couch, staring at the ceiling, fingers now interlaced. Oddly, it felt so casual—like you had just done this a million times before. You had only met him once before, but you felt like you could just trust him with your life—I mean, he had trusted you with his.

"You should sleep," you break the silence, slowly turning your head to face him, cheek smushed against the leather of the couch.

"Nah. Sleep is for the weak," he mumbles, turning his head to look at you. "Would you mind just, uh, staying here?" He awkwardly asks. "Please."

"No need to beg, Jason," you snicker. "I won't leave. I promise." He slightly flinches at your words. You don't question why; instead, you interlock your fingers tighter so he knows you aren't fibbing.

You get the feeling he's never really had anyone to take much care of him. So, you'll sit on the ugly brown leather couch you despise while the air conditioning turns on, sending shivers and goosebumps down your bare arm because everyone deserves to have somebody.

Even if that 'everyone' is just a stray vigilante with a huge ego.

a/n: posting this then running away (also still very new to dc so plz don’t be mean to me about the lore if it’s inaccurate)

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

Who needs the stereotype of a woman picking up stray dogs when we can pick up stray vigilantes?!