Chapter Text
Damian, of course, just gave a satisfied nod when Bruce told him what happened with the Red Hood.
Bruce narrowed his eyes at the nonchalance. He tried to catch Damian’s eyes across the library table. They were tucked away in one of alcoves on the third floor, the one most people avoided because three of the four ceiling lights had been out for the better half of a year.
“I didn’t realize your family connections were vigilantes-"
“Don’t be silly.” Damian said, “One of our contacts reached out to them for help when they realized Red Hood was involved.”
The boy didn’t meet Bruce’s eyes, instead writing out a string of numbers in the notebook in front of him with great focus.
Their contact was likely less than savory, then. That wasn’t exactly a surprise. Most rich families had those sorts of connections at some level or another.
Bruce let the topic slide. He wasn’t going to complain. He was able to stay. Besides, this Wayne family’s affairs were none of his business.
He pushed his chair back and wandering to the nearest stack. Damian’s pen scritched back and forth in the background as he eyed the titles.
“What are you working on?” he asked, peering at a spine that read Goblinproofing One's Chicken Coop.
“It’s none of your concern.”
Bruce grinned as he came across a book titled Highlights in the History of Concrete. He tugged it free and waggled it in Damian's direction.
“Found one for you.”
Damian shot him a glare.
Bruce huffed, raising his hands. “Geez, okay, I get it. You’re busy.” He put the book back. “I’ll shut up.”
He'd started a stack on the floor of a couple interesting titles, one of which was titled Bombproof Your Horse, when there was a frustrated huff.
He turned to see Damian furiously mark out half his writing, nearly tearing the page with his force.
“Seriously, what is that?” Bruce said, with a frown, “You look like you’re gonna start a fight with the page.”
“It’s a cipher I found online.” Damian said shortly. He glared at the page with so much fire Bruce was surprised it didn’t light on fire. “I haven’t been able to crack it.”
Bruce hesitated, but ambled over. “I’m pretty good with that kind of stuff.” he offered. “I could take a look-"
Damian jerked the notebook to his chest and glared at Bruce.
“I need to solve it alone.” he snapped.
Bruce raised his hands. “Okay, okay.”
Damian returned to his cipher and Bruce watched his brow furrow deeper and deeper. If he gripped the pen any tighter, it was going to break in half.
“You know…” he said, “Teamwork and collaboration is totally normal once you get out of school. Teachers are so obsessed with independent work, but that’s not really how the world works-“
“I know how the world works.” Damian ground out, “Stop talking down to me, we’re the same age.”
“I’m just saying…” Bruce shrugged, “You’re allowed to use your assets.”
Damian narrowed his eyes, mulling this over. Then, abruptly, he slid the notebook over to Bruce.
“Let me know the moment you get something.” he ordered.
Bruce sat down and nudged Bombproof Your Horse across the table to Damian. “Trade you.”
Damian rolled his eyes but picked it up.
Bruce’s brow furrowed as he looked over the string of numbers and letters. LOCFN30bn. He tried a couple of different theories on a whim, pen scritching against the paper.
He frowned.
“It’s not a cipher.” he said, raising his head.
Damian’s eyes flashed. “What are you talking about? Of course it is.”
Bruce winced at his volume, looking around. “Not so loud.” he hissed.
He was pretty sure he was well on his way to getting banned from Gotham Public Library, which he could not afford to happen.
Damian waved away his concern. “Father saw to it that the librarian who harassed you was fired.”
Bruce’s mouth dropped open. “What? Why?”
“She was abusing her position and treating her patrons poorly.” Damian said, matter-of-fact, “Now, explain.”
Bruce tried to gather his thoughts back up. “I mean, it’s not a cipher in the traditional sense. It’s a geocode system, one used by amateur radio operators to describe their geographic coordinates.”
Damian stared at him, then he snatched the notebook up to stare at the string of numbers.
“See the LOC? That indicates it’s a reference for the Maidenhead Locator System.” Bruce's brow furrowed as he thought. “I couldn’t tell you where it refers to off the top of my head; it’s pretty specific. But there’s gotta be a book on it in here somewhere.”
Conflict warred on Damian’s face but he finally nodded, shortly. He stood, shouldering his backpack.
“Lead the way.”
“This is a lot of work to go through for something you found online.” Bruce said.
It’d been nearly an hour now, and they weren’t even halfway through the shelf of unwieldy reference books on ham radio operations.
“It’s a matter of pride.” Damian said, with dignity.
And suddenly, Bruce understood. His mouth dropped open, and he grinned.
“Wait a second, you’re trying to impress someone.”
Damian hesitated, which was confirmation enough.
“You are!” Bruce crowed. “Is it a teacher? A friend? A girl?”
Damian made a disgusted face. “Don’t be plebeian. It’s a family matter.”
“Well, that’s way more boring.” Bruce complained and went back to flipping through pages.
“What’s boring?” a new voice asked.
Tim, in a rumbled suit jacket and knitted scarf with colorful trim on the ends, peered down the long row of shelves at them. His brow furrowed. “What are you guys doing in reference?”
Damien bristled. “What are you doing here, Drake?”
“Wrapped up at work early.” Tim said, “Alfred asked if I could give you a ride home."
Damian’s face twisted. “I’m not ready to go, yet.”
“You’re not done… flipping through reference books on ham radio.” Tim said flatly.
Damian sneered and- a family affair, Bruce thought. Someone to impress.
“Sorry, we just need a little more time.” Bruce said, as apologetic as possible, “I’ve got this project on alternative forms of communication in Gotham due, but I got sick over the weekend and couldn’t work on it, and Damian’s been a lifesaver, helping me out.“
Tim turned narrowed eyes to Damian. The younger boy looked away, face flushing.
“... That’s fine.” Tim said, slowly, “I’ve got some things to look up, anyway.” He turned to go, grimacing, "Is economics still even on this floor? Can't find anything since they re-organized-"
“Floor three, left side.” Bruce and Damian said in unison, having just come from that direction in search of the ham radio books.
Tim stared at them. “Okaaay.” he said slowly, and sidled off to look stare at j-curve graphs or whatever.
Not that Bruce was in any position to judge; he was currently flipping through a large book titled The Ham Radio Bible.
The words were all starting to blur together into a jumbled alphabet soup when finally, finally Bruce found it.
“Here!” he called.
Damian was at his side in an instant, squinting down at the page.
“Looks like we use the letters and numbers to grid out the location.” Bruce explained, “We’re probably going to need a map or something.”
Damian frowned. “There’s not a website for this?”
Bruce blinked. Living without a phone, and thus access to the internet unless he was at the library, he kept forgetting it was an option. “Yeah. Yeah I’m sure there is.”
Damian pulled a sleek laptop from his bag and sat on the floor. The computer was set on their pile of ham radio reference books. There was a handful of websites with locator maps. Damian pulled up the first one and typed in the geocode.
Damian stiffened as the screen loaded.
“Is that Arkham Asylum?” Bruce said, brow furrowing. He looked to Damian, unease beginning to swirl in his gut. “Where did you get this, again?”
Damian muttered what sounded like a curse in a language Bruce didn’t recognize. He already had his phone out, pressing a number. It rang twice and picked up.
“Drake. We need to go, now.” he bit out, “I forgot to vacuum the downstairs rug.” A pause, and then a terse nod. “I’m on my way.”
He hung up and grabbed his backpack, shoving the The Ham Radio Bible inside and zipping it up. Bruce gaped.
“Is, uh, everything okay?”
When Damian looked at him, Bruce’s stomach dropped. He’d never seen that expression on Damian’s face before, set with grim determination.
“Stay inside tonight.” the boy ordered.
He turned to go, but Bruce reached out and snagged his arm, tugging him to a halt. “Wait, Damian, what’s going on?”
Damian twisted free impossibly fast, leaving Bruce’s hand stinging. “I have to go. Stay inside.” he repeated, eyes drilling into Bruce's own.
Then he turned away, breaking into a jog for the stairs.
“Wait, why?” Bruce called after him. He was ignored. “You- you can’t just steal a library book!” he called.
Damn it. Damian was gone.
* * *
He didn’t sleep well that night. He stayed inside, true to Damian’s instruction, and the next morning the sun rose to a morning just like every other. Cloudy, with drizzling rain, fog swirling about the buildings.
Despite this, everyone seemed to be in strangely good spirits.
“Sorry about that.” an older man said, as he helped Bruce back to his feet. “Didn’t see you there.”
Bruce checked his pockets to make sure everything was still there (it was), and stared at the man's back until the he disappeared.
What the hell was going on?
He didn’t understand until he came across the morning’s newspaper, discarded on the sidewalk.
It was damp, ink half-blurred, but he could still make out the headline. Bats Foil Arkham Breakout.
No wonder everyone was in a good mood. They could have woken up with half the city in shambles. Again.
His eyes narrowed. He thought of Damian, holding the The Ham Radio Bible tight enough that his fingers turned white. The cipher, the website, the little square with Arkham Asylum firmly in the center-
“Silas!” a voice cut loudly across the street.
He turned and saw Christy’s furious face hanging out the window of her boyfriend’s pickup truck.
Oh, shit.
She threw the door open before the truck stopped moving and crossed the distance between them in two strides.
Her hand darted out and snagged his sweatshirt and before he knew it she was she throwing him in the tiny backseat of the truck.
He scrambled upright, heart beating fast in his chest. Christy got in the passenger seat, slamming the door hard enough to shake the whole car.
Octo regarded him, expression blank, from the driver’s seat. He had on a baggy white tank top despite it being almost freezing outside, leaving the kraken tattoo curling up his whole arm onto his back into full-view.
“Drive.” Christy bit out, and Octo shifted the car into gear.
Bruce’s eyes flicked desperately to the door handle but Christy was already turning, furious.
“Where the hell have you been?” she hissed.
He opened his mouth, but didn’t even get out a word before she continued, “I thought you were fucking dead, leaving me a note like that. What the hell, Reed?”
He realized that despite the tension in her limbs, the anger, her eyes were combing over him, checking for injuries. He breathed out, heartbeat settling into something more normal.
“I’m sorry, Christy.” he said, chewing on his lip while he debated how much to say, “Something happened.” he said, “I thought I was going to have to leave Gotham.” He gave a tight shrug. “If I couldn’t come back… I didn’t want you to think I got eaten by Killer Croc or something.”
Her shoulder slumped and she let out a long breath. “Scared the shit out of me anyway.” she said. “Damn, kid.”
Bruce’s shoulders hunched, “I’m sorry, Christy, really.” he said, quiet, “It was on the line for a bit.”
She sighed and sat forwards again. “I figured as much."
"Left here.” she told Octo and he turned down a narrow alleyway.
Bruce finally recognized the area. They were heading back to the warehouse- to headquarters. Shit, shit.
How was he going to explain this to Morgan?
He eyed the door handle again.
“Don’t.” Christy said, watching him in the rearview. “It’s handled.”
Bruce doesn't understand.
“Your brother was hurt.” Christy told him. “The one stationed overseas. You had to go support your mom for a few days.”
Bruce blinked, looking quickly between Christy and Octo. Octo’s expression hasn’t changed. His full attention appears to be on the road, but Bruce has no doubt he’s listening.
Christy glanced back at Bruce in the rearview mirror. “Morgan lost two siblings to the Iraq War.” she said, quiet, “He’s got a soft spot for soldiers and their families.”
Bruce digested this with a nod.
“As far as he knows, you called me at the store to let me know the situation. You were panicked, that was the only number you could remember at the moment.”
Bruce was overcome by a sweeping wave of gratefulness. He’d dropped off the map and she’d covered for him- she'd lied to Morgan for him- without hesitation.
“Thank you, Christy.” he managed to say.
It came out a tinge too emotional, too real, and she gave him a warning look but didn't call him on it, didn’t cuss him out about being a wuss like Fishsticks would have.
It was only a handful of minutes more before they pulled up in front of headquarters.
Octo shifted the car into park. The old engine groaned a bit as he spoke for the first time.
“Your issue.” he said, accent thick, “It’s taken care of?”
Bruce nodded firmly.
Octo studied him for a moment longer and then got out of the car without another word.
Christy lingered.
“Don’t do that again.” she demanded, one hand in the door handle, “Call or something first, okay?”
He hesitated, and her eyes narrowed.
“Okay.” he said, quickly, “Okay, I will.”
“You better.” she told him, and huffed, “Now, get out of my truck.”
Bruce could feel the weight of Morgan’s eyes on him the moment he stepped through the warehouse door. He didn’t even make it to his worn-down desk before the man snapped out, “Reed. With me.”
Bruce didn’t quite manage to hide his trepidation as he pivoted to cross the floor instead.
Navi caught it, sneering at him when he passed. “You fucked up.” he drawled, “You shouldn’t have come back here.”
Morgan turned as Bruce approached and went into the next room, jerking his head at Bruce to follow. His face was stony, arms crossed over his chest.
Bruce’s heart dropped. Shit, this was a mistake.
His eyes flicked toward the exit but Fishsticks was in his path. He gave a sharp grin. “Don’t even think about it.” he said, resting a hand on his gun.
“Shut the door.” Morgan ordered, and Bruce fought to keep his breathing even.
His hands shook slightly as he closed the door, so he shoved them into his pockets, out of sight, and hoped to whatever cursed deity watched over Gotham that he could move fast enough when Morgan went for his gun.
Morgan stared at him for a long moment.
“You got more news yet?” he said abruptly.
Bruce blinked, then remembered Christy’s words.
“Yeah.” he said, “Sorry, I couldn’t leave my mom alone-“
“Don’t make excuses.” Morgan bit out, shaking his head. He looked away. “Family comes first.”
There was a pause and Bruce swallowed, taking in the tense lines of Morgan’s shoulders.
“He’s stable, now.” he said, quiet, “Docs say it’ll take awhile, but he’s gonna be okay.”
Something in Morgan’s posture eased. He gave a brusque nod.
“Good.” he said, “Because we need all hands on deck.” He stepped forward to the rickety table covered in blueprints. “Has anyone filled you in yet?”
Bruce shook his head.
“Remember those hotels I had you pulling information on?” he said, “I’m going to need the updated security details for the Elysium, yesterday.”
Bruce nodded, slowly. “You got your eye on the auction?” he asked.
Morgan narrowed his eyes.
Bruce shrugged, like it's obvious and he hasn't been reading Fishsticks' emails whenever he got bored. “It’s a good target. There’s got to be several million dollars worth of items there, plenty of which would sell easy on the black market, and people coming in from all over the world. There’s probably a dozen people in Gotham alone looking to target it. It’d be hard to trace anything in particular back to us if we play our cards right.”
Morgan considered for a moment. “You’re not as dumb as you look, kid.”
“Anything you need me to focus on?” Bruce asked, eyeing the blueprints, “Security on the ruby?”
It was the main event, after all. Twenty-carat stone inlaid in intricate silver ring, generously donated by Kane family to the auction to raise funds for Gotham’s “less-fortunate.”
Morgan shook his head. “Everyone in Gotham will be gunning for that ugly thing and the cops know it. There’ll be too much heat on it.”
“I guess we could also try to steal the custom Rolls-Royce Wayne donated,” Bruce shrugged, “But I think that’ll be harder to get off the premises.”
Morgan smirked. “You just worry about getting the team in. I’ve got the rest covered.”
Bruce recognized it as the dismissal it was and nodded. He turned to leave.
“And Reed.” Morgan said.
Bruce’s neck prickled under his heavy gaze.
“Don’t disappear again. You won’t turn back up.”
* * *
Rain was falling in great sheets again when it came time to walk home, but for once, the sight didn’t fill him with dread.
He pulled on the thick winter coat Robin had given him, tugged up the hood, and stepped out into the storm. The rain pattered again the thick fabric, but didn’t soak through. He’d also recently picked up a pair of waterproof winter boots from the Martha Wayne Foundation shelter on 11th and for once, his feet were warm and dry. Sure, his jeans got a bit damp, but he couldn’t care less.
Bruce grinned, picking up his pace. If he deliberately splashed through a puddle or two, well, there was no one around to call him on it.
He loved the way Gotham emptied during a storm. Maybe it was a holdover of the toxic rain incident a few years back, or the fact that getting soaking wet in the middle of winter was a death wish, but most citizens hurried indoors during the rainstorms.
It meant that the streets were empty and the deluge of water, if it rained enough, began to wash away the worst of the constant grime. He could actually make out the original color of the street here.
The neon lights of the bodega and the ever changing stop lights meshed together on the wet pavement into a comforting glow.
He was sloshing his way through another puddle with perhaps too much reckless abandon, when he felt eyes on his back.
He glanced back. The street was empty.
He took a sharp turn at the end of the block, upping his pace, and then another sharp turn into alleyway shortcut. The feeling didn't abate.
He looked up, gaze skimming the rooftops. He caught a flash of red and stopped short, peering into the grey gaze of rain.
There was nothing there.
“How’s the gang?” a voice called out.
Bruce spun around.
Red Hood was there, on the back of the bodega's roof. He leant his elbows on the ledge lining the roof to look down at him.
“How’s the organized crime ring?” Bruce shot back. He had to crane his neck to gaze back at him.
Hood huffed a laugh. There was a flash of movement and Bruce’s heart caught as the vigilante threw himself off the roof.
But with a grab to a windowsill, a kick off a pipe, and a midair twist the man landed on his feet.
Red Hood sauntered up to him, dusting off his hands. “How’d Morgan take your disappearance?” he asked, curious.
“A friend covered for me.” Bruce shrugged. “It worked out.”
“Good.” Hood said, and Bruce could hear the jaunty grin in his words, “After all, if Morgan didn’t understand, I’d simply have to undertake a hostile takeover and make him.”
Bruce’s eyes widened, “What?”
“Our misunderstanding was partially my fault.” Hood said, “It’s the least I could do.”
“We’re not that powerful a group and know it.” Bruce argued, heart beating fast in his chest.
The vigilante shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about expanding my territory.”
“Hood.” Bruce snapped, fists clenching.
Red Hood raised his hands. “It was just a thought.” he said, laughter in his voice.
“Well, have some different ones.” Bruce informed him, flatly. Red Hood snorted.
“You headed to BuyMart?” the man asked, glancing down the alleyway in direction Bruce was heading.
“Home.” Bruce said.
The rain was coming sideways now and he tugged his hood down further to keep it from battering him in the face.
Red Hood gave a satisfied nod. “It’s supposed to drop below freezing in a few hours.” he said, looking up at the sky. What the hell was his leather jacket made of? The rain didn’t seem to bother him at all. “Forecaster thinks we might get our first snow tonight.”
Bruce huffed. “On a night like tonight?” he said, skeptically, “Best we’ll get is slush.”
“Yeah, it’ll be another week at least.” Hood agreed, stretching his arm like it ached. “But Gordon’ll send some cops out, trying to round people up before the freeze.”
Bruce paused. “Thanks for the warning.”
Hood gave him a jaunty salute and turned. He took three long strides, kicking off the dumpster and the wall and reaching up. In a blink of an eye, he was back on the rooftop, gazing down at the kid.
“Let me know if you’re interested in new opportunities.” he called down, “My organization provides full healthcare, paid time off and paid sick leave, and educational scholarships.”
Bruce gaped at him. And with a wave and what Bruce was sure was a smirk, Red Hood disappeared into mist.
Bruce stood there in the alley, rain pattering into his shoulders for a long moment.
“That’s a joke, right?” he called into the darkness, with a halting chuckle, “You don’t actually have all those benefits.”
When only silence greeted him, he rocked forward, a bit desperate. “Hood, you were joking, right? Right?”
* * *