Chapter Text
On the list of all the stupid things Duke has ever done in his life, stealing Red Hood's tires doesn't even make it to the top five.
There was the time he ran away from his first foster house by jumping through the sixth floor window and into a tree, or the other time he ran away from his fourth foster house by paying the babysitter a fake hundred dollar bill from a boardgame to pretend she never saw him leave the house. A while ago, his family had sort of saved Bruce Wayne — though that was a confusing time for everyone. It was, coincidentally, the same week he was planning to challenge the Riddler in front of the whole city.
All things considered, this is definitely the most dangerous thing he's done, but just the other day he and a few other kids in Little Italy had jumped from roof to roof to escape the cops, so maybe not that dangerous. Technically speaking, Duke Thomas, fourteen year old runaway foster kid, is still on the run from the police. There's an active welfare search for him.
That's pretty dangerous.
Stealing Red Hood's tires is definitely dangerous though — and stupid.
But Red Hood is practically asking for it! The guy is so confident no one would ever dare to rob him, that he doesn't even bother hiding his bike or locking it up. Even the tires themselves don't have any intense measures to stop someone from hacking away persistently with a wrench.
So when Duke was casually strolling through the streets of Little Italy on a random Tuesday night, snacking on a breakfast bar he'd managed to swipe from the last house he'd been sent to before running off (this time by pretending he was having an allergic reaction and then escaping when they were transferring him to the ER), he found the bike in all its glory.
He steps towards it slowly, careful and ready to bolt if it suddenly starts to count down to a failsafe explosion, but when it's clear that it's just a carelessly parked bike, Duke relaxes. He brushes a hand over the tank, whistling in appreciation at the careful detailing and very obvious care polished into every piece. If he squints, certain components seem to be marked with a familiar Bat emblem, though someone seems to have tried their best to scratch most of it off.
"Idiot," Duke mumbles, poking at the leather seat, "Who leaves their bike in a place like this?"
It's definitely one of a kind, custom made — probably by Red Hood himself — which means expensive. The bike itself is too unique for anyone to risk buying or selling it, but the wheels... stupid expensive.
Not to mention that, well, Duke wouldn't mind the extra money.
He's going to run out of breakfast bars from group homes and canned food from the homeless shelter eventually. One of the boys he's been sharing a spot with under the abandoned bridge up in Coventry had even given him a spare tire wrench a few days ago when he'd heard Duke was running around with just a small pocket knife. It's like the universe is telling Duke that this is his chance to get some easy cash.
He could probably even get himself a room somewhere, where they don't ask for ID once they see a stack of notes. Depending on how much he could sell the tire for, he could probably convince the kids he's staying with to join him for a couple days, just so no one has to worry about getting through the night outside, cold and alone.
(It would make it easier to look for his parents too, if he had somewhere to call base. Somewhere he didn't have to worry about coming back to sleep if he didn't find them.)
It's this hope that gives him the confidence to try, and before he can talk himself out of it, Duke kicks the bike over.
He flinches and cries, "Shit!" when it lands with a ridiculously loud crash that echoes through the empty alley, knocking over a nearby trash can as well.
Duke winces again and peers around, half expecting Red Hood to come sprinting round the corner with his guns held high and ready to waste the perpetrator. The mental imagery is somehow both hilarious and deeply terrifying, so he waits, holding his breath and facing the mouth of the alley.
When a few tense seconds pass and no gunshots ring through the street, Duke lets out a sigh of relief and gets to work. The quicker the better.
It's difficult, especially since all Duke has is a bottle of hand lotion and a too-big tire iron to try and undo the bolts, but after a few difficult minutes of twisting and kicking, there's a click and hiss of release. Duke grins to himself, rummaging through his backpack for his pocket knife to try and pry the frame open.
It's the clanging of cans and other things in his bag that distracts him from the scarily quiet footsteps coming up behind him. By the time he's finally found his pocket knife and pulls it out with a triumphant grin, it's far too late.
"What the fuck…" someone grumbles, sounding almost robotic and Duke jumps to his feet in an instant, nearly tripping over his things to turn and face the stranger.
Except it's not exactly a stranger.
"What the fuck?" Red Hood exclaims again, stomping up towards him and looking between Duke and the fallen bike in outrage (or he assumes it's outrage. It's hard to tell through the helmet).
Duke is absolutely speechless. Instinctively, he's got both his fists up and ready for a fight, one hand firmly wrapped around his pocket knife. When Red Hood doesn't so much as look over at the knife, Duke is both humbled and threatened. The vigilante is too busy looking down at the crime scene to care about the near-harmless threat of a shivering fourteen year old.
Finally, Duke finds his words that were stuck at the back of his throat, taking a step back with his hands still up, "I wasn't doing anything!"
"Oh really?" Red Hood scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest and staring down at Duke (the guy is huge), "It looks like you were about to slash my tires."
Duke frowns in confusion, before he remembers the knife and the fallen bike, "No! I was just trying to open the frame!" Duke reasons, before his eyes widen. Oh shit.
"Oh lovely, you weren't vandalising me, only robbing me," Red Hood says in a tone that suggests he's rolling his eyes, but Duke really has no idea. Does Red Hood even have eyes?
"You can't prove anything," Duke says without thinking, because he is not about to go down without a fight. He's been through too much for too long to let this one mistake ruin it all. He still has a chocolate bar in his bag he's been saving for his birthday, and he'd promised Sarah he'd help find her sister and he — and Duke still hadn't found his own parents and —
"Hey kid, calm down," Red Hood suddenly says, walking towards him slowly, "I'm not going to hurt you, okay? Just drop the knife before you hurt yourself."
His voice is surprisingly soft, if a little too stern in an attempt to sound honest. Even through the modulated helmet, it's this tone that makes Duke blink out of the panic he hadn't even realised he'd fallen into. Duke's hands are shaking, both from his grip around the small blade and the tingling under his skin.
Slowly Duke lowers his hands. He doesn't drop the knife — because he might be stupid to be in this mess but he isn't an idiot to get stuck with Red Hood without a means of defence — but he does push it back into its case and tuck it into his front pocket. Red Hood watches his movements carefully and Duke notices the moment his shoulders relax once the knife is put away.
"Good thing I got here," Red Hood then says, kneeling down and inspecting his bike with a snort, "You almost got it out."
It might just be Duke's imagination, but the guy actually sounds impressed. While he's thoroughly distracted by Duke's work, the boy takes this chance to slowly collect his things. He manages to grab his bag, but his tire wrench is right next to Red Hood's foot and impossible to reach without getting closer and within the man's grabbing-reach.
For one second, Duke entertains the idea of kicking Red Hood in the head and swiping his things. The man's kneeling down to check the bolts and frame and in perfect position to dropkick.
Almost as quick as Duke thinks about it, the idea leaves him. Duke has started a lot of fights he knew he couldn't win, but he was going to try anyway. It takes a tremendous amount of his own pride to admit that no matter how much he tries he's not going to get out of this one with just a couple scratches and bruises.
Even if Duke did decide to risk his life for his things, there'd be no point, because Red Hood grabs Duke's tire iron and starts to fix his bike again, "So who were you going to sell these too?"
"Huh?" Duke blurts out, still too stunned by this entire situation to start running.
"Was it Donnie in Otisburg? That guy used to give a fair price for good wheels like these," Red Hood continues to question casually, like this was a regular occurrence.
"I don't — I don't know," Duke admits quietly, taking another step back, gripping his bag tightly, "I didn't think that far ahead."
Red Hood laughs, "I appreciate the honesty," he stands, apparently done with his work (fixing what took Duke over twenty minutes in a couple seconds), lifting the bike with ease.
After he lets it stand again and patting dust away from his hands, the vigilante looks over at Duke's slowly retreating form, "Where do you think you're going?"
Duke stills. Adrenaline rushes through his blood, but his feet feel rooted to the ground as Red Hood walks up to him. Duke's never been in a situation where his flight or fight had failed him and made him freeze — not in a long time, at least. The last time he'd stood still, he'd lost everyone and everything. There's no one left to lose but himself, now.
"Not like that, I won't hurt you," Red Hood says again, back to sounding impossibly kind, which is the biggest juxtaposition given he looks like he's a second away from squashing Duke's head with his bare hands, "I can help. You in any trouble? Someone put you up to this?"
Duke doesn't respond immediately, only because the questions of concern he's hearing don't seem to match the man in front of him. Blinking in surprise, Duke shakes his head.
Red Hood nods encouragingly, "Okay good. You're one brave kid. No one's ever tried to steal my —"
Suddenly the man stops, like he's been electrocuted. Duke jumps back in alarm at the abrupt stillness. Then, Red Hood smacks a hand over his… face? There's a sound as he slaps the helmet, looking down at the ground and shaking his head while muttering something that sounds like can't believe this and damn old man. When he looks back up, Duke is looking at him with more concern than fear.
"Let it be known that I completely detest the implications of what this situation is mirroring," Red Hood grumbles to himself, or the universe, and it's the longest string of words Duke has heard from any so-called Gotham vigilante, let alone the one who's known for shooting more than he is talking.
"The fuck?" Duke says, because if he's already going to die, he might as well try and make sense of it.
"I'm not going to care about whatever sob story you have," is what Red Hood replies with instead of explaining, which is even more confusing, because then he sighs and asks, "Where are your parents?"
Duke narrows his eyes in suspicion at the question. He's definitely not going to tell Red Hood about what happened to them, but he also doesn't want to risk lying and receiving the consequences of that. Adults tend to react worse to lies than they are to hard-truths. Unfortunately for him, Red Hood's attention is completely zeroed in on him, anxiously awaiting the answer, so Duke can't even avoid it.
"Gone," is all Duke says, because it's really none of this guy's business. It's also the truth.
Somehow, Red Hood sounds even more anguished about this information than Duke is, "Ah shit." He cries out, but quickly remedies it by clearing his throat and saying, "I mean, I'm sorry — where are you staying right now?"
Duke tries to take another step back, the questions becoming far too specific for comfort, but somewhere during the commotion, he'd begun walking backwards into the alleyway wall. The cold and slightly damp stone greets him and Duke's heart jumps. He's got nowhere to run now. The man in front of him looms over, shadow draped over Duke in a chill that has his legs shaking and knees buckling.
Red Hood notices the alarm, and he takes a step back, raising his hands in front of him with his palms up, "It's alright. Are you hungry?"
"Why do you care?" Duke asks in a rush, his chest tight. This whole idea was stupid and he just wants to go home.
"You're just a kid," Red Hood sighs, like it should be obvious, "Listen, I'm gonna be honest with you. Until I know you're back somewhere safe, I'm not gonna leave you alone."
Duke's throat is dry and he can feel his heart beating erratically, "I won't go back to —"
Red Hood shakes his head, "I know, kid. I'm not giving you in. No cops and no system. So tell me, you hungry?"
Suddenly, Duke remembers a story he heard a few weeks ago.
There was a girl, Clarisse, who was a couple years older than him and he had run into her while in line for a hot drink in front of the women's shelter. I got caught up in the wrong crowd, almost got myself taken, she had told him vaguely, because Duke was visibly fourteen (but not an idiot) Red Hood showed up and knocked the guys out cold. I thought he would call the cops and send me back to the girls home. Instead, gave me a couple hundred dollars and told me to find him if I was ever in trouble. The guy is so badass.
Duke had nodded along in awe, unsure if she was pulling his leg or not. He'd heard similar stories, of vigilantes giving kids medicine and food and bandages, but most of these stories involve Robin, or more expectantly, Batman. Red Hood isn't exactly who comes to mind when Duke thinks about Gotham and children.
But maybe, Clarisse wasn't just making it up.
Duke thinks about the small bits of food in his bag and both his dwindling confidence and funds, "I guess."
Red Hood nods, "How about this, I get us some dinner and then safely drop you off at wherever it is you're staying, and you don't tell anyone about how easy it is to break my bike?"
Duke bites back excitement, "Drop me off on your bike?"
While he can't see his face, Duke thinks Red Hood is smiling when he says, "Why not? I have an extra helmet."
Duke half expected him to pull out an exact replica of his own red helmet, and is slightly disappointed when instead the vigilante opens the seat compartment to procure a miniature green and red standard motorbike helmet instead. On the side, Duke can see a familiar R symbol painted in yellow. It works it's desired effect, approved by Robin, so Duke wills his heart to stop trying to escape his chest.
Duke considers it, he really does, but before he can really come to a conclusion, Red Hood holds up a hand.
"But first;" he states, "Name, age and favourite colour."
Duke stares at Red Hood in surprise, before the corners of his mouth start to twitch in amusement. What a bizarre situation, "Duke," he doesn't give his last name, "Fifteen," lie, he's not fifteen for at least another four months, "Yellow," that one is true, even if it's his favourite because it was — is — his mother's favourite.
Red Hood barks a laugh like he can tell Duke is lying straight through his teeth, but he doesn't call him out on it, "Well Duke, fifteen, yellow — I'll be keeping an eye on you. Now come on, I'm starving."
With that, Red Hood passes the helmet over, and it's with a slight daze that Duke reaches out to grab it. Red Hood makes no move to get onto the bike until Duke starts to actually pull the helmet on. It's a bit of a tight squeeze, but Duke manages to clasp it under his chin after some wiggling and difficulty.
Satisfied, Red Hood gestures over to his bike and climbs, kicking the side stands and shuffling back. He leans back, undoing and tightening the straps on his gloves. The space in front of him is left vacant, where, presumably, he's expecting Duke to sit.
Duke doesn't move at all.
He's not sure how he feels, sitting in front of the vigilante, caged in and trapped as they drive to who knows where. Getting on the bike in any capacity is already nerve-wracking, but this especially, makes Duke's skin itchy and his palms sweaty. Now that Red Hood's sat down, Duke could probably make a run for it and get far enough before the man can follow. Hopefully Robin won't mind if Duke has to escape with the helmet still on, for the sake of efficency.
Before he can try and remove his feet that are glued down to the ground, Red Hood looks up at him expectantly. Then, he looks in front of him at the empty seat and hums understandingly.
"Sorry, the kid usually sits in front," Red Hood tells him, easily sliding forward on the seat so now the back is free, "Hop on. I'm thinking we stop for waffles, I know a place that's open all night."
There are multiple thoughts running through his head. Firstly, Duke really hopes Red Hood can't hear how loud his stomach is growling at just the word waffles, and secondly, kid? Red Hood has a kid? Or does he mean kid — like Duke — one that isn't his, but one he's not going to leave alone until they're safe.
Either way, Duke approaches the bike with slow and deliberate steps (stopping briefly to grab his tire iron and shove it into his bag).
"I'm not looking for a dad," Duke reasons carefully, because he knows how these stories go, scared little kids being rescued and taken in by the heroes who saved them. He's got his own family he needs to save before someone thinks about saving him.
He climbs onto the back of the bike and immediately grips the back of Red Hood's leather jacket. He tries not to hold on with too many fingers or too tightly, but Duke's seen how fast Red Hood rides through Gotham on his bike, practically a bright red blur, and he's not about to go flying off the back when they make a turn in the Browley.
Red Hood snorts, which sounds like static with the modulated voice, "Good, because I sure as hell don't wanna be a dad. I'm only a couple years older than you anyway."
"Really?" Duke asks, hiding his surprise poorly.
A silence befalls the two.
Slowly, Red Hood peers around to, what Duke imagines, stare at him in disbelief, "How old did you think I was?"
"I dunno," Duke shrugs, "Forty?"
"Forty —"
"Haven't you been around for like, twenty years?" Duke continues with an air of fake confusion, holding back a grin when Hood's hands tighten around the bike handles and he starts stumbling to defend himself.
"That wasn't me — you seriously — you're kidding," Hood laughs just borderline hysterically, before he stops laughing all together and just sounds horrified, "Please tell me you're kidding."
Duke finally breaks and actually smirks, ducking his head to hide it in the helmet, "Yeah man, I'm just messing with you. I remember when you showed up a couple years ago to rampage through the Alley. Same face, different guy — that's what my pops said."
This time, Duke watches with a bit more hesitance as Hood's hands tighten around the handle bars, the sound of his leather gloves loud in the empty alley. Bringing up someone's colourful past is never a good idea, but Duke would be lying if he admits he isn't nervous, and he's rambling. Filling the tense silence with banter and jabs like Red Hood is a new friend and not a masked vigilante.
Realistically, he knows Hood probably doesn't hurt kids, since he's never given them any reason to fear he might, but Duke's old enough to remember when no one knew that for certain. The weeks that followed his Gotham debut were spent walking to school in groups and never staying out later than when the lamp posts turned on, just in case he blew up a building on top of you. Even now, with anyone in the city who has the power to hurt people, with or without uniform — there's no telling how far the courtesy of an escape lies.
The guy is obviously… different now than he was a while ago. More approachable, if the few other stories from kids on the streets are true. Duke trusts him as far as he can throw him, which isn't very far (or not at all, since Hood is built like a tank), but at least it's something.
Hood's not Batman. In a way, that factor makes him more trustworthy, while also someone to stay away from at the same time. Hood probably won't call the cops on you, but Duke might have had more luck trying to rob Batman's tires, since he could have at least known for certain that he wouldn't end up dead in some random alleyway in the forgotten corners of Gotham.
"I'm not like that no more," Hood mumbles quietly, almost incomprehensible because of the helmet. Duke only hears him because of how close they're sitting.
"Like what?" Duke asks, loosening his grip just a bit, ready to make a run for it in case he's pissed the guy off.
"Rampaging," Hood echoes him directly, and Duke doesn't really believe him because of how upset he sounds to admit it, "Changed my ways. Reformed and pretty again. Now I politely ask people to stop committing crimes and offer to write poetry about them."
Duke doesn't laugh, because joking about not killing people from a guy who's notoriously known for killing people is like — the least funniest thing that could happen when you're alone with him in a dark secluded alleyway. But there has to be some truth, if Red Hood's trying this hard to convince him otherwise.
Duke's words have stuck with him more than he expected them too.
"You helped my friend once," calling Clarisse a friend seems generous and she'd probably disagree, but Hood didn't need to know that, "Saved her when she almost got trafficked. You didn't send her back to the system and gave her a hundred bucks."
Hood scoffs, still tense, but he starts the engine as Duke leans against him just a little as the motorbike begins to rumble, "And what, that makes me a good guy?"
"Nah," Duke answers honestly, holding on tight, "But you're not one of those bad guys either." Not anymore.
He feels Hood's back relax a little at that, before they slowly pull out of the alley and into Gotham's streets wordlessly.
Hours later, Duke's eaten enough tacos to last him until next week, two hundred dollars richer ("You would've gotten the same amount had you sold my tires," is what Red Hood had reasoned when Duke was hesitant to accept the money) and a number written on a receipt in his pocket ("If you need help, don't hesitate to find me.")
It's only when he's safely back under the bridge in Coventry, sharing a box of warm waffles with the kids around him and telling them about his unbelievable evening, does Duke remember that he left his hand lotion back in the alley.