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I.
The kid comes stumbling down the stairs like a drunk, wheezing breaths punctuated by watery, hiccuping sobs that have the hairs on Vin’s nape rising. He’s half out of his seat before the others have holstered their guns, jolted into action by the basement door slamming open.
“I got you, boss,” Vin murmurs, catching the kid around the shoulders and steering him to the blood-stained table—on its last legs from too many fits of anger—shadowed in the corner. Clive is already barking orders, disappearing into the next room to get something for the kid’s yawning stomach. It’s a nasty piece of work, split open and gaping raw. A hair’s breadth deeper, they'd be stuffing his intestines back inside him. He’s seen wounds like this before—knows a gal who took one damn near the same. Left her with a mess of a scar, ugly and twisted, uncomfortable to look at. Torture, she called it. The kid’s chest heaves under Vin’s hands. He claws at his own throat, terror swallowing his glassy green eyes.
“Damn you, Bat,” Clive snarls. He’s all no-nonsense, forcing the kid’s hands away from the wound so Vin can flood it with cold water. The kid seizes in pain, back bowing off the table, and lets out a choked sound, scrabbling at Vin’s wrist. Gritting his teeth, Vin ignores the pain lacing his voice, focusing on holding his flesh together. He doesn't know what the hell the kid expected to happen, blowing a building up like that, but he wouldn't be talked out of it. Now he's got a hole in his belly and shrapnel lodged in his guts.
“He’ll need Thompkins,” Maria says grimly, appearing at Vin’s side with a roll of bandages. She smooths the kid’s tuft of white hair away from his face, tongue clicking against her teeth as he pushes against the touch. “Hell of a lot of blood in one body. Batman?”
“The explosion,” Vin grunts, wrapping the wound up tight. “Helped him rig the bomb myself.”
Kid’s obsessed with him, he doesn't say. Vin’s got a son—Matteo—a boy who clawed his way out of this shithole city on his own terms. A boy who wants nothing to do with him anymore. Something bone deep inside him, at his very core, aches for this kid, however he came to be here. He’s made of rage and resentment and fear. Vin’s been around a long fucking time, longer than Clive and Maria stacked on top of each other. Long enough to know you don't feel like a person when all you do is hurt.
The kid keens as Clive hoists him up into his arms, limp except for the shivers that wrack his body, flanked on either side by Vin and Maria. The three of them bundle up into Maria’s shitty SUV, the kid’s head leaning against the window in the backseat, breaths puffing in the cold air. He needs an oxygen mask, or he’ll suffocate from ash inhalation before they can fix up the rest of him. Vin twists in the passenger seat, cursing his own thick neck, and swallows at the kid’s pale, waxy face. He’s slumped over himself, trembling frame seizing on itself. “He’s going into shock,” Vin tells Clive, his voice low. Immediately, Clive shucks off his jacket, nevermind that all he’s got on is a wife-beater underneath, and tucks it securely around the kid’s shoulders. He blinks at them, face tacky with a mess of grime and tears.
He’s not all there, Vin knows. You don't become the Red Hood by falling into your men’s arms every time you get a booboo. Vin can't even remember the last time he’s seen a fleck of blood—his own, at least—on him, much less while he’s hysterical and weepy. His gut churns. The kid can't be older than nineteen and—
Vin exhales sharply, slumping back in his seat. He watches the kid out of the corner of his eye, making sure he doesn't go into septic shock and kick it. Like this, swaddled in Clive’s coat and listing to the side like a baby, Vin lets the weight of it slam into him. For fuck’s sake, the kid’s voice still cracks to high heaven when he’s stressed.
Behind him, Clive shifts, curling his body over the single vent in the back that’s working overtime to pump hot air. “I hope whatever the doc gives him puts him out for a week. You know how pissed off he’s going to be when he remembers all this?” He sniffs. From the front, Maria hoots a laugh, crow’s feet crinkling in the rearview mirror.
“He’ll just have to suck it up when he comes out of it. Damn lucky he’s got us, is what he is.”
He’s already bleeding through his bandages, still choking on his own spit as he heaves, taking in lungfuls of air. Clive unfolds his body so he can hold the kid’s hands down. It’s the only thing keeping him from ripping his own throat out. Wearily, Vin watches him shudder, his eyes darting around underneath closed eyelids. Clive’s still a kid to Vin, but he does his job with hardened eyes and thin lips, stubbornly staring the kid down as he fights. “You gotta relax, boss,” he huffs. “Leslie’ll get you fixed right up.”
Maria takes a sharp right, throwing them all to the side. It punches a wheezing breath out of the kid, but miraculously, he settles, gripping Clive’s forearms for stability more than to push him away. “You're alright,” Vin rumbles, clasping his hands together to hide how they shake. “You're alright.”
Leslie Thompkins takes one look at them, parading through her clinic with a boy bleeding out in Clive’s arms, and turns sharply on her heel. Wordlessly, they follow her to the back, where Clive lays the kid down, squeezing his shoulder once before stepping back. Vin’s been in enough times that he grabs the suture kit from the leftmost cabinet as Leslie’s washing her hands. “What happened?” she demands, but just as Vin’s about to tell her what he knows, she catches sight of the kid’s face and freezes.
Leslie Thompkins doesn't freeze.
Vin sees the moment she catalogues the kid’s get-up, his holsters and leather jacket, the knives strapped to his boots. “Robin?” She whispers.
“No,” Vin says stupidly. “That’s Red Hood.”
Thompkins ignores him. She swallows once, snaps a mask over her face, and just like that, her features drop back into neutrality, and she's peeling back the bandages. The kid fusses, clawing at the table with bloody fingers while Leslie shushes him, plunging a syringe into his arm. The kid falls limp, breathing shallowly into the oxygen mask she slips onto his face.
Vin glances back at the others. Clive’s eyes are damn near bugging out of his head, and Maria’s brows have climbed up to her hairline. Robin. There’s the current one, a weedy thing who’s too sneaky for his own good. The blonde, who once gave Vin advice on his right hook. The first one, all grown up and a city over.
There was the second one. The dead one.
“Boy had a confrontation,” Vin says finally. “With the Bat. Blew the building up himself.”
“Batman’s still hanging around, last I heard,” Maria adds, and Vin chews his cheek, looking away from the kid’s face, pinched even in sleep. He hadn't known that. Had he been searching? Is he still? Frantically tearing through ash and rubble for a hint of red, a hint of his boy? Vin’s stomach curdles at the thought.
Leslie doesn't reply, bent over his prone body and methodically picking out bits of rubble, but Vin sees the way her forehead wrinkles. “Out,” she says finally. “I'll bring you all back in when I'm finished. He won't be awake for a couple hours.”
Fine by Vin. The three of them file out the door, and Clive barely lets it shut behind him before he's rounding on them, damn near vibrating with sheer befuddlement. “You hear that?” He hisses. “Robin. That mean Batman's his dad? Shit, is the Bat my boss-in-law? Grandboss?”
“Shut up, Clive,” Vin says wearily, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “It don't mean shit. Whatever they are, the kid blew himself up tonight ‘stead of going home.”
“He came to us,” Maria reminds him. She sits herself down on the bench in the hallway, elbows braced against her knees. “He didn't want to die, Vin.”
And thank god for that. Vin never would have thought to call a Gotham rogue endearing, but when the kid falls asleep at his desk and wakes up with creases in his cheek, there's no helping the burst of fondness Vin feels for his boss.
They worry. The lot of them, all thirty-six poor schmucks who gained another bastard to care about. The kid has to feel the weight of their restlessness, but he's damn good at pretending he can't. He seems to think that Rosie adding his birthday to the calendar is standard behavior, or that Antonio giving him discounts to his cousin's sandwich shop is to get in his good graces, when in reality, they all notice when the kid ain't taking care of himself.
Vin leans against the wall, arms crossed, staring at the door like it’ll open faster if he glares hard enough. The kid's in there, out cold, being stitched up like a ratty old ragdoll, and Vin—Vin is out here, waiting like a damn fool. His knee aches something fierce, an old injury flaring up from standing too long, but he doesn’t move. He just shifts his weight and exhales through his nose. When Vin was his age, he was getting into bar fights. Fucking and fighting the kind of people that sent his mother to an early grave, sure, but he wasn’t doing… this. Bleeding out on back-alley tables, tearing himself apart with his own damn hands.
Matteo made it out. Vin has a truckload of regrets, but his Matteo isn't one of them. And now he's standing here, waiting on another man's kid, stomach twisting up because the dumb bastard nearly got himself killed. Not just any regular man’s kid, either. The Bat’s.
God, Vin used to hate that creepy motherfucker. The way he punches the living daylights out of whichever street thug he comes across, pounding and pounding and pounding away like he could ever make a dent in Gotham’s underbelly. Dumb shit doesn't know anything, Vin will believe this ‘til the day he dies, but—
But he wonders. As the Robins cycled through, one after another, dozens of rumors sprouting as they kept disappearing one after another. How does that son of a bitch bear it? Fuck’s sake, Vin still gets antsy when Matteo hasn't updated his facebook in a few weeks, and they haven't spoken in years.
Vin rubs a hand over his face. He ain't a father to this kid. He ain't even a good man, really. But he can’t help the way his stomach sinks when he looks at him, how something ugly and raw in his chest rears its head at the idea of losing him. The kid’s too young to be this tired. Too young to be carrying the weight that he does.
True to her word, it’s nearly an hour before Thompkins calls them back in. Vin had slumped down next to Maria, dozing off with his chin tucked into his chest, but he startles awake when she jabs an elbow into his arm. Clive, jittery bastard that he is, is on his feet before Leslie even finishes her sentence, practically shoving past her to get inside.
The kid’s still out, breathing softly through parted lips. The tension in his face has finally smoothed out, and Vin feels the inexplicable urge to pinch the last bit of baby fat clinging to his cheeks.
“Christ,” Maria mutters, dragging a hand over her face. “What happened to worrying about college? Part-time jobs? Straight to semi-automatics these days.”
Clive snorts, taking up a spot on one side of the bed, arms crossed, but he’s watching the kid close, like he expects him to stop breathing if he looks away. Maria drops into the chair on the other side, fussing with the blanket like an old auntie, while Vin stays standing at the foot of the bed, knee aching all over again.
It’s a while before the kid stirs. A twitch of fingers first, then a scrunch of his nose like the smell of antiseptic’s offending him. Then, finally, a groggy groan as his eyes slit open, blinking slow like his brain ain't caught up yet. First thing he does is scan the room. His breath hitches—maybe expecting a different place, different faces. But then his eyes land on them.
And they’re still there.
The kid’s eyes flicker, something complicated passing through them. Maybe he thought they’d leave. That they’d drop him off, let the doc do her thing, and move on. Woulda been easy, if they were the kind of people he expected them to be. The kind of people the Bat expected them to be.
But they ain't.
Maria huffs, breaking the silence. “Bout time you woke up, bud.”
He blinks up at her, still hazy, before his lips quirk, tired and wry. “You coulda left,” he mutters, voice rough as sandpaper. He shifts, grimaces, probably feeling the stitches pull. His eyes flick to Vin, who just holds his gaze, tilting his head.
“Shut up and rest, boss,” Vin rumbles, voice steady. “You ain't gotta be awake for us to watch your back.”
The kid stares for a second longer, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that. Like he ain't used to it. Then, slowly, he lets his head fall back against the pillow, blinking sluggishly.
And maybe he rests a little easier knowing they’re still there.
II.
“Wake up, boss,” Vin coughs, hauling Hood to his feet. The kid pushes away, slumping against the wall, harsh breaths crackling through the helmet modulator. “We ain’t got time for this,” Vin hisses. “The building’s gonna come down on us.”
Nothing in this godforsaken city could ever be simple. It was supposed to be a textbook weapons deal until someone leaked the meeting time. All of a sudden there were three gangs, a pile of bodies, and the goddamn Batman tearing through it all. Whole damn operation went to hell in minutes, and if they didn't get the hell out of here, they wouldn't get another chance.
“Fuck,” Red Hood groans, visibly bracing himself before taking a step, wobbling precariously as he shifts his weight. “Fucking hell.”
His hand is pressed tight against his stomach, and Vin suddenly remembers the last time Hood got caught in an explosion like this—how he’d walked away with a chunk of flesh carved out of him. His gut twists. Swearing under his breath, he ducks under the kid’s arm, hoisting it over his shoulders. His bad knee nearly gives under the weight, pain lancing up his leg, but he grits his teeth and forces them forward. After a few halting steps, the kid finds his footing. Vin feels the shift as Hood straightens, suddenly taking on more weight than he’s giving.
“This stupid—” Hood unlatches his helmet and yanks it off, tossing it somewhere behind him with a sharp gasp. “The filters are fried to hell.”
“You need better tech,” Vin huffs. “I've seen Robin with tougher gear, boss.”
“Eugh,” Hood gags, miming spewing all over them both. “Don’t compare me to that wimp—shit, Vin, your head.” His eyes narrow, flicking somewhere above Vin’s temple.
“Oh, ‘s nothing. Jus’ a scratch.”
Vin doesn’t actually know what’s just a scratch, because his ears have been ringing for a full minute, and the top half of his head feels like it’s floating somewhere disconnected above the rest of him. Hood doesn’t buy it for a second. He presses fingers against Vin’s temple, hissing at whatever reaction—or lack of one—he gets. Just like that, he’s pulling them both to a stop, fumbling with one of the dozen pouches on his belt.
“We don’t got time,” Vin warns, voice thick, woozily tracking Hood’s movements. “We gotta—”
“I know, Vin,” he mumbles, tearing at a strip of bandage with his teeth. “Trust me, alright? Head wounds bleed like hell. You can’t afford to lose too much.”
Hood works fast, yanking the bandage tight around Vin’s head with rough, practiced hands. There’s no gentleness in him, not really, but Vin can tell he’s holding back—trying to be careful even though patience isn't in his nature. The bleeding slows, but Vin still feels like he’s been rung like a church bell. He blinks hard, grounding himself, and when his vision clears, Hood is still right there, glaring at him.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” the kid mutters, shoving the leftover bandage back into a pouch.
Vin frowns. “Done what?”
Hood glares at him like it’s obvious. “Pushed me out of the way. Taken the hit yourself.”
“Kid,” Vin sighs, nudging him forward. “I might as well have stripped naked and danced the macarena for all I remember. Ain’t nothing to it.”
“You could've—whatever,” he mutters. “You're impossible.” His hands twitch at his sides, like he wants to grab something—his guns, his helmet, maybe Vin himself. But all he does is clench his jaw and turn away.
Vin scoffs. He’s like a damn child, pouting the way that he does. They start moving, picking their way through the wreckage, each step sending debris clattering down. The whole fucking building is alive, groaning under the strain of its own destruction. Somewhere to their left, a beam crashes to the ground, sending up a puff of dirt that makes Vin’s eyelids twitch. Hood presses his lips together, his back curving around Vin like he could protect him if the building collapsed on them.
At their core, these vigilante types are all the same. Vin doesn't laugh, but he raises an eyebrow at the kid, who scowls and stubbornly looks away. Vin’s seen a lot of people in this city. Men who pretend to be hard, who act like they don’t care, like nothing gets under their skin. But this kid? He cares too much. It’s in the way his hands shake when he thinks no one’s looking. In the way he throws himself into fights he doesn’t have to, bleeding for people who wouldn’t even thank him for it.
It’s in the way he stops now, mid-step, just to bandage up some old bastard who’s only ever been a hired gun to him.
Distantly, shouts ring out into the night, and more dirt rains onto them as footsteps thump through the floor above. It’s as Vin is glancing to the side, wary of the silence on their floor, that he sees it. “Shit,” Vin breathes. He stops short, grabbing Hood’s arm. The kid jerks instinctively, one hand already reaching for a weapon, but Vin raises a hand. Slowly, he points.
Barely visible through the thick dust, something dark and heavy is sprawled out across the broken concrete.
A body.
A cape.
Vin feels the tension coil in Hood’s frame before they even round the corner. The Bat is laid out on his side, his lower half buried under a slab of collapsed ceiling, his armor scuffed and smeared with ash. His cape fans out around him, the edges torn and catching in the shifting air. He’s breathing—Vin can see the slow rise and fall of his chest—but he’s out cold, unmoving. For a long, frozen moment, neither of them say a word. Hood is just—standing there, staring, unblinking like a damn statue and just as still as one. Vin can’t read his face, what little of it he can see in this light, but he eyes the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like he doesn't know whether he wants to reach out or run the other direction.
He moves. Slowly, Hood crouches, fingers ghosting over Batman’s chestplate before stilling. His head tilts, and Vin follows his gaze. There, laying just beside his hip, a scrap of paper is half-crushed against the ground. Vin sees the rips in Batman’s belt, the glint of metal poking through his pouches, a lone lollipop that’s fallen through the torn fabric. It’s almost absurd—the kind of detail that doesn’t belong here, in the wreckage of a battle, dust thick in the air and the metallic tang of blood lingering on his tongue.
Hood reaches for it. Picks it up with careful fingers, hesitating for just a fraction of a second before turning it over. Vin barely catches a glimpse before his heart drops like a stone into his gut.
A photo. Nightwing and Robin, side by side, their faces bright with smiles, the neon glow of a Batburger sign casting soft halos around their hair. Robin looks—Jesus, he looks so young. Too damn young. A baby, really. Nose scrunched in a way Vin recognizes, though the crinkling of his eyes in laughter is a foreign sight. Something in Vin’s chest twists, a sharp, unexpected ache.
The kid stares at it. For a beat, Vin forgets where they are, the crumbling rubble around them, the precarious groan of the ceiling overhead. All he can see is that fucking photo, the trembling of Hood’s gloved fingers as he holds it like it’s something precious.
Vin exhales, rubbing at his face. The kid’s shoulders cave in with regret, the same damn thing Vin’s carried for years, the same gnawing, crushing hurt that never really lets go. It lingers inside of you, regret. Once it gets its claws in you—some things can never be undone.
“Kid—”
“Get out of here.” Hood’s voice is quiet, rough around the edges. He doesn’t look up. “Before it’s too late.”
Vin watches him, watches the tension in his shoulders, the way his thumb skims the edge of the picture like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He thinks about Matteo. About how much time he wasted waiting for a call that never came, a call he didn't even deserve. Too many years spent being a stubborn old bastard instead of just picking up the goddamn phone.
How easy it is to let something break, and how damn hard it is to fix.
He exhales sharply, a short puff of breath, and kneels at Batman’s side, his knees burning in protest. “And leave you to drag his heavy ass out by yourself? Not a chance, kid.”
Hood finally looks at him, and for a second, there’s something unguarded in his expression—something tired and young and just barely holding together. His lip wobbles dangerously, and Vin knows, without a doubt, that if they had even a second longer—
But they don't have time.
Then he snorts, tucking the photo back into the Bat’s pocket with quick, practiced movements. “Only you, Vin,” he mutters. “Just don’t drop him, old man.”
“You’re the one with noodle arms, boss.”
Hood waves at him to stand back. He braces himself, hands wedged under the rubble, and heaves, his legs trembling under the weight, but he gets it off of him. Then it’s just the Bat, dead to the world and kind of pathetic, if Vin’s being honest with himself. He stoops to pick up the lollipop, unwrapping it in one deft movement and sticking it in his mouth. The kid rolls his eyes, but he can't hide the way his lips quirk up.
Together, they grab hold of Batman, each taking an arm, and haul him up between them. He’s heavier than hell, all dead weight and kevlar, but they don’t stop moving.
The ceiling groans. The walls tremble. Dust trickles from above, a whisper of warning before inevitable collapse.
Vin grips tight and moves forward.