He shifted again in his sleep, or maybe it wasn't sleep, not really. Maybe it was that light doze people fall into when their bodies demand rest, but their minds never really let go. The kind of rest you only get when you've never been taught how to relax.
The blanket fell slightly, baring a bit more of his side. The bandages I'd wrapped were holding. Barely. He'd need actual stitches soon, or magic, if I dared to use it.
I shouldn't dare to use it.
The water in my hand tasted flat. I wasn't even thirsty.
I stood there, staring through the dark at the living room like it might offer me answers. The space looked different now, not because anything had changed, but because he was there. Like a shadow had stretched its way into my home and decided to stay a while. Not malevolent, not unwelcome… just present.
Just him.
My hand twitched on the glass, and I forced it still.
I wasn't used to this, the rush of heat, the quick spark of obsession that felt rooted in something more ancient than memory. Maybe it was the body. Maybe it was the power in it. Some blood-bound instinct clawing its way to the surface now that it had something, someone, to latch onto.
I was a cleric. Sort of. And he bled like a sacrifice.
A small, almost hysterical laugh caught in my throat, and I pressed my lips together before it escaped. God, I needed sleep. Or a cold shower. Or an exorcism.
Instead, I turned away, padded back to my room and sat down hard on the edge of the bed. Again.
I stared at the floor this time. At my feet. My hands.
They weren't mine, not originally. But they were now. And they were shaking, slightly, subtly, but enough that I noticed.
Was I scared? Excited? Turned on? All of the above?
Maybe.
Probably.
Definitely.
I buried my head in my hands and took a breath so deep it hurt. My fingers ran through my hair, gripping tight at the roots, grounding myself in the pain.
I wasn't going to sleep.
Not tonight.
Not with him out there.
Not with my body burning like this, like someone had twisted the dial up to "Horny Gremlin" and smashed the knob.
The clock read 3:12 AM now.
I lay back, arm across my eyes.
"Tomorrow," I muttered. "Tomorrow I'll figure this out. Magic. Body. Him. All of it."
But sleep didn't come.
The weight in my chest refused to settle.
And somewhere just beyond the paper-thin wall, Red Hood shifted again — the sound of leather and breath, of someone alive and alert even in rest.
I closed my eyes.
And listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing.
It wasn't comforting.
But it was something.
Something real.
And it anchored me. Kept me from spiralling completely.
Maybe I'd survive this.
Maybe.
Eventually, my body stopped fighting, even if my mind didn't.
And I drifted. Not into dreams.
Just into stillness. For a while atleast.
- jason/ the red hood pov-
I woke to the faint scrape of something—maybe the kettle clicking off in the kitchen, maybe just the building settling. My vision was blurry; the cuff of Caspian's blanket brushed against my fingertips as I shifted on the couch. Pain flared in my side when I moved, a hot reminder of how badly that bullet grazed me. But more than that, I noticed the silence around me, and how he hadn't bolted or called for help, or even panicked. He'd stayed. Stayed and tended my wound without flinching, like he'd done this a hundred times before.
From here on the couch, I could see him moving between rooms, one moment in the kitchenette, the next his silhouette slipping back toward his bedroom. I tried to piece together how someone like him ended up in my life. A kid, maybe a year or two younger, pale-eyed and more curious than most civilians. When I'd first spoken to him, it had been calm. No wide eyes, no trembling hand. Just a steady voice saying, "Hold still," while he applied gauze. That kind of composure under threat… it wasn't normal. Even for Gotham, it was weird. There was something in the way he focused, like he'd spent lifetimes studying how to keep a clear head when everything crashed down around him.
I remembered the questions I'd asked: "Occult Studies and History", he said, like he didn't think it odd to admit it.
In Gotham?
That was a red flag and a half.
But he wasn't spooked or arrogant, more like he saw the mess of this city and decided to learn it, to catalogue it. I half-expected him to roll up his sleeves and start drawing runes down the hallway's plaster. Instead, he'd made me dinner, egg fried rice that tasted like home, and set down a bowl beside me with the deadpan assurance that it "probably wouldn't kill" me. He moved with confidence, eyes always flicking back to make sure I was okay, but never overtly pitying me.
The truth is, I don't know what I'd have done if he'd reacted differently, yelled, called the cops, or even just bolted out of here and slammed the door. But he didn't. He just handled things. He reminded me a little of Damian, too calm, too capable, and always watching, always measuring. But while Damian moves like a blade still sheathed, Caspian moves like a scientist, cataloguing each step before he takes it.
It made me realise how rare that kind of person was in Gotham.
With a slow inhale, I eased one arm from beneath the blanket and fumbled for my phone in one of the pockets in my jacket. My fingers trembled, both from pain and the lingering edge of adrenaline, but I needed to let my people know I was still breathing.
The screen lit up: half a dozen unread messages in a locked group chat labelled "Hood Brothers." I hadn't updated them since the ambush in Crime Alley. Time to stop worrying them.
I swiped in the passcode—my thumb nearly slipping on the glass—and opened the chat. The most recent message: Tyler: "Hood? Dark night out. You alive?"
I tapped the text box.
RedHood: "Alive. Got grazed. Safe for now, but riding shotgun back to base. It might be a few days before I'm back in action. Don't make moves until I say so."
I hit send, then watched the little "Delivered" check appear. A second later:
Bryce: "Thank god. Thought you went down for good."
I knew Bryce was a good shot, but overprotective, family, I guess.
Below that, Tyler's already typing again.
I leaned back, wincing as the wound at my side protested. But I needed to keep moving; any lull in activity spelt trouble in this city. I thumbed out another message:
RedHood: "Lock down the safe houses on Mercer. Keep an eye on policing patterns—new cops sniffing around Crime Alley. If you see movement, fall back to Warehouse 5."
I hit send, then scrolled back up to confirm they got it. Sure enough, Bryce replied:
Bryce: "Understood. Medrin's ready to patch you up. Call if you need extraction."
RedHood: "Not gonna call, but pull up with Tyler near the edge of the alley and Newtown. I'm in some student's apartment, pulled myself onto the wrong fire escape."
I tucked the phone back into my pocket and leaned my head back against the couch. My side ached, but at least my people knew I was alive. Now it was a matter of getting healed, laying low, and figuring out why the hell I ended up in the wrong building.
I closed my eyes, tried to find a rhythm in my breathing, and let the tension ebb just a fraction. The city outside moaned and groaned, but for once, I had a moment of clarity.
Warehouse 5 was as good a fallback as any. Medrin would patch me up properly there. But that was hours away. For now, all I could do was wait. And think.
Through the wall to Caspian's bedroom, I could hear over the faint hum of the refrigerator, the distant click of his laptop waking up. He wasn't sleeping. Probably poring over texts or tapping away at some weird research. That calm efficiency gave me a measure of relief. If he hadn't bolted yet, at least I knew he wasn't the type to run once the adrenaline faded.
I shifted again, careful not to aggravate the wound. It felt thinner now, like the bleeding had stopped, but tenderness remained.
I lay still for another moment, listening to the soft hum of Caspian's laptop fans within the bedroom. He hadn't come out to check on me again. Good. I didn't need a farewell. The grace he'd shown was enough.
My side throbbed, each breath a reminder I couldn't linger. I slid off the couch with care, bracing my weight on my good side before easing to my feet. The darkness around me was thick; only the faint glow of streetlights seeped through the blinds. I moved without sound, gripping the edge of the coffee table for balance.
Caspian's first-aid kit still lay on the counter in the kitchenette. I checked inside: gauze, bandages, antiseptic. The bleeding was staunched, but when I pressed gently over the wound, a fresh trickle of warmth crept beneath my fingers. Not enough to slow me, but a reminder that I needed to get out before it could gather.
I found the fire escape door where I'd come in, shoved the bottom latch down gently, and eased the door open. The night air was cold and sharp, carrying a hint of damp asphalt and distant traffic. A single flickering streetlamp cast long shadows across the metal stairs.
I moved onto the first platform, careful not to shift my weight too fast. Pain flared in my side again, like an angry reminder, but I swallowed it down. One rung at a time, I climbed, each step deliberate. The ladder rattled softly, metal on metal, but it was quieter than I expected. Gotham had a way of swallowing noise.
Halfway down, I paused to catch my breath, leaning into the cool air. Below, the city looked almost peaceful at this hour, streets emptyish, buildings silent, just the distant drone of engines and the faint echo of sirens somewhere far off. I glanced up at Caspian's lit window, a sliver of brightness in the dark façade. He was safe inside, curled behind a closed door, tending to his late-night work.
I let my gaze linger for a moment, gratitude and something else knotting in my chest. Then I shook my head and continued downward.
I reached the ground level and landed lightly on the cracked concrete, wincing as my ribs reminded me of their fragility. I kept moving, stepping onto the alley that ran parallel to the sidewalk. My boots crunched on broken glass and stray litter. I pulled my hoodie and leather jacket tighter around me, hoping the loose fabric would cover any sign of my presence.
Tonight, I'd slip into the shadows. Tomorrow, I'd deal with the fallout: Medrin's scrubs, healing stitches, and the inevitable questions from the "Hood Brothers". But tonight, I walked away down a darkened street, torn between survival and the strange pull of something I didn't yet understand, gratitude, maybe something closer to respect.
On the edge of Crime Alley, I spotted the unmarked van I recognised as Tyler's, lights off, engine quiet. I eased the side door open and slid in, boots first.
I eased the side door closed behind me, the click of the latch muffled by the city's distant hum. Inside the van, the darkness was thick, no interior lights, just the faint glow of a phone's screen resting on the dashboard. My side protested with every breath, but the painkillers dulled the worst of it. I forced myself to concentrate on my breathing, not on how Caspian's calm eyes haunted my thoughts.
A figure shifted in the driver's seat, hood pulled low. Tyler's voice came in low, gravelly. "You good, boss?"
I nodded in the dim light. "I'll live." I tested the weight on my left foot before settling back onto the bench seat. The leather felt cold against my jeans. " You said Medrin's can patch me up. If not, we can head over to Leslie's clinic."
A soft chuckle. "Medrin's been waiting. You're pushing it close to dawn." Tyler's fingers drummed on the steering wheel. "Bryce's up front, got the thermos."
I reached forward for the thermos, grimacing. The scalding heat of black coffee was exactly the fuel I needed, even if it stung my throat. "Thanks." I blew on the rim before sipping. Dark, bitter—Gotham in a cup.
Tyler started the engine and gave me a once-over: shirt untucked, jacket caked with dark smudges I didn't want to think about, and a pair of hard eyes that already weighed my mood. "Tell me you didn't break into a rando's flat for that."
"At least I remembered to grab my helmet, and I left as little blood behind as possible."