Chapter Text
Red Hood finishes breaking down the AR-15 he just liberated from the mafioso currently bound and snoring at his feet. He almost tosses the pieces to the ground in disgust as he identifies the same inherent design flaws he’s already seen twice tonight. There isn’t a chance in hell these pieces of shit would have ever passed inspection at any reputable facility.
Whether it’s careless molding, shoddy materials, or both, the damn things overheat when fired and start warping. With every shot, the barrels go just a little bit farther from true until eventually a bullet gets lodged. If the idiot holding the gun doesn’t realize it didn’t fire properly and tries to shoot again, there’s nowhere for the gas and pressure to go.
Boom.
Someone’s selling defective guns in Gotham. The worst of it is, the semi-automatic weapons are dangerous as fuck because not only will they shoot just fine and probably kill a lot of people before failing, there’s a high probability that when they fail, they’ll do so explosively.
Motherfucker, Hood thinks, already itching to get his fists on the shitbag who’s skimming a profit and passing these ticking timebombs along to the underworld instead of bagging and tagging them to be reworked or destroyed per factory procedure.
He reassembles the weapon and then heads out at the sound of approaching sirens, making sure to give the gang member another good stomp or three as he walks by. Asshole. At least the cops will put this trash away for a long time. Even in fuckin’ Gotham, murder one will get him twenty years, easy.
Hood grapples up and lands on the rooftop in a run. He crosses the gap to the next building and then drops down into an alley a couple blocks away from all the activity. Evidence secured, he straddles his motorcycle, revs the engine and then roars out into the street and away.
He’s pissed that he doesn’t have the sense of satisfaction he usually would after tracking down a murderer and closing a case like this one. Normally sending a guy like Tony Sabatino down for all the fucked-up shit he’s done over the years working as a mob enforcer would feel damn good. Getting trash like that off the streets isn’t easy, especially with a powerful mafia family greasing the wheels.
Accumulating enough evidence to put the bastard away for good without any loopholes for the mob’s slimy, expensive lawyers to exploit is a hell of a lot harder than just putting a fucking bullet in the asshole’s skull, but Hood’s trying, okay? He’s turning over a new leaf, rubber bullets and everything. Not that it’s easy exactly to hold back from enacting his own brand of justice on all the scum he encounters, but he’s giving it his best shot.
It sure as hell doesn’t help that someone’s decided trying to flood the market with substandard semi-automatics is a great idea.
And the name he got from Sabatino before he put him down… Well, it’s familiar. He makes a face, but this isn’t something he can keep on the down-low. If he wants to maintain the recent good relations with the rest of the Bats, he’s got to play nice when cases and perps overlap.
Fuck. This ain’t something I can just take care of on my own.
“Hood to Nightwing. You still working that embezzlement and real estate fraud case that crossed over from the ‘Haven?” He deftly navigates the tight turns through the narrow, twisting alleys in the heart of the Bowery, letting himself be seen while he makes his way north toward Sheldon Park and the bridge that will take him to Wayne Manor.
The rest of patrol’s a wash. He needs to check out what’s left of the serial numbers on these guns and see about tracking them back to find out who made them. From there, he should be able to get a bead on who’s selling them on. And as much as he hates to admit it, the Cave has the best equipment.
“Nightwing here, with Robin. Yeah, I am, and that case seems to be connected to an adulterated illicit drug shipment Red Robin just confiscated down at the docks. Why, you got something for us?”
Fuck. Of fuckin’ course there’s goddamn drugs involved in this, too… Gotta keep it together, though. Not worth losing my head when it’ll cost me all the progress I’ve made earning back their trust.
He bites off a curse and forces himself to answer instead of asking about the drugs or offering to go help Little Red knock some dealer shitheads around a bit. “I got three fuckin’ defective semi-automatic rifles, possibly part of a larger shipment that already got through. Fuck knows how many more are out there or where they’re smuggling them in from. Already distributed widely enough that I confiscated one from a Triad gangster, another from a cartel douchebag. Got a name outta the Sabatino enforcer I just took the third off, and I’ll give you three guesses who.”
Red Robin’s voice answers clearly over the comms, sounding resigned and tired. “Richard Patterson?”
Well, give the boy a prize. Always knew they called him the brainy one for a goddamn reason.
“Yeah.”
Nightwing chimes in again, Robin snarling in the background about conniving idiots muscling in on their cases. “Well, it sounds like all our cases are colliding tonight. Wanna team up?”
Swallowing his knowledge of what a fucking terrible idea this is, considering his current tenuous position with the Bats and the ideological differences they’ll never be able to reconcile, Hood grunts an agreement. Red Robin quietly accepts the offer a moment later.
Fuck. Guess I’ll just hafta man up and deal with having all the bats and birdies in my business for a few days. This case seems fuckin’ designed to make me lose my shit, though. I can’t answer for what I’ll do if I find out these dickwads have been pushing those tainted drugs to kids.
He makes it to the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge and opens the throttle. The motorcycle roars across the empty stretch of road and he revels in the feel of the brisk wind and the view out over the open expanse of water below and the dark, cloudy sky above. The momentary lull in conversation is broken by Oracle’s voice. “Guys, I finally have a potential in for Patterson, but you’re not going to like it.”
Hood waits for her to continue, quickly mentally reviewing what he remembers about Richard Patterson from half-listening to the other Bats’ chatter about the case over the comms and reading the nightly reports. Patterson’s a corrupt corporate executive, neck-deep in real estate scams in both Gotham and Blüdhaven, and almost certainly embezzling from his own company to boot.
Now they’ve got intel linking him to drug trafficking and weapons smuggling as well, because apparently the dirty fucker’s gotta dip his nasty fingers into every filthy pie this hellhole of a city has to offer. And on top of all that, he’s got a seat on the Gotham City Council and has more than a few judges and police officers in his pocket.
The hell of it is finding enough evidence to fucking prove wrongdoing. The company records and hard copy books at his office are squeaky clean. Nightwing couldn’t find anything in the man’s home either. Even Oracle’s powerful data mining has come up empty so far.
“I think we’ll like pretty much anything that helps us keep those drugs and guns off the street,” Nightwing says, because somehow, he’s still an eternal optimist. “Not to mention putting a stop to the real estate fraud, predatory lending, and those shady tenements he’s pushing to build on the abandoned lots down by the harbor.”
Now that’s news. “Wait, the place where everything was condemned due to fuckin’ subsidence? Goddamn greedy asshole.”
Of fuckin’ course some rich bastard wouldn’t care about exposing the poor and desperate to increased risks of flooding and having their cheaply built flimsy-ass homes slowly sink into the goddamn ocean.
“We gotta take this fucker down,” he growls.
“Well, congratulations. I think what I have in mind will enable us to pull that off.” Oracle’s not using the synthesizer, so he can hear the smirk in her voice.
“What’s the deal, O?” Hood doesn’t have time for banter. People are in danger now and they need that intel. Patterson’s the key to the whole damn thing. The sooner they bring him in, the better for everyone.
“Well, it seems the perp’s got a bit of a reputation. He likes strippers, apparently well enough to approach those he favors without the accompaniment of any of his bodyguards. He usually brings at least one bodyguard everywhere, up to and including the restroom, so this could be our best chance to plant listening devices and trackers on his body without exponentially complicating the process by having to do so under the watchful eyes of trained security staff.”
Hood involuntarily pictures some unfortunate bodyguard standing awkwardly by with eyes averted while Patterson noisily answers a call of nature, and winces. Ugh, there’s no fuckin’ way he pays those poor bastards enough for that shit.
“Why do I feel like this is going to end with me in stilettos and a wig sitting on the perv’s lap?” Red Robin mutters, obviously resentful of the fact he’s the only one of the Bat boys who can still easily pass as a woman.
With Black Bat out of town and Batgirl pulling light duty for a few more weeks recovering from a broken arm, Timmy winding up in a dress is looking pretty much inevitable at this point.
Dickie might do in a pinch, but there’s no need to go to all the trouble when they’ve got Tim right there, small and slender and oh-so-pretty. Hood pictures it and briefly goes slightly cross-eyed, drifting over to the shoulder before he catches himself and rights the motorcycle just in time to turn into the secret entrance, already obligingly opening for him.
Thanks, Alfie. But fuck, I gotta get a handle on this shit. Damn, the human mind is fucking annoying. Can’t be thinking about Timmy like that, not when there’s no fuckin’ way he’d ever be interested. Not with our history. I got no right to want him.
Hood shakes his head, finally pulling into the Cave and hefting the guns to bring them over to the Batcomputer for analysis. He dumps his helmet and sits down before accepting a cup of perfectly prepared tea from the stoic butler who approaches with impeccable timing. “Thanks, Alfie!”
Oracle’s voice speaks up again, this time from the Batcomputer. “Actually, no one has to go undercover as a woman this time.”
He can hear the predatory grin in her voice and it’s worrying. Babs is one scary woman when she wants to be.
“I still need to conduct additional research to nail down the target’s exact preferences regarding body type, hair color and so on, but one thing we do know is that he definitely prefers men. So limber up and practice those routines, boys. We need to be ready to get one of you in place at a moment’s notice as soon as I find out which one of you best fits his type.” She sounds way the hell too amused about all this, probably because she’s planning to get footage of all of it for future blackmail and entertainment purposes.
“…Fuck,” Red Hood mutters as he turns back to the weapons he needs to examine and process. It’s been a long damn time since he last went undercover as a stripper. Not that he’s likely to be anyone’s type. Who the hell wants a big, mean, scarred-up son-of-a-bitch like him?
Well, fuck it. Guess I’m going to have to get some dancing practice in, just in case.
Tim steps out of the shower feeling warm and relaxed, the pounding of the hot water having successfully melted away most of the minor aches and tension that always build up during a good patrol. Stretching, he yawns as he reaches to grab the fluffy red towel and then uses it to scrub vigorously at his hair.
He drapes it over his shoulders, glancing idly down at himself before doing a double take.
What the hell? Oh, no. Oh no no no…
His frantic mental denial doesn’t change the truth of the situation, no matter how desperately he wishes he could undo what has happened. It’s still right there, staring him in the face.
Jason’s soulmark isn’t displayed on his right shoulder where it was when it first appeared almost six months ago, in firmly platonic territory.
It isn’t even poised on the cusp between platonic and romantic, just outside an imaginary circle drawn around his heart defined by a diameter measured by the space between his nipples. That’s where it was last time Tim bothered to remove the semi-permanent soulmark cover-up to allow his skin to breathe for a while, and that’s where he’d thought the mark was going to stay. Apparently, it wasn’t done migrating just yet.
No, Jason’s soulmark is now decidedly in romantic soulmate territory, definitely well within the space around his heart everyone knows is reserved only for romantic soulmarks.
Oh my god…
He shakes his head in futile denial, but if there’s one thing he knows all too well, it’s that soulmarks can’t be predicted or controlled. God knows he’s tried, and failed, enough times to prove that.
Tim looks over at his reflection in the mirror, tracing over the old soulmarks belonging to Jack and Janet Drake. His mother’s sleek, stunning dragon is still coiled possessively around his father’s beautifully decorated little Grecian funerary urn, but they’ve moved even further down his body than last time he looked. They used to be on his shoulders, back when his parents were the center of his world. Now they’ve shifted to his ribs and may well continue their slow progress drifting toward his back. Soon, he won’t be able to see them at all.
It’s fitting, considering their position in his life now compared to when he was a child. They’re still important, but less than they once were and falling farther behind into his past with every day that has passed since their deaths.
His traitorous mind wonders for a moment where they would have worn his soulmark, if he’d ever mattered enough to either of them to leave his own mark on their hearts and skin.
…Probably the heel, he thinks with a wry half-smile. They always did consider me something of a liability.
Damian’s fledgling hawk is below and slightly behind Dick’s cheerful robin on Tim’s left shoulder, with Alfred’s watchful beaver above them both. Now that Jason’s soulmark has moved, Bruce’s grim, permanently unbalanced scale of justice looms more noticeably on Tim’s right shoulder. The injustice of his parents’ deaths, seared into his very soul. He suspects the tipped scales are a sign that deep down, the man knows his mission of bringing every criminal to justice is not achievable. The fact that he carries on regardless… Well, B was never one to give up just because something’s impossible.
The graceful swan belonging to Cass seems to have begun drifting over to fill the space Jason has left empty beside Bruce’s again. Her soulmark had actually shifted slightly to make room when Jason’s appeared. His sister’s accommodating, kind and considerate nature comes through even in her soulmark, it would seem. He wonders when she’ll be in Gotham again and feels a stab of loneliness, missing her.
His lips twitch in a faint but genuine smile as he notices there are even fewer little spatters of blood marking the swan than the last time he looked. The evidence of Cass’s continued healing from her stained past fills him with a quick surge of happiness for her sake.
The Titans’ soulmarks twine together beautifully around his upper left arm. Only a step away from family, they mirror Babs’ owl and Steph’s vicious-looking goose on his other arm. Tim huffs a little laugh as he looks at his ex-girlfriend’s mark, remembering how desperately he’d wished during their time together that her mark would make the journey Jason’s has just accomplished so seemingly effortlessly.
The goose always remained stubbornly in platonic territory, and when she’d died, he had guiltily thought it might be better that he wasn’t wearing her mark on his heart. He still wonders if the real reason she broke up with him was because he’d never been able to inspire his own soulmark on her.
If he hadn’t been forced to hide the truth of his identity from her back then, could they have made it work? He blinks away thoughts of what might have been, scattering useless reflections to focus on what is instead.
Whatever, at least we’ve managed to salvage a friendship out of the wreck of our failed romantic relationship.
He stares at the colorful tapestry on his skin for a long while, thinking over the complex biological mechanisms behind soulmark activation and wondering for the hundredth time where the particular failure is that caused his situation. Of course, he’s pretty sure he’s always known the answer. It’s just him.
Marks appear only after a person develops true, deep love for another and is influenced by them on a profound level. Numerous studies demonstrate the circumstances surrounding the actual manifestation of the marks, which are triggered by the production and reception of extremely complex, specific pheromones tailored to the individuals in question. There are documented instances of people instantaneously forming marks the first time they met in person, but such cases always occur following a long correspondence during which they grew to love and influence one another.
Of course, the marks aren’t necessarily reciprocal. Tim resists the urge to scratch at his. If only one person loves and is influenced by another, then only the affected person develops the other’s mark.
He’s very familiar with the science behind that particularly depressing little phenomenon. His interest is unsurprising, considering every single one of his marks falls into that category.
It’s not that I’m ungrateful for what I have. So many people I’ve had a chance to love, each of whom touched my life in so many different and profound ways.
He runs his fingers over the Titans’ soulmarks fondly, Kon’s gorgeous Kryptonian ice-bird stretching its crystalline wings protectively over Bart’s peregrine falcon. Cassie’s griffin crouches in front of them as though ready to launch forward at a moment’s notice.
And it’s definitely not fair of me to sulk when so many of my friends are literally biologically incapable of developing soulmarks. Kon can’t due to his alien heritage, Cassie because she’s Amazonian, Bart because he’s from a future which has evolved beyond soulmarks…
Tim’s so grateful to bear their marks on his skin because his biology feels the need to commemorate their incredible friendship with some pretty sweet tattoos.
I think, maybe… they’d have my soulmark, if they could. At least, I hope they would.
He smiles, but it quickly fades.
I wonder what my soulmark would look like? You know, if anyone ever cared about me enough to have it.
Everyone else’s marks on his skin always seems so obvious and fitting once they appear. Not only are they representative in some way of the person to whom they belong, they also slowly change. Positioning adjusts to reflect changing relationships, as he’s seen. Even the actual appearance of the marks can evolve, sometimes drastically, based on events in the life of the person to whom it belongs. The slowly brightening feathers on Cass’s swan reflect the challenges she has overcome and who she is now. Damian’s soulmark has changed dramatically over the years, from a tightly coiled viper to a proud bird of prey, showing his growth into his own person after he cast aside the brutal teachings of his childhood.
Sometimes Tim wonders what Bruce’s used to be, back before he gave everything over to the Mission. Alfred is the only one who might know and of course he’d never mention it. Those whose soulmarks have changed from the animals everyone has at birth… Well, a soulmark appearing as an inanimate object or symbol is usually a reflection of an unusually focused dedication to a single purpose or aspiration, all else falling by the wayside.
It makes me wonder if mine would be something like that. Have I really given up on myself to the point that my dreams are fixed instead of changing and evolving?
He doesn’t truly want to think about the answer to that question. Actually, considering his mom still had her dragon right up until the very end despite being one of the most driven people he’s ever known, maybe there is still hope for him. Yeah, he’ll go with that.
The soulmarks on his skin are all beautiful and so apt for the people to whom they belong. Jason’s in particular is gorgeous, a bright red and orange phoenix in flight. All of the other former Robins have birds as their soulmarks, but to him, Jason’s is by far the loveliest.
At the moment, the phoenix currently adorning his skin looks as though it’s flying toward his heart. Heck, it’s almost there already. It’s incredibly vivid and breathtakingly beautiful, and the sight terrifies him.
He’s never had a romantic soulmark before, and he has a feeling this mark remaining unreciprocated is going to be a whole new level of hurt compared to all the platonic soulmarks he’s used to wearing. Tim timidly wonders what his mark might have looked like, hovering over Jason’s heart. Then he bites his lip, flushing in shame and quashing the stupid thought.
Mine probably would’ve been something dumb and boring anyway.
But…
I still wish I could see it on someone else, just once, and know my being here really made a difference. That I mattered, me, Tim and not Red Robin, to at least one person.
Tim shakes his head and briskly scrubs the towel over his face to get rid of all the drops of water he feels running down his cheeks. He must not have dried off properly, that’s all. He reaches for the soulmark cover-up, ready to hide away the reminders of his inadequacy and the aching questions they raise in his heart.
Time to get back to work.