Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dick got an early start on patrol tonight; even beat the sunset. He doesn’t expect to encounter much trouble for another rough hour, so he’d be a bit surprised to find someone grocery shopping this late in the evening. That’s unreasonable in Gotham City.

Dick’s in town for the weekend. He promised the kids a game night, and Babs stopped by for a book rec from Alfred, and Bruce ended up hugging him, and it was really nice. Now Dick’s on one last patrol before heading back to Blüdhaven. 

It’s not like he’s expecting an uneventful patrol simply because he had a nice weekend with his family. But this is unusual. Normally, Gotham citizens know better than to risk it all for a tub of ice cream. If nothing else, Dick finds his curiosity heading the investigation.

He vaults off his current rooftop perch, swinging through a lovely arc towards the ground. It puts him perfectly in place to intercept the girl on the sidewalk at exactly the moment she turns the corner.

“Hi!”

To her credit, she only flails a little bit and doesn’t drop the singular grocery bag in her hand. “Hi!” She parrots back, seemingly on instinct. Then recognition shutters through her features.

“D—Nightwing!”

It’s Red Hood’s little friend. Dick remembers her well from the art gallery—and Bruce’s obsessive case file. She looks different with the hazy sunset filtering through her hair. Beckham. He didn’t mean to run into her today, but it’s just as well. Maybe this time they can put a tracker on the girl.

“Hiii.” Dick repeats. He tucks his hands behind his back and leans forward. She’s kind of cute when she’s not ugly sobbing. He can see why Hood likes her.

She sputters and hurries to compose herself. “What—uh—I’m sorry.”

Dick cocks his head. That’s a curious thing to say. “What for?” Hopefully this isn’t some orchestrated scheme she’s been conned into catalyzing. Lots of people apologize to Dick when they’re about to kick his ass, though he wouldn’t expect it coming from Beckham.

“Your um… I hit your face. When we met.” 

Oh.

“So sorry. I didn’t mean to—I was just—”

“You remember that?” Dick barely remembers that. It was a clean blow, but it didn’t concuss him, and most people in the workplace wouldn’t bother apologizing over something so menial. At least she’s not apologizing for an imminent kidnapping.

“Um. Hood told me.”

Hood. Right. They’re not in Crime Alley now, though this neighborhood is right on the edge of Hood’s encroaching territory. Dick straightens to scan the skyline. No hulking crime lord in sight. Does he let his pet wander around the city unprotected?

“It’s okay.” Dick gives her a dazzling smile. “What brings you out here? It’ll be dark soon.” The warning is usually enough to knock sense into any Gothamite. Everyone knows what happens when the darkness settles.

But Beckham appears to brush it off. She hefts the grocery bag with a brilliant grin. “I just found a place that carries my favorite brand.” Suddenly, she’s rifling through the bag, and pulling out a whole tub of ice cream, and waving it in Dick’s face without a care in the world. “Have you tried this kind before? It’s insane. I’ve been looking everywhere for this.”

Dick goes a little cross-eyed to read the packaging. Huh. Triple brownie fudge. She must be a fan of chocolate.

Her smile is so bright, it rivals the fading sunlight, and something in Dick relaxes in the presence of a kindred spirit. It’s sweet. He can definitely see why Hood likes her.

“Personally, I prefer mint chip.”

“Ugh.” She scoffs with put-upon disdain. “Bandwagon.”

“Hey!”

It feels very familiar to be made fun of for something like that. It’s not the first time a younger sibling of his has criticized his eating habits, though Beckham isn’t family, and he shouldn’t see her like she might be. Even if Bruce has considered an adoption crusade for the Red Hood. No, Dick needs to remain objective. This girl is a known associate of a dangerous, intelligent, violent threat to the people Dick loves, and if he can get intel from her, that wouldn’t be a horrible way to end his pleasant weekend.

Beckham’s face softens in gentle enjoyment. She drops the ice cream back into the bag with a swish. “Did you need something from me?” She asks.

Dick offers an arm. “Just to talk. You could probably guess what about.”

“Can I eat my ice cream during the interrogation? Don’t want it to melt.”

“No. You’ll be bound hand and foot.”

She laughs. She shifts, relaxed, tilts her head back and laughs so sweetly. Dick can see the way she might feel to a full time crime lord: a brilliant breath of fresh air. It’s nice to hear her laugh. There’s nothing in it but simple delight. In a city as polluted as Gotham, she’s a rare nicety.

“At least take me to dinner first!”

Dick feels the corner of his mouth curl. “I’m kidding. You can eat it while we talk. I know a great spot.”

She follows him easily down the street, farther from the Alley and the chance of any interruptions in the shape of a red helmet. Dick maintains suspicions about this being a set-up—why else would she be so willing to comply?—but he’s never really talked to her before, and maybe association is an unfair word to use between her and any supervillain. Dick isn’t completely blind. He knows she makes waffles for Steph sometimes.

After a few blocks, Dick grabs his grapple. The darkening street is no place to chat. Beckham takes the hint and steps close, Dick slings an arm around her, and they zip skyward. She’s completely silent to the rush of wind, which probably shouldn’t come as a surprise. Hood probably takes her on grappling dates. The thought makes Dick want to gag just slightly. 

He sets her down on the gravel and moves towards the gargoyles. It’s a familiar spot. Plenty of Batkids past have frequented this particular rooftop to brood. The location is perfect for it, with a clear surrounding view, and muffled city sounds, and dramatic perches. Dick would ordinarily crouch atop a gargoyle jutting out over the street, but he won’t make a civilian follow him, and Beckham wants to eat ice cream. They end up settling on the roof’s edge.

Beckham seems perfectly at ease up here with her feet dangling and her hair floating and the last high stretches of sunlight swimming over her skin. It’ll take a few minutes for the dark to soar up past them. The plastic bag rustles. Beckham pops her tub open and pulls a spoon from thin air. She takes her time carving into the dark, marbled chocolate.

“Mmm. Hallelujah.” She kicks her feet happily. “What’d you want to ask?”

Dick watches her carefully. He never really suspected her of being involved in Red Hood’s operations. That is, he never thought she was a criminal. Even being a criminal isn’t much of a prosecutable offense in this sort of city, but Beckham is a rarity in that way too. She must be an ordinary civilian. A regular person. Untouched and unaffected by the dirt beneath Hood’s nails. Barbara found her online art shop. She’s a good artist. Dick knows better than to take her sweet, innocent persona at face value, but in all the time they’ve been investigating her, they haven’t found any indication she could be more than what she seems. Maybe she’s hiding something. Maybe she’s hiding from something. At the very least, Dick knows her care for Red Hood to be genuine. He’s seen her shred her vocal chords over it.

He wants to know more about their relationship, because if Beckham cooperates, she might be the key to bringing Hood in. And Hood needs to be stopped. Dick sees what the investigation is doing to Bruce. The way Hood knows so much and hates them so much and poses such a threat is concerning. There’s no doubt a sense of urgency here, and Hood is careful not to leave any ends loose. Beckham—as much as anyone hates to admit it—is roughly the sum total of leads. Talia refuses to say anything more than a stupid smug “wait and see”.

But if Beckham isn’t involved in Red Hood’s work, it’ll be hard to get anything of substance from her. If she’s just a normal person with no part in Hood’s crimes and schemes, if she’s just…some kind of pet to keep Hood grounded, she might not know anything of importance. Worse, she might be a hostage. Maybe she’s not willfully involved with the crime lord. Maybe she has no say in what interest the man takes in her. If that’s the case, Dick won’t hesitate to get her out—but he’s kind of hoping that’s not it. Red Hood threatened Dick’s baby brother. Red Hood nearly killed Tim, and Dick really needs some leverage. Fast. Before he loses his shit and hunts the bastard down himself.

“Are you okay?” He finally asks.

The question seems to startle Beckham. She stiffens a bit and her eyes get wide. Her arm stops halfway through ferrying a bite to her mouth.

“Um, yeah?” 

There’s nothing but confusion in her expression.

“If…” Dick says carefully, “he’s holding something over you, we can help. We can help you get out of this.” 

She blinks at him. His words don’t seem to register. “Are you—you’re talking about Red Hood, right?” Her tone is mildly baffled.

The idea that she might have connections to more than one supervillain never occurred to Dick, and thinking about it now makes him want to jump off the roof. “I assume that’s the only crime lord you’re affiliated with.”

She puts the spoon down with a snort. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“No. No—it’s not like that. He’s not like that.”

What a classic statement to hear from abuse victims. Dick bristles the slightest bit. He knows she may think she loves Hood, but Dick’s seen the man’s type before. Dick is a master manipulator; he had to be, or he never would have seen Bruce smile growing up. He can tell that Hood knows the trade as well. He’s seen it up on a catwalk in action. It’s not a longshot to assume Hood would employ such skills to ensnare a kid like Beckham—though they have yet to determine a purpose. Why would Hood keep her around? What does he have planned for her? Is she really uninvolved in his plots, or does she know more than she’s letting on? Dick hopes she does. He needs Red Hood to go down.

“You see what he wants you to see.” Beckham says. “He knows how to make you believe it.”

Dick sees a civilian perfectly at ease among Bats and villains both, innocent and unassuming, defending a man whose hands are drenched in blood. He sees that she’s not lying. Working as he has for fifteen years, he’s developed an incredible skill for knowing the difference, and he knows that everything Beckham has said up until now, she believes herself. 

“Is that so?”

She gives him a look. It’s soft, a smile, unreadable and hauntingly deep, and it makes Dick feel suddenly small. Shit, what is that? There’s an ancient quality to her expression. Aged. Experienced. Authoritative yet remote and uninvolved, and gone in a second. A second is all it takes for Dick to feel unsettled. Maybe he’s got this wrong. She knows something. Maybe everything. 

But then she looks away, and finishes the bite of ice cream, and the spell breaks. Dick isn’t staring into the void anymore. He wonders, subconsciously, whether Red Hood is contained by some of this magic. Maybe this relationship isn’t as one-sided as they thought.

“He knows you better than you think.” She doesn’t guess. And Dick knows it’s true. He’s lost sleep over it.

“How can you be sure?”

“It doesn’t take a detective to be sure, Nightwing. Hood wants to pick your family apart thread by thread, and he can do it, and he is. Stop playing the game.”

“I can’t. There are people in danger—”

“He’s trying to get your attention, you know.”

Dick figured. Red Hood isn’t the flashiest Rogue they’ve fought over the years—not by far—but his actions are undeniably specific, and this little fact is driving Dick’s family insane. Hood shouldn’t know the things he knows. He shouldn’t be able to get under their skin like this. Yet here Dick is, talking to a crime lord’s girlfriend on a roof while she eats ice cream and philosophizes about his capacity for empathy. 

Dick pivots. “How do you know him so well? You told Batman that he wanted to kill Robin.”

“Ah,” She lowers her eyes and stabs at the ice cream bashfully. “That was true at the time. In my defense, he did say to me that he wanted to kill them both. I think Batman would have a slightly better chance escaping with his life—but Robin shouldn’t face Hood away from home. Gotham is the only thing that can save him right now.”

What. 

Red Hood expresses his intentions to her? Is this a standard practice? If so, why is Hood’s vendetta against Robin the only thing she warned them about? Maybe it’s the only thing she considers to be a serious enough threat. Dick can appreciate that to some extent.

“You mean staying here?”

“Yeah.”

“What does that have to do with you?”

She gives him a mildly incredulous look. “I wasn’t going to sit on a death threat to a kid and not do anything about it.”

Said like that, it sounds obvious, but not everyone in this city has basic human decency. Dick’s long since learned not to expect it.

“Besides, I—don’t tell Hood—I do like you guys.” 

Lie. She’s lying. She doesn’t like them. Doesn’t… just like them. There’s more to the way she feels, and Dick can tell she’s chosen the most benign, simplistic explanation for herself. For him. What strikes him as odd is the fact that she’s chosen to tone it down. Most people who care as much as she does aren’t shy about making their opinions known, good or bad. Dick’s cheeks still burn from all the pinching if he thinks about old ladies hard enough.

“Aw, that’s flattering.”

“I try.”

“But it didn’t answer my question. Who is the Red Hood to you?”

She raises a cheeky eyebrow. “That’s pretty open-ended.”

“Just answer it, honey.”

“Well.” Her expression turns thoughtful as she taps the spoon against her lips. “I can tell you he’s my muse.”

“Your muse?”

“Oh yeah. I doubt you’ve seen the paintings, but I draw him the most. He makes it fun, you know? So much passion. Expression. Range, for kriff’s sake. I like a man that flexible.”

Dick wonders mildly if that’s a roundabout way of flirting, or if she’s forgotten who exactly she’s talking to.

“He’s a magnificent beast, you must understand.” She nods importantly to herself, and Dick’s pretty sure she finds the act outrageously amusing.

“So… you’re attracted to vigilantes, is that it?”

“Oh no, my taste could never be so broad. Well it—I mean—you haven’t seen how kind he is. Deep down, beneath the anger and hurt, he’s a pretty compassionate person, and that’s super sexy of him.”

Dick stops himself from saying he has seen. He was there when she inhaled a lungful of fear toxin and screamed her voice to death. He was there when Red Hood came to get her out. He was there to see Hood act like a ghost, and Dick still hasn’t properly forgiven the man for it. He’s seen the exact same kindness in two more colors besides red. It hurts in ways he can’t explain to her.

“You know… there are nicer people than Red Hood.”

She laughs sweetly. The carefree curl of her lips seems to stretch the sun’s light a little longer. “I know. But you have a family and Hood is alone, and I’m alone, and we make each other feel better.”

“You pity him?”

“Don’t tell him that either.”

The flippancy is almost unsettling. How can she treat caring for such an awful man so lightly? “You know what he’s done, right? You know how many people he’s killed and tortured and ruined.”

“Yeah.”

“You know he assaults people for fun.”

“Mhmm.”

“He’s running the drug trade. He makes money when people suffer.”

“Right.”

“And you’re just—okay with that?”

She scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’ll have to atone for his messes when this is over.”

When what?

“But I can tell he’s been through unimaginable pain, and I believe he can be an incredible force for good if someone tries to give a kriff about him.”

Dick’s grown past such thoughts. He knows better than to think he can change a man’s mind. Feeling unloved isn’t an excuse to run rampant on a crime-ridden city, but Beckham seems to know that already, and apparently she doesn’t care. She’s the same shade of optimistic as Batman. Dick isn’t sure whether he hates it or finds it refreshing.

“Did he tell you that?”

She pauses. “No.” It’s the truth.

But it’s not just any truth most people can come by. She has to know him very intimately to be making those assertions without being told.

“You know who he is, don’t you?” Dick gentles his voice. He can sound kind if he wants, dammit. Sympathetic, empathetic, open, genuine, gracious. It works super well on most people, especially civilians. He wants her to feel comfortable admitting it, and—ideally—giving him a foothold here. Something to work with. A name is enough, with Barbara’s crazy skills and systems, but anything else will help too. And Dick is desperate for anything else. He can’t let another brother down by not doing enough. He can’t watch Bruce waste away on this. 

Beckham blinks at her ice cream. “No.”

It’s a lie.

Dick opens his mouth to press further—he’s not sure how much of a lie he’s stumbled upon, but any amount of truth can and will help. She knows him. She knows Hood by name.

“And even if I did,” She cuts him off gently. “I would never tell you. There would be no satisfaction for any of us.”

“What?”

“I’m on his side, Nightwing, and if you wait a little longer, it’ll mean I’m on your side too. But this has to play out first. Hood needs closure for something that happened a long time ago, and I’m not taking that away by spilling all his secrets. You have to wait.”

Dick feels a spike of irritation. She may be comfortable gambling with the lives of his friends and family, but he definitely is not. Regardless of her initial report on Hood’s homicidal agenda against Robin, Dick has himself confirmed that the crime lord poses a very real danger to the people he loves. Dick won’t just stand by and watch things unfold; that’s not who he is.

“You’re crazy if you think I’ll do that.”

She frowns. “I know I’m crazy. But I’m not making assumptions here; I’m asking you to wait. You don’t have the bigger picture yet. If you jump the gun, you’ll regret it. I don’t—I don’t want you to regret this.”

If she were a confirmed criminal, or villain, or even a grey sort of anti-hero, Dick would have held her over the ledge and asked her again. He knows how to make it work: the cheery smile and right tone of voice make his questions easier to answer. But she’s not violent, and not harmful, and not any bad thing. Her only crime is caring about someone who is. Though Dick has condemned his own father for such naïvety, he can’t bring himself to do it now. Maybe it’s because she’s self aware. Maybe he doesn’t have the guts for it.

“I see.”

The sun is past the skyline now, backlighting highrises and casting grey shadows. It’s a mute few minutes between day and night, and the city dozes for once. It’s beautiful. It’s hazy.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you.” She sounds genuinely sorry. “Here, do you want to try a bite?”

When Dick turns, he finds her offering a spoonful of chocolate ice cream like some consolation prize. And damn, it does make him feel a little better. Dejected, Dick accepts the spoon and sticks it in his mouth. The flavor is rich and strong. Smooth. Delicious.

“I think I still prefer mint chip.”

“I forgive you.”