Chapter Text
Red Hood was on patrol with Batgirl (purple edition) when it happened.
He usually patrolled solo. But it was an all-Bats-on-deck situation for the past week after an Arkham breakout put fifteen major rogues on the loose. Things had been winding down the past few nights, but it was likely just the calm before the storm. The smarter ones were likely laying low and scheming.
So he didn’t normally patrol with Blondie. He didn’t normally patrol with anyone. But Batgirl (spooky edition) hated his guts, Robin (nerd version) hated his guts, he couldn’t stand B, Nightwing didn’t trust him with the baby bat, and Nightwing himself was in high-demand. Both Robins always fought to patrol with him whenever he was in the city, while also trying to give off the vibe that they didn’t particularly care one way or another. It was pathetic. Hood was so glad he wasn’t one of them.
But after patrolling with Nightwing last night and in a group of three the night before, B had put his foot down and forcibly separated the two Batgirls tonight, much to their displeasure. Blondie did not have a good opinion of him. However, she would probably spit on him if he was on fire, which was good enough to be patrol partners, in Batman’s eyes. So they had each other’s backs for the next few hours.
Maybe he was banking on Steph’s bad opinion of Jason being mostly out of solidarity with Tim and Cass. Or maybe the old man was hoping his two failure Robins would take each other out. Who knows.
So there he was, stalking across rooftops with Batgirl, when suddenly he feels like someone walked over his grave. Every nerve is alight. Every hair stands on end. A thrill of energy races down from his head to his toes.
Something is here.
There.
Red Hood turns to face north-northwest and fires off his grapple. He’s gone as fast as a bullet.
“Hood!” Batgirl calls. He doesn’t care. He can’t care. All he can focus on is that presence. Calling to him like a siren song. Heady and intoxicating like whiskey. Everything will be fine as long as he gets to it. He needs to get to it. Needs to drink it in like he needs air.
Fuck, it really was a siren song.
But unlike Odysseus, he doesn’t think stopping his ears up with wax will block it out. He isn’t even sure what he’s sensing. How he knows where to go. How it’s drawing him in like a bee to a flower.
He isn’t seeking so much as he is being pulled. All the same, he tries to race ahead even faster. He can feel himself getting closer. Can feel the presence getting stronger. An aura pulling him in, drowning him and sweeping him away like a riptide. A force of nature.
He was heading towards something powerful.
Hood cleared a jump between buildings that had been borderline at best. He sprinted harder than he had during an actual chase earlier that night. His teeth itched something wild in his mouth, and he snapped his jaw a few times beneath the helmet.
There. His prey, his savior, his salvation. The balm that would fix him. Make everything right again. Some lanky college kid in a hoodie and a beanie, bag slung over one shoulder. Hood dropped down off the roof next to him and landed in a crouch. The man had turned to watch his descent and he didn’t flinch at all when 200+ pounds of mob boss was suddenly in front of him. Utterly unfazed, like he had expected that, like he had been waiting for him.
Hood pushed him up against the alley wall and held him in place, fumbling with the finicky latches of his helmet with one hand. He hated the damn thing. But no way was he going to risk an explosion right now. He finally ripped the helmet off and tossed it down the alley. The man tilted his head back, exposing his throat, and Hood sank his teeth in.
Bliss.
Sharp iron and crisp citrus flooded his tongue. He lapped at the incision hungrily, drawing a breathy sound out of the man. His fangs (his fangs?) pierced deeper, fresh blood squirting out straight into his mouth. Venous. A slow bleed. Hood ran his tongue over both incision points, tonguing at them thoroughly to encourage more blood out. He sealed his mouth over one and sucked.
Not enough, it wasn’t coming fast enough. He pressed in harder.
The man squirmed where Hood had him pinned. He switched from a hand on his chest to two holding his arms. The man flexed like he was testing the grip, and there was strength there, like holding an alien and knowing it was merely because they were allowing you to hold them. He could shake Hood off like so much water. Instead, he seemed satisfied with the grip and arched under him, pressing his neck further into Hood’s mouth.
He could cry. It was like something inside him had finally clicked into place, and the release of tension was agony in its relief. A broken bone being set. Things had been wrong for so long, but now they wouldn’t be, not anymore, not since he found this angel and drank his blood like manna from Heaven.
He pulled back, blood dripping from his teeth, the side of the man’s neck covered in it—
A gasp.
Not from the man.
Hood turned to the mouth of the alley and there was a civilian, phone out and pointed at them. The new man clicked a button and booked it.
The video started with Red Hood holding a man in place against an alley wall and ripping his own helmet off. He tossed it down the alley and the camera jolted as the man holding it flinched. But the view stabilized just in time to see the Red Hood bite down on his victim’s neck.
“Holy shit?” the camera man whispered. He crept slightly closer, turning down the zoom as he went. The picture became that much clearer. It showed the pinned man struggling but unable to break Hood’s hold.
Hood feasted.
The man moaned—in pain? In fear?—and arched as if to stretch away from the monster’s teeth. Hood dove back in, not giving him any reprieve. Chasing after his throat.
“What the hell is he…?” the camera man whispered. “I never thought Hood was the type.”
What looked like a strange, heavy make out session drew to a close with Hood pulling back to reveal a mess of blood all over the side of the poor man’s neck. The camera man gasped, and Hood turned toward him—showing viciously big fangs in his mouth, coated in red blood. His eyes were glowing alien green under the domino lenses.
Hood pulled away from his victim to advance on the camera man.
The video clicked off.
Vicki Vale’s face was grim on the screen. “This video, filmed by an anonymous bystander, has shaken Gothamite society. For decades now, rumors have circulated that Batman is a vampire, and later, that his associated sidekicks were thralls, or vampires themselves. Now, seeing the Red Hood drink blood from an innocent man, those rumors seem to be confirmed. We now join Arnold Armitage down on the ground to hear what other Gothamites are saying. Arnold?”
“Thank you, Vicki. We’re doing live street interviews with passersby here on Park Row. Say, sir, what do you think of the video circulating of the Red Hood drinking someone’s blood?”
“I always knew the Bats were vampires,” the man said, still walking.
Again and again the question was asked.
“I thought we were safe from Hood. I guess not.”
“Seeing Hood assaulting somebody… you can’t trust nobody, I guess.”
“The Bat will take him out for good for being a meta in his city.”
“I’m scared. I thought we were safe from Hood. That he was protecting the Alley, not… feeding on it.”
“I think the whole vampire thing is hot. Hood, if you’re watching this, I’m down.”
“Did they find the body of that poor young man yet? Well, I mean, it was Hood. He probably deserved it.”
“If Hood wants to start straight-up eating bad guys, who are we to stop him? That’s community service. He’s cleaning up the streets.”
“Of [BLEEP]ing course Gotham has vampires now. That’s just what we needed.”
“I am forming a group to drive a wooden stake through the Red Hood’s heart. If you are interested in joining, we have flyers—”
Jason had many front businesses, but the boxing gym on 54th was his favorite. The old owner had fallen on hard times and got blacklisted after he was caught fixing fights, and now he was a captain in Red Hood’s gang. Hood had bought out the business and hired the man back to run his underground fight ring and train up new recruits. He won’t have his people embarrassing him, breaking thumbs throwing sloppy punches like Maroni’s men are.
He hired in a different manager to run the legit side of the gym. It was a full time job, after all. Couldn’t ask Lee to do two of ‘em. So the two managers had a shared office—one working daytime hours, the other night. Hood himself had claimed the conference room as his preferred workspace. It was good—it was big enough that he could have meetings with everyone he needed to at once, if the situation called for it. He had four lieutenants, captains under all of them, and two very well-paid, separate accounting teams, and then the rank-and-file.
It was amazing just how much work there was to being a crime lord.
But the money ain’t gonna launder itself.
He sat down at the head of the conference table and opened his laptop. Emails. Oh joy.
Mickey came in and set down a briefcase on the table.
“What is this?” Hood asked.
“Protection money.”
“It’s not due for another week.”
Mickey shrugged. “They insisted. Also wanted me to give you their names, so you’d know who paid early.”
He rubbed at his brow. “Who all—Who all did this?”
Mickey listed off eleven names.
Hood’s protection racket runs on a pay-what-you-can basis. He’s gotten fruitcakes before. Some businesses give $25 a month, some families just give $5, too nervous to offer more and set a precedent, too nervous to offer any less. Some give a more hefty sum, some do it as a set percent of earnings for the month rather than a flat fee. It all goes right back into the community. It pays his goons, it buys their health insurance, it funds the shelters and soup kitchens run by the Red Hood gang. Mrs. Gonzalez cried a few months ago when she saw the casserole she offered being served to homeless kids.
She sent in three casseroles the month after.
“Did they say why?” Hood asked. There was $2565 in the briefcase. All cash. All fresh from the bank. Paid early.
Not good.
“Nope,” Mickey said. “But a lotta people saw that video, boss.”
Hood sighed. “I’m not a vampire. I don’t eat people.”
“Wasn’t saying you were. I’ll put this in the safe?”
“Yeah, sure. Make sure to tell Han and Ryan.”
“Right, right.”
Hood sighed. He turned back to his fucking emails.
Batman was a bitch as soon as he got to the cave.
“Hood,” he said. “Explain.”
“Explain what,” he bit out.
“The video,” he said. “You attacked a civilian and drank his blood.”
“What of it?”
“You don’t see a problem with that?” Robin (Tim) asked.
“What I do in my free time is none of your business.”
“It is when you’re attacking innocent people,” Batman said.
“I didn’t ‘attack’ anybody.”
“You very clearly did. Everyone saw,” Duke said. “What? It’s true. People at my school were talking about it.”
“Someone threw holy water at me on patrol last night,” Robin (Damian) said. “Your indiscretions are affecting my life now.”
“Indiscretions? Excuse me? You’re acting like I fucked the man.”
“Hey!”
“Language!”
“Well, why did you bite his neck, Hood?” Dick asked.
“Also, were you wearing fake fangs? What the hell?” Steph said. “Way to commit to the bit, but like. Why?”
“I wasn’t wearing fangs!”
“There were fangs in the video.”
“If they aren’t fake, then open your mouth and show us,” Replacement said.
“What the fuck. No.”
“Hood,” Batman said. “Have you grown fangs?”
“So what if I have! What the fuck is all of your deal?”
“If you’re mutating, then we need to run tests—”
“I am out. Call me if Gotham is burning.”
“But what if you’re turning into a vampire for real?” Tim called out after him. Jason flipped him the bird.