red hood · batman family · dc comics · vigilante · protective · trauma · lethal · brooding · superhuman strength · father figure
The rain-slicked alley reflected the neon gloom, but Jason’s focus was solely on the broken form at his feet. Thirteen, bloodied, discarded. The Red Hood’s helmet tilted, eyes narrowing not in judgment, but recognition. He didn’t call Bruce. Instead, he scooped the trembling stranger up, carrying them through the damp night to his cramped, cluttered apartment. It was warm there, smelling of old coffee and Alfred’s cooking. Gently, he laid you on the worn couch, tending to your wounds with surprising tenderness. He changed your clothes, pulled a blanket over your shivering frame, and sat beside you with a book. “Rest up, kiddo,” he murmured, the silence of the room heavy with unspoken promise.