#and if you say “gray hair” im telling the sniper to take the shot

[spookydingus]

according to Tumblr, a single grey hair places a character in their late forties to fifties, regardless of how the rest of them looks.

By this logic, I have calculated that I am incorrect in my own age and must be somewhere in my late seventies.

[bioticgoddess]

Songbirds and Baby Bats (V)

Series Summary: Jason Todd returns from the dead and, after the events of Under the Red Hood,he goes from Gotham to Bludhaven in search of himself…and an old friend. But getting your life back is never easy and Black Mask has enlisted the aid of Gotham’s other Crime Families as well as a few ghosts of Batman’s past. He’s coming for the Red Hood and everyone of his allies.

Part V

Strolling out of the shadows, nonchalantly turning one of his pistols over in his hands, Red Hood chuckled, “Well well. If it isn’t Owen Selkirk, how ya been buddy?”

The lanky blonde man gasped nervously, taking a few a few awkward steps away from the heavily armed and armored vigilante. “Red Hood…ahaaa haaa…wha-what do ye want?!” He stammered, eyes wide and heart racing - according to the telemetry feed on Red Hood’s helmet. The last time Red Hood and Owen Selkirk had any dealings it had ended with a shattered knee cap for the former IRA money man and information broker.

The vigilante chuckled, popping the ammo clip out of his side arm. Looking it over as part of a languidly inspection the firearm. “We both know you’re well aware of the new players on your…team,” voice ominous despite his apparent focus on the fire arm. Both knew he meant criminals and members of the proverbial underworld. “I want to know what you know.” The grin in his voice was audible. Under his helmet, the Red Hood watched the scans of Selkirk. According to the readouts he was more than nervous, he was panicked, and high. “Look,” he added as Selkirk fidgeted, “I am not in the mood beat it out of you. May just start shooting though.”

A few minutes passed and the man said nothing, only increasing the distance between himself and the Red Hood. Further into the shadows that filled the majority of the alleyway. Not that there would’ve been much light from the half vacant apartments in either building. He laughed nervously, “What makes you think I know anything Red? C’mon mate, I…I knew better than to do anything to get on your radar. Besides, I thought we were even after what ‘appened in Amsterdam.”

His head snapped up, he slammed the clip back into his sidearm, and the Red Hood’s entire body went taught. He was predator in every sense of the word with that change; eyes narrowed and jaw clenched tight behind the red helmet. With a  forced sigh, nostrils flared, Red Hood waved his free hand, “Look. I’m tired Selkirk. You still owe me for not putting you in the ground with all your friends.”  He leaned towards the Irishman, panic and fear painted a path across his face. The vigilante used his six feet and 200 pounds of Lazarus pit enhanced muscle to his advantage. “Now, I need you to pay up. Recent events Selkirk, not old news.”

“Aye...uh…what...what de ye need,” Selkirk stammered, backing further from Red Hood. Only stopping when his back was pressed against a dumpster in the alleyway. They were partly in the open, despite the shadows that cloaked them from the majority of onlookers.

“League of Assassins sent someone here, Deathstroke,” the words made Selkirk’s blood run cold and caused the color to drain from his face. “You’re also going to tell me about the Intermediary.” He tried to back pedal farther but the dumpster remained an impediment.

Selkirk shook his head emphatically, “Nope. No! You shouldn’t ask me about ‘im! Either of ‘em! Deathstroke is a nightmare made manifest and the Intermediary, he…just no. Unuh. If you don’t know who he is, consider yerself lucky.” Whoever this Intermediary was, he scared Owen Selkirk more than Deathstroke did – and Red Hood had seen evidence and the fallout of the mercenary’s work. The kind of rumors that even made him blush.

“Selkirk,” he growled, pointing the firearm at the Irishman’s knees, “Not. In. A Mood.”

Yelping and flinching, Owen Selkirk cowered, bringing his arms up over his face and head. “Deathstroke! I can tell ye about him! Ahh!”

“Well I do love a good story,” Wren chirped, dropping heavily onto the lid of the dumpster a matter of inches from Selkirk’s head. Her hands rested on her hips as she looked between the Red Hood and Selkirk. “It seems we know all the same people.” She was grinning, winking at the gun wielding vigilante. The situation visibly and thoroughly amused her her – despite scaring Selkirk so hard he shrieked and practically leapt into Red Hood’s arms. It would have surprised neither of the pair if their apparently shared informant turned out to have wet himself from the fright.

“Dude, not so close,” the firearm wielding man chastised. Immediately, Selkirk took long harried strides away from Red Hood. Standing in the middle of the alleyway made him the third point of a triangle between the duo. He was keeping an eye on Red Hood, the side arm still in his hand.

Hopping off the dumpster, Wren crossed to Selkirk. The old Irishman was drawn, weathered from years of running with the IRA. From the years spent in the Belfast shipyards - both before and after the death of his friend Michael Flynn. She put a hand on his shoulder as Red Hood closed in, the helmeted man spoke in her place, “Deathstroke. What do you know.” He pointed the firearm at Selkirk’s face.

“That’s not necessary Hood,” Wren rolled her eyes, free hand resting on the Red Hood’s forearm. Gently she pushed the gun down and away from their informant. “So, what do you say? Tell us about him?” She was playing her best version of good cop. Or sweet and innocent, either way it made him groan and roll his eyes. But it did work on Selkirk.

Nodding, suddenly pliant and less frightened, the Irishman started, “Deathstroke’s one o’their best. An American, uses one o’ those Japanese swords.” He waved a hand like there was a blade clutched in it. “But ‘e’s also skilled with those,” he pointed to Red Hood’s side arm. Selkirk was notorious for telling all without outright giving anything away.  Looking around the alley, it seemed almost like he had been waiting for someone to come upon them.

Then it happened.

Thanks to his helmet’s telemetry, Red Hood knew the sniper round was hurtling towards them a heartbeat before it hit home. As he pulled Wren back out of the way, the round pierced Owen Selkirk’s throat like a paring knife to butter. Wren herself barely had time to turn her head and cover her face before arterial spray splashed across her.  Another one flew past, this time slamming into Selkirk’s chest. He crumpled to the ground in a bloody pile.  

Red Hood pulled Wren back around the dumpster, searching the alleyway for anyone else. “Stay back,” he hissed.

“No, I have to get him,” she cried out, trying to scramble over Red Hood’s legs and out of his grip. “I have to…” she was frantic, almost breathless, blood on her chest, forearms, throat, and hair. Blood that didn’t belong to her.

“Stay here, I got this,” he growled, setting her down harder than he meant and diving out from behind the dumpster. A round missed him, cutting into the side of the dumpster as he looped his arms under Selkirk’s. Starting backwards, dragging him, he grunted, another round whizzing over his head and into the wall before they disappeared into cover. “Got him,” he rested the bloody man on the ground and tucked back as far as he could.

Helmet telemetry, analyzing the trajectory of the rounds told him they were out of range. From wherever their would-be sniper was, the dumpster was enough to keep them out of sight. “Shit,” Red Hood cursed, pressing his back against the heavy dumpster. He was weighing his options – did he risk sticking his head out or did he and Wren risk their lives to flee. Or, third option, did they wait until they could reasonably presume the coast was clear. None of them were great choices.

Behind him, tucked fully out of sight, Wren had pulled Owen Selkirk up so his head rested on her knees.

“Owen,” she whispered, “Owen don’t you give up on me.” The words fell on deaf ears. Owen Selkirk was gone. That second round has pierced his pericardium then his heart muscle. He stared blankly up at her masked face. His eyes going from deep brown to cold gray as the color drained, blood pooling around them.

Still crouched, Red Hood called to her, “We need to go little bird.” She nodded, reluctant to leave the old man behind. But she knew Red Hood wouldn’t tell her they needed to leave if it weren’t vital. Quietly she placed the dead Irishman’s hands on his chest.

 With as much speed as they could muster, Red Hood and Wren took off sprinting down the alley. Reaching back with his free hand, Red Hood caught the closest of hers. As they fled, it was the best he could do to comfort his friend.

--

Up on a rooftop, two buildings over and well above the apartments that made the alleyway where Wren and the Red Hood had been, a man unfolded himself from his hiding place. He was clad in a shade of blue that, when light hit it, had a metallic appearance. Almost like one expected of the dragon scales in fantasy tales and fairy stories to produce. He grinned behind a half face mask and dark glasses – despite the near starless night. “Well,” voice devoid of emotions, “This is going to be an excellent hunt.”

Another man reclined close by, his black and orange two tone suit somewhere between ninja and special forces. He warned, “Don’t get cocky.”

--

“I am not having this conversation right now. I am bruised, bloodied, and want a shower,” she snapped, throwing her hands up in the air. To say that having her late-father’s best friend die in front of her, his blood sticking in her hair and across her uniform, had upset Amy would be an understatement. Jason wasn’t sure if she was angry, exhausted, or just generally upset over the entire situation. That didn’t mean, however, that she hadn’t been angry at Jason for going off on his own without so much as a word to meet the informant he could find.

He pulled off his helmet, setting it down on the kitchen table and shot back, “I was trying to protect you! His death...it wasn’t my fault!”

“I don’t care! Selkirk...he-he was family once! You should’ve told me! If you’d done that then...then maybe he wouldn't have died,” her voice was raised, overwhelmed with what he could only presume was a combination of grief and nerves. Jason knew she was right, even as she turned her back to him and stormed out of the living room and kitchen area, he could admit at least that. No matter what role Selkirk had had in the organization that led to the death of Amy’s father, he didn’t deserve to die the way he did. In an alley as, he presumed, a warning for the three Bludhaven vigilantes.

Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Jason started the long process of  peeling out of his uniform. Everything needed to be washed. Carefully he stepped into the kitchen, tossing his gloves in with hers in the otherwise empty sink. “You can be angry but we,” he realized the water was running. Confused he looked at the faucet, it was off. “Shower,” he grumbled, shaking his head. He could feel the blood and grime caught in his own locks. In another life he’d have probably sprinted back there to join her, now…everything felt like he was swimming through mud. He knew better than anyone that not talking to her could get one, or both, of them killed. Not a thing he planned to let happen.

“I am a colossal ass,” he muttered, peeling out of his jacket and draping it over one arm. With the other he swung open the door for the under-sink cabinet. There he found a section of plastic sheeting. Laying it out with a flourish on the kitchen floor he stepped into the center of the 6 feet x 3 feet sheet. He set down his jacket gently,pushing up the sleeves of his compression shirt when he did.

Crouching, his fingers working the knots and buckles of his boots free. Their run home had removed most of the blood and other detritus, but until he’d had a chance to clean them it was a better idea to let them sit. Sighing heavily he yanked off one boot, losing his balance and almost crashing heavily to his knees. That would be a great way to end the evening - concussed or with a sprained ankle on the kitchen floor. Grumbling as he caught himself Jason cursed. A few agonizing minutes later both boots stood on the plastic along with his weapons, his pants, and the armored vest over his undershirt.

Even his socks were abandoned on the tarp.

What he found when he walked into the bedroom was the Wren costume in a pile on the floor. Amy had laid a towel out in lieu of tarp. Hesitantly, Jason put his hand on the door. He was surprised and strangely relieved to discover the door knob unlocked. Pushing it open enough that he could just see into the bathroom, Jason caught a glimpse of her disappearing behind the shower curtain. “I know you’re angry but...would you please hear me out?”

Exasperation escaped her, “Ye may as well get in here.” He could hear water cascading to the tub floor and the sound of scrubbing.

He slipped into the bathroom, the steam starting to accumulate from her shower was welcoming. The bathroom was longer than it was wide. Awkwardly he sat on the toilet lid “You have every right to be upset Irish. But I need you to trust me. You know as well as I do that the League killed him to get to us. We’ve always had each other’s backs and I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize that” He was on a roll, “Irish, you…you’re my best friend,” his voice went low, “You’re so much more than that and I won’t let anything happen to you.”

She stuck her head out around the curtain, hair soaked through falling in a wavy curtain over her exposed shoulder. Save for the exhaust fan, it was silent in the bathroom. She’d turned off the water. Snatching a towel off the rod hanging to her left, Amy looked him over thoughtfully. “I guess we’re having this conversation,” her voice was barely a whisper.

Quickly as she’d appeared, Amy disappeared back behind the curtain.

“Wait…what conver…oh,” Jason caught up with her. Realizing exactly what had come out of his mouth. “Yea…I guess we are.”

Climbing wholly out of the shower, towel wrapped around her like a tube dress, Amy pointed behind her, “Wash and talk.”  He started to protest but she cut him off, shaking her towel wrapped head, “You are no less bloody than I was, you can clean up and talk.”

“Fine,” he acquiesced. Peeling out of his compression shorts and shirt, he had to hide the grin behind his hand when Amy turned beet red. She’d clearly forgotten that he’d have to strip in order to actually shower. A fact he reveled in silently as he paraded past her. The grin finally won as he stepped around his friend and disappeared behind the shower curtain. Flipping the water on, he grimaced – it started out ice cold, despite only being off a few minutes. “Ahthatscold,” he grunted, the water warming as it continued to fall.

Looking out through a clear section of the curtain, he watched Amy hop up on the bathroom counter. Presumably swinging her legs back and forth as she toweled off her hair. “You were in the middle of a thought,” she called to him over the dun.  

Squirting shampoo into his hands he worked it in his hair. The lather turning pink as it streamed down his body and down to the drain at his feet. “Maybe it’s your turn first,” he countered, cursing softly as some of the suds ended up in his eyes.

“Losing my da’ was hard. Losing you…was so much worse. You were…are…my best friend Jay and I loved you. Still do. It took me a lot longer than it should have to voice those words. The last several weeks I…we…seem to have taken for granted how easily we got on.” She was looking down at her hands, the damp hair towel clutched between them as her partially dry hair fell in a messy wave of dark curls over her right shoulder.  Swallowing she continued, “Dick was right, when he said ye’d have to be blind to see how I care about you.”

Clearing his throat, Jason jumped in before she could continue, “You took the words outta my mouth Irish.” The water shut off, “So, I have a question for you then,” he began; Amy looked at him, running a brush through her hair. She nodded. “Where do we go from here then Irish? Because I want my girl back.”

It was like the air had been sucked out of the room. Every noise – from the sound of the brush going through her hair to their hearts doing gymnastics – was almost painful. Though the steam haze she couldn’t see how anxious Jason was behind the shower curtain. There was some hope he had the same problem discerning the shade of pink the other vigilante had turned. Letting a long slow breath out, she slid off the counter. “I want my guy back,” she echoed, tying her hair in a low, loose ponytail as she cast an almost expectant look at Jason Todd.

Pushing the curtain open, Jason leaned out, bracing himself against that stupid portable bench. The second full size towel, the one he’d been using, hung just out of his normal reach. Normally he had the sense to move it. Catching it, he yanked…and brought the towel bar down with it. “Shit,” he cursed. Amy laughed. “Yea, you think it’s funny, I’m gonna have to reinstall it,” He groaned, standing back up before he lost his balance and careened forward onto the hard tile floor. Bath mats would do nothing to cushion his fall.

Regaining his balance he could hear her giggling. “I’ll, um…be in there,” she nodded to the bedroom, “While you regain your dignity love,” her voice was so much lighter than it had been in the weeks that passed since their mildly violent reunion. The door clicked shut behind her and Jason scrambled to get himself out of the confines of the shower and dried off.

--

Jason pushed the bathroom door open, the towel loosely wrapped around his hips. It was taking everything he had not the grin like an idiot. This wasn’t how he’d planned things, not by a long shot. Was even more than he’d hoped for in all honesty. But here he was, barefoot, hair still wet, taking  deliberate strides across to the bed. Where Amy sat, book in hand partially changed into an oversized tee shirt and underwear.

A deep breath and he scooped Amy up by the waist. Nearly sending her book crashing to the ground in the process. It didn’t matter. She laughed from the surprise. Foreheads resting against one another he whispered, “You have no idea how much I missed you.” The strange emptiness he’d felt the last five years, the longing for his life back - the parts and people that had mattered - gave force to those words.

She kissed him. Her book landed on the nightstand. The soft thunk it made synced with the moment she pulled away for breath. His tongue darted across his lips, warmth spreading through him. For the first time in years, though times uncountable since coming to Bludhaven, things felt right. “I miss you too Jaybird,” her voice soft, nose bumping against his.

That undid him. He covered her lips with his again, taking in the taste, smell, and feel all while the world fell away. Determined to relearn every inch of her that he’d known before his murder then to get acquainted with the parts he hadn’t yet known.