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Dolores Patton has a set of routines. At her age, it’s nice to have patterns to fall back into. She gets up at eight every morning and overwaters the orchid sitting on her windowsill. She goes down to whatever activity the senior center is offering that week. She invites whichever kid is hanging around her place inside for cookies and a drink. And she always does her grocery shopping at the family mart down the way every Thursday evening. Come rain or shine, Dolly trots herself down to the corner store to fill her reusable grocery bags with exactly a week’s worth. She brings an umbrella in case it rains and a pistol in case any young fool decides to test her.
Mostly, they don’t. She’s friendly with the goons that run through the neighborhood, and the ones that she’s less friendly with know that she’s a damn good shot with no qualms about maiming. But every once in a while, she runs into somebody who doesn’t know about her reputation, the past she left behind a long, long time ago. Somebody who’s simply desperate enough to rob an old woman on the way back from her weekly grocery trip.
It’s a simple stick-up. A wild-eyed teen coming out of a back alleyway with a pocketknife in hand, brandishing it at Dolly in a way that suggests he’s never held a weapon before. “Give me all your money.” His poor little voice is shaking.
“Oh, dear,” Dolly says mildly.
“I’m serious,” he says. “I need—give it to me. Now!”
“You’re going to have to give me a second,” Dolly says. “I have to put down my bags.”
The mugger is chewing on his lower lip. It’s clear that he doesn’t want to hand over any control in this situation. At the same time, he wants Dolly to hand over her cash—all twenty dollars—as cleanly as possible. Not an enviable position to be in.
He still seems to be mulling it over. Dolly moves to decide it for him, putting the bags down so she at least has both hands free. She’s met with the knife jabbing even closer, shaking in her face.
“Don’t move!” he says.
Well, now Dolly wishes very strongly that she had both hands free so she could put them on her hips, to more pointedly express her frustration. “Now, listen here, young man—“
“Is there a problem here,” a voice says from behind. Deep. Filtered and buzzing.
The would-be mugger goes paler than Dolly had thought was possible. His mouth flaps open and closed, but no sound comes out.
“Well?” the voice says again. The mugger finally makes a strangled sort of noise.
Dolly has to tilt her head up and up in order to catch the figure in his totality. He’s even larger than he looks on the news, with gleaming guns strapped to seemingly every available surface. The scarlet of his helmet looks almost black in the shadow. Red Hood casts a brief glance down towards Dolly before looking back to the mugger.
“L-listen,” the mugger says, barely coherent. “Listen, it isn’t—I just needed to—“
He really does look pitiful like that. The clack of his knees banging together is audible in the dead silence of the alley. Dolly sighs. “Oh, no hard feelings, son.”
Red Hood makes a noise like a distorted cough behind her. The mugger stares.
“What do you—“ he stammers. “I just attempted to mug you!”
“Let’s be honest, it was barely even an attempt,” Dolly says. Red Hood makes another coughing noise. “Just know you have other options, alright?”
Red Hood sighs and then says, begrudgingly, “Like the shelter down on 24th.” The mugger startles when Hood addresses him. “They’ve got temp positions. Legit ones. Just tell them Hood sent you.”
The mugger looks back and forth between the two of them. Dolly gestures him forward.
“Well?” she says. “Get on it, boy.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He dashes past the both of them, gasping all the while. But, Dolly notes, at least he’s headed towards 24th Street.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Dolly says.
“Not so—“ Red Hood starts. “You almost got robbed. He had a knife.”
“Not a very big one,” Dolly says. “And I doubt he knew how to use it anyway.”
Red Hood mutters something under his breath, made indistinct by the fuzz of the filter.
“That better not have been sass,” Dolly says, adjusting her grip on the bags without looking at him. The kids who come in and out of the neighborhood tell her all kinds of second and third-hand stories about the Red Hood. They paint a very frightening picture indeed. Certainly not the kind of person you want to backtalk at.
It is, however, a little difficult to be intimidated by him when he’s shifting back and forth on his feet like a teenager, flexing his hands like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. “No, ma’am.” Red Hood clears his throat. “No sass here.”
Dolly hums in satisfaction. “Good,” she says. “Well! I’ll be on my way. Thank you kindly for the assist.”
She goes to step past him and out of the alleyway, but he says, “Wait.” She stops to hear him out. It’s only the polite thing to do. “I can, um. I can help you get those groceries home.”
See? Not intimidating at all. He might be rather sweet, actually. “Could you now?”
He’s shifting his weight again. Like he’s habitually unsure of himself. It reminds her of her grandson Todd a bit. Well, Todd isn’t technically her grandson; but she’s claimed him and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it. They met on a night not unlike this one. Dolly had run into a similar grocery mishap and Todd, being the big-hearted boy that he is, had offered to help her get home.
This nostalgia is the main reason why she says, “Oh, why not,” and unceremoniously dumps the groceries into Red Hood’s waiting grip.
“Yep,” Red Hood says, sounding amused. “Okay.”
“I live just a few blocks down,” she tells him. “In the big red brick walk-up. You can’t miss it.”
“Okay,” Red Hood says again.
He seems content to let them trod down the street in silence. Dolly, on the other hand, is not.
“My name is Dolores,” she says. “But most people just call me Dolly.”
“I know,” Red Hood says, and before Dolly can even give him a look, he’s rambling off an explanation. “I mean–People around here talk about you a lot. You, um, help a lot of people. And they really appreciate you. I’ve heard.”
For a moment, Dolly is actually struck speechless.
“Well,” she says. “That’s terribly kind of them.” She clears her throat. “Would have been nice if somebody told me I was famous.”
Red Hood makes some kind of fuzzed out noise that might be a snort. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“What, for the next time I become famous?” Dolly says. “No, sir. I retired to live a life of peace and quiet. It won’t be happening again. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
Objectively, Dolly knows this is untrue. All her life, she’s been told she has a “strong personality” and this is, in all honesty, an understatement. She keeps on meaning to live up to the peace and quiet retirement supposedly promises. After all, she left the worst and wildest parts of her life behind decades ago. But she keeps on finding herself involved in things. She keeps on hearing out the desperate parents, on the edge of doing something drastic to keep their kids fed. She keeps on bringing in kids from the rain, kids who are providing for themselves the only ways they know how. Alright, fine, so she can’t stop getting involved in things, and even if she could, she’ll keep on getting involved until the day she fucking dies. If getting famous means taking care of people, then so be it.
Red Hood sums this up rather succinctly: “You did choose to retire in Gotham.”
“I’ve lived my whole life here,” Dolly says. “Can you imagine me anywhere else?”
“No,” Red Hood says, with a truthful ring. “No, I really can’t.”
“Guess that’s the thing about this city,” Dolly muses. “It sticks to you like nothing else. You’re born and bred too. Aren’t you?”
“What, is it that obvious?”
“Well, yes,” Dolly says simply.
Red Hood laughs outright at that, even though it isn’t even close to the funniest thing Dolly’s said. It’s barely even funny at all. But he laughs anyway, sharp and staccato through the filter of his helmet. And Dolly looks over at him and sees, again, Todd, curious white streak of hair bouncing as he laughs full-bodied at whatever silly thing Dolly’s said now. Possibly a penis joke. Likely a penis joke.
Hm. Interesting.
“I think this is you,” Red Hood says, and Dolly looks up to see that they have, indeed, reached her little red brick walk-up. Red Hood escorts her up the stairs like a gentleman before he hands the bags back over. “Anything else you need?”
“Oh, no,” Dolly says. “You’ve done very well.”
She can see it brighten up his shoulders. If he took off his helmet, he’d probably have a very nice smile.
“Alright,” Red Hood says, taking a step down. “Um. Have a nice night.”
“You’re very sweet, you know,” Dolly says impulsively. Red Hood looks down at his guns and then back up at her. Dolly scoffs. “Oh, please. Those don’t mean anything. You helped out a desperate kid and a little old lady, even though you could have moved on with your night. You’re sweet, son. Nothing you can do about it.”
Red Hood stares at her for a second, long enough for Dolly to wonder if she’s overstepped. But all he says is, “You’re a hell of a character, Dolls.”
“You flatter me,” Dolly says honestly. She’s got her key in the door, now, but she still takes the time to add, “Let me know next time you’re in the area, alright? I can get you some tea or something.”
“I don’t know if—“ Dolly gives him a look. He stops. “I mean. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good boy,” Dolly says, pleased as punch. She likes having people to take care of in her house. It doesn’t matter if they’re sharp-tongued, secretly sweet teenagers like Todd or gun-wielding, self-professed vigilantes like Red Hood. She’s got plenty of space for them all. Of course, she thinks, a little wryly, it’s entirely possible that in this case she only needs the space for one person. “I’ll see you around, then.”
“I guess you will,” Red Hood says, sounding somewhere between bemused and fond. Dolly’s in the house before she sees him leave, but she hears the distinct swish-thud of a Bat grapple hook shooting off into the night, off to dissuade more wannabe muggers and help more little old lady shoppers.
Dolly puts away her groceries in the exact same places she always puts them, the carefully carved out spots in her pantry. As she’s putting up the flour, she gets a text.
Hey, Dolls, this is Todd, it reads, as if he thinks she doesn’t have his number saved in her phone. Just wanted to make sure you were doing alright.
“Oh,” Dolly says, out loud, putting her cheek into her hand. “Oh, that silly, silly boy.”