“So,” Red Hood says.
Obito leans back in the booth, arms crossed. The woman that greeted them when they entered the diner—the only waitress working so late at night—had flinched at the sight of his face. He’s sure his scowl now would send her running if she hadn’t already disappeared into the back.
A sigh, half-garbled by some kind of voice changer, makes it through the helmet. “I’m trying to help you.”
Obito sneers. “I spat on your shoes.”
“Which was fucking rude,” Red Hood agrees. “But I’m gonna let it slide this once, because you looked hella rough up there. All bets are off if you do it again, though. I don’t care if you’re homeless or twelve or whatever else.”
Obito snarls at him.
The waitress returns with a plate. She sets it on the table like she’s feeding tigers and retreats to the back once more.
“Dig in,” Red Hood says.
“I’m not eating that.”
He gets another sigh. “It’s breakfast. Eggs, bacon, toast. All regular breakfast shit. I’d bet my bike you haven’t eaten today.”
Obito glares.
“Look,” Red Hood says. “It’s not poisoned. Though the way you were headed earlier, you might eat it faster if it was.”
It’s bait. It’s so obviously bait. “You don’t know a damn thing,” Obito growls, but pulls the plate closer. Poison had been a secondary concern. His initial refusal had actually been because of the food itself. Breakfast. This isn’t a breakfast; it’s a grease trap.
However. Red Hood hadn’t been wrong. Obito is hungry. So for now, this will have to do. Plus, it’s free. He takes a bite of the bacon and makes a face. Whatever, he thinks, and takes another bite. He’s eaten worse. He eats all of it, even after it starts to sit in his stomach like rocks.
“Thanks,” He says flatly, but mostly sincere. “Don’t know why you did it, but. Thanks.” He stands and slides out of the booth.
Red Hood shrugs. He makes no move to follow. “You looked like you needed a friend,” He says quietly. “The way I found you? A meal is the absolute least I could do.”
A friend. The majority of Obito—the bitter, jaded pieces—wants to laugh. He doesn’t have any friends because he killed them all. Directly or indirectly.
“Hey!” Red Hood calls as Obito is stepping out the door. “Don’t let me find you climbing roofs and shit again.”
Yeah, sure.
—
Obito allows himself two hours to simmer in his anger before he turns his attention to other things. Important things, like information, money, food, and shelter.
Information is vital to a shinobi’s continued survival. Ignorance is a death sentence in unfamiliar territory. Misinformation is even worse. The first step in any extemporaneous operation is information-gathering.
The other three have easy temporary solutions. It’d be nice to ditch the ‘temporary’ as soon as possible, though. Money, he can steal. But it would be more sustainable to find a way to get paid. Food can be bought or stolen. Definitely more sustainable to buy it. As for shelter, he can squat for a while, but he would absolutely prefer an actual apartment. Which, once again, requires money.
So, goal 1: collect as much information on this place and its underworld as possible. His second is to see what short-term contracts are up for grabs. A city as gloomy as this is sure to have an assassination request on someone.
—
Gotham City, Obito soon finds out, defies description. If he had to say something, he’d probably pick “if crime, drugs, poverty, and weapons had an ugly baby”. Which might be uncharitable, but the residents of Gotham don’t seem like they’ve even heard of the concept of a charity. Unless it was a front for a gang or a mob to launder money or something.
He also finds out that the underworld is less of an underworld and more of the regular world. He walks thirty steps and sees at least five shady deals happening right out in the open. It’s honestly ridiculous.
Aside from that, there aren’t actually many contracts out at the moment. Most of them seem to be kept within certain circles, divided down the line on various gang affiliations, of which Obito has none.
Unfortunate. Not entirely unpredictable, but unfortunate. It means he’ll likely have to get a civilian job for the time being. However long it takes to get into the right circles. Or however long he’s here. If he can even get back. If he even wants to. Isn’t he dead in his world? Would he die if he returned?
So he’s here forever, maybe. What a depressing thought.
Anyway. His search for regular jobs goes about as well as the search for contracts did. That is to say, his options are limited. This is further hindered by the fact that he’s forced to rely on word of mouth for most of it; whatever lets him speak the language here did not see fit to let him read it, too.
He can make sandwiches, deliver takeout, or organize thrift shop donations. None of which sound appealing in the least. On the other hand: money.
He starts with the thrift shop.
—
Obito has a strong feeling that the woman who asked for his ID was not referring to his ninja identification number. He has an equally strong feeling that she was unimpressed by his silence as an answer.
So, goal 1.5: obtain ‘ID’ or find a place that doesn’t ask for it. Easy enough.
—
Why does ID encompass so. Many. Things. What is a social security number? Why does it matter?
Forget this. He’s not finding someone to forge all that.
—
The guy at the sandwich place asks for ID, but doesn’t seem surprised when Obito can’t produce any.
“There’ll be a training period,” The man says. He’s more subtle about eyeing Obito’s face than anyone else has been. “Starting pay is twelve an hour.”
Obito has no idea if that’s good or bad. Currency is as weird as everything else here. “That’s fine.”
“Can you start tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
—
Goal 2: achieved. Now to find a decent hovel and scope out apartment prices in various areas of the city.
—
Sleep takes its time arriving that night. Obito lays on his back, breathing slowly. He wonders when he lost the ability to fall asleep in any conditions. This is hardly the worst place he’s slept over the years.
There’s a roof, even if there’re a few holes in it. He’s got three and a half walls. He doesn’t have anything to sleep on, but the concrete is at least a more solid platform than a tree branch.
And yet. Here he is. Wide awake. He wonders if it’s the rage sitting in the back of his throat like it wants to choke him. But he practically lived off anger in the days after Rin’s death. By all accounts, sleep should not be difficult.
Unbidden, he thinks, you looked like you needed a friend.
He swears at himself and rolls over, determined to put it out of mind.
—
Obito tries to keep his temper under control at work. He learns the names of the things on the menu. He learns the types of bread, and meat, and cheese. He learns the other blasphemous things these people put on sandwiches, and even keeps his opinions on them to himself.
He’s practically a saint at work.
He cannot say the same for his coworkers. Half of them try their very hardest to keep their eyes on the unscarred part of his face. The other half studiously avoid looking at his face at all. One of them takes a good long look once and then it doesn’t seem to register to him anymore. If Obito were the type to have favorites, it would be him.
He doesn’t know any of their names. His objective is not to make friends.
(It begs the question of what, exactly, his objective is. What is he doing here? Working a civilian job, still struggling through the aftershocks of death… what is he doing?)
—
Guns are a particular nuisance that make life just that little bit harder. They’re projectile weapons that launch at a speed that would be exigent to counter even for a high-level shinobi. Obito has defaulted to using his intangibility whenever one enters the equation.
It is dishearteningly often. He’s been threatened various times with various types. He’s lucky that it’s incredibly difficult to mug a ghost.
—
One of his coworkers quietly informs him that he’s getting shortchanged. It’s surprisingly kind of them. Gotham doesn’t seem like the type of place that fosters kindness in anyone.
Obito takes it up with his manager. He thinks it gets resolved, but he still doesn’t know exactly how the currency here works, so for all he knows he made it worse.
He climbs a building and barely refrains from screaming at the sky again. He stands up there and lets his nails bite into his hands until blood starts beading on his palms. He paces, anger still built up in his throat, still threatening suffocation.
He hates it here. He hates this stupid city and its stupid people. He hates their stupid currency and their stupid food that sits in his stomach like weights. He hates that his right hand is developing a stupid tremor.
(He doesn’t hate the sunsets. He doesn’t hate the architecture. He doesn’t hate all of the people, only most of them.
He doesn’t think he hates this city, really. He thinks he just hates living in it.)
—
“Hey, Nightwing,” Jason says.
He can practically hear Dick perk up on the other end of the comm. “Hood!” He says, followed shortly by the sounds of someone being knocked out. “What brings you ‘round this neck of the woods?”
“Don’t talk like that,” Jason says flatly, eyeing the distance to the next building. “I just want you to keep a lookout for someone.”
“Oh? Who?”
He takes a running leap and rolls with the landing. “Didn’t ask his name. Asian, black hair, seriously scarred face.”
“Huh. New?”
“Definitely.”
“Why? Not that you’re not a friendly guy, but this is a bit out of the blue.”
Jason shrugs, even though Dick can’t see it. “Found him on a roof. He spat on my boots.”
Dick laughs, startled. Then he clears his throat. “Uh, your good boots?”
“Yeah. My good boots.”
“... and he’s still alive?”
“Fuck you. Yes, he’s alive. And I’m trying to make sure he stays that way.”
“Sorry, sorry. Yeah, I’ll keep an eye out.”
—
Obito lasts two weeks at the sandwich place. He never did learn the name. The customers, his coworkers, the job; it all escalates and keeps escalating.
He quits. He wants to go back to the days when he could take missions with big payouts and not worry for a while.
He wants to be able to calm down somewhere up high and away from people without the Red Hood showing up. Obito’s been hearing rumors these past few weeks. The Red Hood is the first vigilante this city had that killed his targets. He still does, sometimes, but he’s cut back since his early days.
Obito respects him more than the others he’s heard of, but he wonders what the point of filling an empty niche was if he was just going to leave it later.
“You again.” Red Hood sighs.
“Me again,” Obito says sourly.
Red Hood sits next to him, dangling his legs over the edge of the roof. “Hungry?”
Obito scoffs. “Is food the only way you know how to fix problems?”
“Nah. But it worked last time.”
Obito flips him off. He raises his hands in surrender. They sit in silence for a minute before Red Hood can’t resist breaking it again.
“Not screaming this time,” He notes. “That’s a good sign.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Obito says darkly.
Red Hood swings his legs back onto the roof and stands. He tugs the back of Obito’s shirt. “C’mere.”
Obito bristles, turning to slap his hand away. “Why?”
“Reasons. Come on.”
“No.”
“Pretty please?”
“What are you, a child? Fuck no.”
Red Hood sighs again, long and weighty. “You’re new to Gotham. Let me help, okay?”
Obito glares. “I don’t need your help,” He says. “I’m still alive, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, for now. You got a job?”
“Not any-fucking-more,” Obito mutters.
Red Hood gestures vaguely behind him. “Then let me help you get one.”
On the one hand: hassle and annoyance. On the other: income, which Obito no longer has.
Ugh. “Fine,” He says. “But if it’s something weird, I’m going to hurt you.”
Red Hood laughs, like this is a ludicrous idea. Obito almost stabs him right then and there.
—
Red Hood strolls into the takeout place that was already on Obito’s list like he owns it. “Angelo, buddy,” He says. “You hiring?”
The man sweeping the floor is tall and burly, with a beard that looks like it’s eating his face and eyebrows that are doing their damndest to follow. “Sure,” He says without looking up.
Red Hood makes jazz hands at Obito. “Got you a delivery boy,” He says proudly.
Angelo looks Obito up and down twice. He nods thoughtfully. “Got a car?”
Sage, no. He’d rather die than get in one. He settles for shaking his head instead of voicing that.
“That’s alright,” Angelo says. “You can handle the deliveries in the neighborhood.”
Red Hood claps his hands. “Awesome. Good to see you, man.” Then he leaves.
Angelo doesn’t stop sweeping. “Got a name?”
“Obito.”
The man nods again. “Nice to meet you, Obito. What’d you do to get Hood on your case?”
Obito’s right hand starts to twitch. He crosses his arms. “Spat on his shoes.”
Angelo coughs out a laugh, broom finally stilling for a moment. “That should’ve got you on his bad side, kid. Not the other way around.”
“Don’t ask me what goes on in that guy’s head.”
Angelo shrugs like a concession. “You’re new to Gotham, yeah?” Obito nods. “Know any street names yet?”
For a second, Obito considers lying, but he’s pretty sure it would come back to bite him. Sooner than later, with his luck. “No,” He mutters. “I can’t read your stupid signs.”
Angelo’s eyebrows jump, revealing dark eyes. “That’s a bigger hurdle than not having a car, you understand.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Show me a map and I can memorize the streets. After that it’s all numbers, right?”
There’s a slow second. “Should be,” Angelo says. “How long will that take?”
“A minute. Two, tops. Just tell me the street names and I can do the rest.”
Angelo studies him for a moment. “Alright,” He allows. “I’ll go find a map.”
—
Obito quits that job, too. He lasts longer, but there’s still something that’s not sitting right. He doesn’t know what it is. It feels like an itch under his skin that gets stronger the longer he stays here. He can’t stand all this- all this day-to-day shit.
The addresses were stupid anyway. And carrying things all the time is making his hand tremor worse.
—
He starts talking to some low-level members of one of the many gangs in Gotham. Testing the waters, so to speak. He’s sure they’re never hurting for members, but they seem eager at the prospect of a new recruit anyway.
He makes no promises. He tells them he’s in for one job, some quick cash. He’s not dumb enough to think they’ll leave him alone after that, but he’s past caring.
One asks why they’d want some kid with them, like they don’t snatch kids off the street left and right. It’s plainly an attempt to make him want to prove himself. Obito is sick of this place and its people. He’s fed up. He doesn’t care.
“Because I can do this,” He says, and swings an intangible hand right through the man’s head.
It takes a long minute for spooked looks to be traded for relevant questions. Obito only tells them that it works on all objects and his whole body can do it. He’s sure it’ll garner enough interest to get him something to work with.
—
It garners the wrong person’s interest. He underestimated this gang’s ability to keep things mostly internal. They’re barely five minutes into the plan for some heist when a window shatters and the Red Hood jumps through guns first.
Obito just can’t get rid of this guy, can he?
Red Hood doesn’t sigh when he notices Obito amidst his kneecap-shooting spree, which could be chalked up to the fact that he’s also being shot at. His movements get noticeably tenser, though.
Obito crosses his arms, having activated Kamui the second the window broke, and waits it out. He needn’t have bothered, it seems. Red Hood keeps his bullets to the other gang members. As soon as all of them are groaning or passed out on the floor, Red Hood stomps over. He uses what little height he has to loom over Obito.
“Don’t do this.” It’s a warning, not a plea. Whatever weird helpful attitude plagued him before, it’s gone now.
“Why?” Obito demands.
“Because I don’t want to have to fucking kill you someday,” Red Hood snarls.
Obito sneers. “You could try.”
Red Hood’s leather gloves make a stressed noise as he tightens his grip on his guns. “Yeah, I heard all about it,” He says, posture deliberately still in a discernibly angry way. “A meta that can phase through shit. You’re the talk of the town, kid. You’re gonna regret it soon.”
“You gonna make me?”
Obito imagines he can hear the man’s teeth grinding through the helmet. It helps the itch. Red Hood takes a deep breath. He is still audibly upset when he speaks. “Why didn’t you stay with Angelo? He said you quit out of the blue. This cannot be a better alternative.”
The itch strengthens again. “At least this is something I’m used to,” Obito says, feeling like the anger in his throat is trying to spill through his teeth. “I can’t read your stupid fucking language and I don’t know how your stupid money works. Yes, this is a better alternative—it’s something I know how to do.”
They stare at each other for a horribly long time. Every second seems to add weight to Obito’s anger. His right hand starts twitching.
“This is not a good path to go down,” Red Hood says quietly.
You’re twenty years too late, Obito thinks. Out loud, he says, “I don’t care.”
Red Hood tilts forward until his helmet is inches from Obito’s face. “Yeah? Well, I do. There are enough villain metas as it is. I don’t want another one on the roster.”
“What are you gonna do about it?”
There’s another long period of silence.
Red Hood straightens up. He raises a hand and taps something on his helmet. “Nightwing?” He says. There’s no audible answer, but he keeps talking. “Yeah, yeah, shut up. You know the Axe hideout? How fast can you get there?” He pauses. “No, I’m not fucking dying. Just- do it.”
Then he crosses his arms like he’s settling in to wait. Obito seriously debates leaving, but doesn’t really see the point. It’s not like he has anything else going on.
It takes five minutes for Nightwing to swing through the window that Red Hood broke. “What’s wrong?” He says first, and then seems to register Obito and the various gang members sprawled on the ground. “Hm. Never mind. Did you ask his name yet?”
Red Hood flips him off. “As a matter of fact, I was a little busier trying to impress upon him that gangs are bad news and he shouldn’t join any of them.”
“Ah,” Nightwing says. “Very true. There are better options, you know.”
“If you just called him here to lecture me, I’m leaving,” Obito says, with no room for argument.
Nightwing hops over a few of the men on the floor in a weirdly graceful way. “Got it, no lecturing. Hood?”
Red Hood uncrosses his arms to put his hands on his hips. “He needs a place to stay while he looks for a job that doesn’t include stealing from banks. Make it happen.”
There’s a sort of strain between them that they’re painting over, with indifference and playfulness respectively. “Why can’t you lend him one of your safehouses?” Nightwing asks.
“I don’t want to have to clear any of them out. Pretty sure gun caches don’t provide a safe environment for children.”
“I’m not a child,” Obito says. He is ignored.
“I can help you clear one,” Nightwing suggests. He sounds too hopeful for it to be innocuous.
Red Hood clearly thinks so too. “I’m not leading you to any of my safehouses. If I do, Batman is sure to drop by sooner or later.” He says Batman like it’s a toxic chemical.
Nightwing shakes his head. “Think of the children,” He beseeches.
“I’m not a child,” Obito says again. He is ignored, again.
“As your brother, it is my duty to-”
“We’re not brothers,” Red Hood denies.
Nightwing reacts like he’s been physically hit. “I can’t believe you would say such a thing!” He gasps.
“Yeah, I’m leaving,” Obito says.
Red Hood throws up his hands. “Fine,” He says. “Kid, you can stay at one of my safehouses until you can get your own place.” He points threateningly at Nightwing. “If you breathe even a word of this to the Bat, I will fill your bed with something carnivorous.”
—
Obito stands in the empty living room of a shitty apartment, watching Red Hood and Nightwing carry assorted boxes outside. There’s very few.
It’s a small place. The kitchen and living room are connected. Red Hood keeps disappearing into and reappearing from what Obito assumes is a bedroom.
After ten short minutes, Red Hood is shooing Nightwing out like a particularly irritating bug. He tries to shut the door on the man’s foot, to loud and extravagant complaining. Once he’s satisfied that Nightwing has left for real, he turns to Obito.
“So,” He says, abruptly more awkward than a moment ago. “There’s electricity and running water. Can’t guarantee it’s warm water, though. Uh, there’s a bathroom connected to the bedroom. And a shower, but it’s… cramped.”
Obito stares.
Red Hood clears his throat. “Yeah. Uh. There might be some canned food in the cupboards, but there’s nothing in the fridge. Stove works, garbage disposal doesn’t.”
Obito keeps staring. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling.
“This is temporary,” Red Hood says. “You can stay until you can move into your own apartment. But if I catch you messing with gangs again, you’re out. Got it?”
“Yeah,” Obito says finally. “... thanks.”
“Blame Nightwing.” He opens the door, steps out, and stops. “Angelo would hire you again,” He says, not looking back. “If you need somewhere to start.” Then the door swings shut.
Obito stands in the middle of an empty living room and has no idea what he’s doing there.
—
The tiny kitchen has a tiny stove, and an equally tiny sink. The fridge is rusted and old. When Obito pokes around the cupboards, he finds exactly one can of chicken soup. The fridge is empty, as advertised, and the lightbulb nearly has a stroke trying to stay on the whole twenty seconds he has the door open.
The bedroom is also fairly empty. There’s a mattress on the floor in one of the corners. The adjacent bathroom is white tile, but there are various towels strewn across the floor, stained dark brown. There’s rubbing alcohol and tweezers behind the mirror. Red Hood wasn’t kidding about the shower being cramped, either.
It’s not great. But there’s water, and electricity. He has a fridge that works. He can go grocery shopping and stop eating this world’s greasy takeout. He can make his own meals.
Maybe Red Hood isn’t such an annoying guy after all.
—
He gets in a fight outside a bar a week later. It’s not his fault; he’s been staying clear of shady activity so he can keep his fridge. But he couldn’t let them beat up Anita-oba.
Just a couple days ago, he’d encountered her on his way out to buy groceries. Some old childish habit made him ask if she needed any help.
“Oh, I’m just on my way to do some shopping,” She’d said. “If you have the time, you could carry the bags, but I’m sure you’re a busy young man.”
So, he practically had to help her. “I’m on my way to do my own shopping,” He’d said back, and they’d gone together. It would’ve been just that, too, except Anita-oba’s shopping took them to some market that sold real food. Short-grain rice, dashi stock, more than one kind of tofu, furikake seasoning, umeboshi—it’s heaven after weeks of what this world considers edible.
She even buys him some daikon radishes to make takuan with, which is incredibly sweet even though Obito doesn’t have anything to pickle them in yet.
The point is: the only option afterwards, obviously, was to declare his undying loyalty and offer to carry her groceries for the rest of his life. She laughed, like he was kidding, and thanked him for his help.
So any scum that would let her be mugged after that deserves nothing less than death. Obito doesn’t kill the offending muggers, because he thinks Red Hood might throw a fit, but he doesn’t go easy on them, either. He bites at least two of them. He hopes they get an infection.
It should be surprising that he gets a fucking job offer out of the whole mess, but weird things just keep happening to him here. The owner of the bar he’d fought outside of had taken one look at his face, the blood on his teeth, and the men unconscious on the ground, and asked if he wanted to be a bouncer.
And since Obito is jobless at the moment, he accepts. Then he walks Anita-oba home and on the way, she notices his hand trembling. “Tremors often get worse with lack of sleep, you know,” She admonishes.
Obito did not know. But he goes and takes a nap, because she’s probably right. Which is why he’s barely awake when Red Hood barges in, irritation written in every movement.
“What did I say?” He bites out.
Obito, while semi-concerned about losing the ability to keep fresh food, is even more tired than before his nap, so he just waves one hand dismissively and rolls over. “They were mugging my neighbor,” He says into his pillow.
Red Hood stops. “... what?”
Obito sighs. “Anita-oba. They were trying to mug her. I had to stop them.” He thinks for a groggy moment. “You can’t kick me out for emulating you,” He reasons.
Red Hood makes a choked noise. “Kid, I- I am possibly the worst person you could emulate. Do not.”
“Stop calling me kid,” Obito grumbles halfheartedly.
“Well, I don’t exactly know your name.”
“Then ask for it.”
“Alright, fine. What’s your name?”
“Obito.”
Silence prevails. Obito considers rolling back over to see what Red Hood’s body language is, but decides against it. He is still very tired.
“Wait,” Red Hood says suddenly. “Anita Torres? The older lady down the hall?” Obito gives him a lazy thumbs up, despite not knowing whether or not that’s her last name. “Just so you know, she keeps a brick in her purse for situations like that.”
Oh? Smart lady. “Do you know that because she’s hit you with it?” Obito asks snidely, feeling meaner the more awake he gets.
“Maybe,” Red Hood says shamelessly.
Good for her. “I’m not getting kicked out, right?” Obito checks. “Because I only just got real food a couple days ago.”
“I’ll let it slide. But don’t go picking fights.”
“What if I’ve gotta? I’m a bouncer now, that’s sure to result in some disputes.”
He hears the sound of a hand meeting a helmet. “Are you kidding me?” Red Hood demands.
Obito grins. “Nope.”
“You’re doing this on purpose. I know you are.”
Yeah, maybe.
—
His new boss is called Mercy, which is an ironic name for a woman who takes no shit and shows very little mercy to anyone who acts out in her bar. She tells him in no uncertain terms that he will not be drinking on the job or without ID, and that any attempt at a fake will result in his termination.
She says ‘termination’ like death instead of loss of employment. Obito respects that. He too once ran a business—company, organization, whatever—where resignation was synonymous with death. (Orochimaru was a special case. And not worth the trouble to kill.)
He’s stationed in the same vicinity as the bar itself and told to toss out anyone Mercy tells him to. He does a fantastic job, if he does say so himself. Most of the drunks seem too startled at being physically lifted to fight much, and the underage ones that get kicked out aren’t nearly strong enough to give him pause.
It is so, so satisfying to take the rage that has been building in the back of his throat and channel it into literally throwing people out the door. Nothing has been so cathartic.
This job is good for him, he decides.
—
It is just past two in the morning when Red Hood comes trudging through the door and freezes. Obito blinks, barely remembering to tilt his watering can back upright. He hasn’t seen hide or hair of Red Hood for nearly a month.
“Ah, shit,” Red Hood says. “Wrong safehouse. Sorry, I’ll go-”
“Are you bleeding?” Obito asks without meaning to.
Red Hood stands there. Door wide open. Hand pressed to his side. The air distinguishably more coppery than before he entered. And has the audacity to say, “... no.”
“You fucking liar. Sit down, you’re gonna bleed out.”
Red Hood groans as if not dying is some major inconvenience. “It’s barely an injury,” He complains, and Obito has some unfortunately vivid flashbacks to his genin days. What an annoying response. He feels bad for all the med-nin he used it on.
“... what did you do to my place?” Red Hood says, like he’s finally noticing his surroundings.
“Nothing,” Obito says defensively.
“No, seriously. What did you do?”
“... bought a plant. Or five.”
Red Hood stares. “This is five plants?”
Obito surveys the wall that has admittedly grown into a bit of a forest. He scratches the back of his head. “Well, it started as five plants. But their pots got too small and broke, so I’m not convinced they haven’t tried to combine with each other.”
“Hey,” Red Hood says, audibly horrified. “Plants aren’t supposed to break their pots when they get too big for them. They just die.”
“Well, that can’t be true,” Obito says reasonably.
“It literally is,” Red Hood says.
“Dying men don’t get opinions.” Obito sets down his watering can and makes for the bathroom. Anita-oba bullied him into getting a first-aid kit, which joined the rubbing alcohol and tweezers behind the mirror. There’s a soft hiss from the living room he elects not to acknowledge.
“I’m not dying!” Red Hood calls, followed by, “Why don’t you have a couch yet?”
Obito hums. “Furniture is expensive. Plants are less so, and provide equal relaxation.”
Red Hood disagrees, judging by the volume of his scoff. “I’m sure I’d appreciate them more if I had a couch to sit on while looking at them!”
“Agree to disagree,” Obito says, returning to the living room with the med-kit in hand. He doesn’t freeze, but it’s a near thing.
Red Hood has removed his helmet.
Obito instinctively keeps his eyes down when he hands over the kit, skirting the man to get to the kitchen. “Hungry?” He asks, and thinks it’s kind of ironic that he’s the one asking this time.
“A little,” Red Hood says, sounding confused. “I’ll just order a pizza or something.”
Obito makes a face. “A pizza?” He says, looking over his shoulder before he realizes it. He jerks his head back around, but not prior to seeing the matching confused expression on Red Hood’s face. “Wouldn’t you prefer something less… heavy?” From what Obito glimpsed, Red Hood is wearing a black eye mask. Not nearly as covered as Kakashi’s deal.
Ah. Right. Kakashi. Obito has managed to avoid thinking about him for a while. He’s managed to avoid thinking about all of it for a while.
“Nah. Pizza’s good for stab wounds.”
Obito shuffles around the kitchen with his head down, trying to continue his streak of not thinking about it. He moves some things around in the fridge, looks in the cupboards, and checks the sink for dishes. There aren’t any; he did them earlier in the day.
“Something wrong?” Red Hood asks, followed by the dull clunk of the med-kit opening.
“Hm? No. Just, uh. Craving ikayaki.” He barely stops himself from smacking his forehead. Ikayaki? What a lame excuse.
Red Hood breathes in sharply. “Yeah?” He says through gritted teeth. Barely a wound my ass, Obito thinks uncharitably. “What’s that?”
Obito blinks, in the middle of trying to mentally justify to his fridge why he needs to open it again. “Ikayaki? It’s squid.”
“Raw?”
He stifles a laugh. “No, grilled. Like in rings or on a stick.”
Red Hood makes an understanding noise that turns into a wheeze halfway through. Obito whirls around, scowl breaking onto his face. Red Hood is still helmetless, but facing away. He’s lost the body armor on his top half and is very slowly stitching up a cut along his side.
“You sure sound like you’re dying,” Obito says suspiciously. “Do you need help?”
“Do you know how to stitch a wound?”
He snorts. “Probably better than you do.”
Red Hood mutters, “Doubtful,” but passes him the needle when he crouches and holds out a hand. Obito keeps his eyes on the cut as he works, suppressing the urge to look up with hard earned ease from his genin days.
“So,” Red Hood says in a poor attempt at nonchalance, not quite covering up the way his hands keep twitching every time the needle slides into his skin. “Where are you from, anyway?”
“Nowhere you’ve heard of.”
“Try me.”
Obito sighs. He doesn’t want to lie, really. Red Hood has been nauseatingly helpful ever since Obito’s stranding in this world. “We’re known for ninjas,” He says, dry as dust.
Red Hood’s hands spasm again, this time out of sync with the needle. “What, Japan?” He says, but there’s an undertone of wariness now.
Obito fingerguns with his free hand, not verbally confirming. He’s not sure why the sudden wariness, but it vanishes almost as quickly as it came.
“That’s cool,” Red Hood says. “How do you like- ow!”
“Don’t be a baby.” Obito finishes tying the thread and breaks the rest off, ignoring Red Hood’s hiss. “There, done. How do I like what?”
Red Hood takes a deep breath. “Gotham,” He says, strained. “How do you like Gotham.”
What a loaded question. “Your food sucks.”
“Ouch.”
“You can bandage this yourself,” Obito decides, patting Red Hood’s shoulder. He goes back to the kitchen to wash his hands.
Behind him, Red Hood starts digging through the med-kit. “So, no pizza?”
Obito rests his arms on the edge of his tiny sink. “You can order your pizza. I’ll make temaki or something if I get hungry.”
“If you insist,” Red Hood says, sounding insufferably pleased. “What’s temaki?”
Obito opens the fridge again, surveying his options. “Sushi. The hand-rolled kind.”
“Huh. Isn’t most sushi hand-rolled?”
“Sort of,” Obito says, closing the fridge but not turning around. He tips his head up and starts counting spots on the ceiling. “Temaki is, like… forget it. You’re supposed to eat it by hand, is the point.”
The med-kit closes. “Are you uncomfortable?” Red Hood asks abruptly.
The tone shift comes close to giving Obito whiplash. “What?” He says, bewildered, half-turning.
“You seem a little uneasy, is all.” Red Hood’s looking away, toward the mess of plants encompassing the back wall.
Obito walks past to collect his watering can, careful not to face towards him for longer than a second or two as he returns it to the little cabinet under the sink. “I’m not.”
“Okay,” Red Hood says slowly. “So why are you acting like I’m Medusa?”
“Who?”
“Never mind. Why won’t you look at me?”
Obito stops. “I wasn’t sure you wanted me to,” He says, frowning.
Red Hood is quiet. “Why would I take off the helmet if I didn’t?”
Obito is quiet, too. He hadn’t wanted to think about this today. He hadn’t wanted to think about this ever. “I had a-” He pauses. Friend is the wrong word. Even as kids, he’d been too stubborn to think of Kakashi as his friend. Just a year ago he wouldn’t have hesitated to say enemy, but that isn’t right anymore either. “I knew someone,” He says finally, “Who covered his face all the time. People would try to find out what he looked like without the mask. So, it’s… a respect thing, probably.”
“Probably?”
“I don’t know,” Obito snaps. “It’s just a habit.” Red Hood doesn’t seem too upset, though, so he finally lets himself look, and-
He’s younger than Obito thought he would be.
“Where does this go?” Red Hood asks, holding up the med-kit. There’s a streak of white nestled at the front of his nest of black hair.
Obito takes it from him and returns it to the bathroom. When he walks back into the living room, Red Hood is replacing his body armor. He still makes no move toward the helmet discarded on the floor. “Tell me about your plants,” He says. “Are you sure Ivy didn’t spike them with something?”
Obito squints. “Who?”
Red Hood double-takes. “You’ve been living here for, what, two months? And you still don’t know who Poison Ivy is?”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t." Obito studies his plant-wall with some satisfaction. “This always happens to my plants eventually.”
Red Hood pulls out his phone. “You know that’s not normal, right?” He takes a picture.
Obito shrugs. He holds out a hand and concentrates. Gradually, a tiny bud sprouts from his palm, unfolding into a tiny violet.
Red Hood looks like he stops breathing. “Um,” He croaks. “That… has nothing to do with phasing through things.”
“Take it up with the guy who put me back together piecemeal,” Obito says dourly.
Red Hood’s head swivels toward his phone mechanically. “Right,” He mutters under his breath, typing something. “Don’t worry about it, Hood, it’s not your problem.”
“Talking to yourself is the first sign of insanity, you know.”
“I don’t want to hear that from a kid who bit two muggers with zero regard for where they’d been beforehand.”
—
It occurs to Obito in the middle of his daily walk that he hasn’t noticed rage building in his throat for a while now. He has a job. Despite Red Hood’s threats, he has yet to be kicked out of the apartment. He’s helping an old lady with her groceries every week.
He’s on a walk to begin with because Anita-oba told him they’re good for health and temper. Thinking of his team doesn’t invite screaming or a void in his stomach. He has good food to eat and he has an outlet for his anger.
He has Red Hood, Anita-oba, and Mercy. He doesn’t have to fight a rabbit goddess from the moon.
He doesn’t hate this place so strongly. Some day, he might even call it home.
Yeah, he thinks. This isn’t so bad after all.