#dr. leslie thompkins

[greyeisacreativecolor]

I saw a post talking about how Alfred gets a pass from a lot of fans on the bad things he's done. They mention him being the one to actually enable young people to be Robins, and that he put up Jason's memorial (as if that's a bad thing), and a few other out of context elements that wouls be bad irl, but not necessarily in a world like DC.

The thing that did resonate is the treatment of his daughter Julia in recent comics. She used to be the product of an affair, and that's why she didn't have an established relationship with her father. But the current cannon as I understand it is that he abandoned his family to take care of the Waynes. This mostly stinks of lazy writing, especially since where here pretty much nothing about her mother or other family.

So, instead of villainizing Alfred, I'm going to scream into the void and hope DC does more with Julia.

[comicbooksaregood]

Batman: White Knight

Volume: 1

Issue: 1

Writers: Sean Murphy

Pencils: Sean Murphy

Inks: Sean Murphy

Colours: Matt Hollingsworth

Covers: : Sean Murphy, Matt Hollingsworth

DC

[thrushforreal]

Dr. Leslie Thompkins is in the batcave finishing up bi-yearly physicals (Alfred is out of town) for the fam. Trace is helping make sure all information is up to date on the Batcomputer.

Leslie: Alright, Bruce, everything looks okay. Do you have any concerns?

Bruce: No, I do- Why is Tim taking antibiotics? *looking at the computer screen*

Trace: For his spleen??? It says so in the report.

Bruce: Why for his spleen?

Trace: Because He doesn't have one. Sorry, do you not read my med reports?

Bruce: ...

Trace: Why do I bother?! I should just put NOT DEAD in all caps and call it good!

Bruce: Tim doesn't have his spleen?

Trace: God! Do you know how much time and effort I put into these? Hours, WASTED!

Bruce: ...no spleen...

Trace: Next, you're going to tell me that you don't read the others' med reports too, or is it just Tim's.

Bruce: *still lost in his own world*

Trace: By all that's blessed by Diana's hands, I'm going upstairs!

[misteryoverthinker]

Proud to be an ENTP!

Gotham MBTI

James Gordon ISTJ [The Inspector]

ISTJs are so task-oriented, and so conscientious in their handling of details and standard procedures, that they are often stereotyped as “establishment” types, weighed down by the gravity of institutional priorities. Although ISTJs are indeed careful, and concerned to preserve what has been proven to be worthwhile, these characteristics are only a part of the type’s approach to the world–the part that most people see. ISTJs are fundamentally Introverted Sensates, with a highly subjective, original turn of mind. As Introverted Sensates, ISTJs are unparalleled realists. Their powers of concentration are unequaled–and nothing escapes their attention. They prefer to work in an uninterrupted manner. They may be perceived as emotionally distant and demanding. They don’t always understand what people want of them, and they may be uncomfortable and awkward about conveying warmth apart from situation of personal intimacy. [Thomson]

Harvey Bullock ESTP [The Doer]

ESTPs are realists of the first order. The ESTP is galvanized by Introverted Thinking toward situations involving risk, strategy, and serious competition. They like the thrill of the game, and they generally play out their need for action and challenge in fast-moving careers that require think-on-your-feet decisions and split-second coordination. They take in so much information at a glance that they may seem to have a sixth sense. They know far more than they’re able to express about what’s likely to happen and what they can do to prevent or support it. ESTPs are so alert to others’ reactions that they can use this skill to their advantage, negotiating ends favorable to their own interests. An ESTP may be ruthlessly pragmatic in this respect, fully capable of depersonalizing a situation, seeing others as players in a game that inevitably results in winners and losers.[Thomson]

Bruce Wayne INTJ [The Mastermind]

Because INTJs rely on Extraverted Thinking for their dealings with the outer world, they often have a scientific, somewhat skeptical approach to reality. They want to know how things work and what they’re likely to do under varying circumstances. Impatient with wasted motion, words, and emotion, their outward demeanor may be difficult to read. They are rarely committed to general assumptions about rules, laws, and hierarchy, and they may have an acerbic or wry sense of humor about such things. INTJs will use what works in the service of their ideas; and they will quickly discard or change what doesn’t. INTJs cannot accept new information until they relate it to their inner world. INTJs explore information largely by rejecting its influence–examining it from other perspectives and determining its limitations. [Thomson]

Alfred Pennyworth ISFJ [The Defender]

ISFJs are most comfortable with facts and information about concrete reality. ISFJs relate to their outer world in a decidedly personal way, with Extraverted Feeling. ISFJs are highly alert to behaviors and gestures that suggest another’s emotional attitude, needs, or expectations, and they generally acquire knowledge that allows them to be of service–preferably to one person at a time. They rarely consider the amount  of time or effort their involvement will require–or even the potential consequences of their actions. They may find it difficult to justify, or even to verbalize, their fundamental motives, but they are quite certain they are doing the right thing and will not be swayed by their perceived task. They take others’ reactions and expectations to heart, and they may end up offering approximate information rather than taking the time to think out what they know. [Thomson]

Oswald Cobblepot INFP [The Dreamer]

Introverted Feeling determines subjective values–convictions about how life is best lived. Such values are trained by direct experience of good and bad behaviors, and they claim us from within. INFPs may not describe their approach to life in metaphysical terms, but it’s a rare INFP who doesn’t see in nature’s underlying pattern intimations of a larger purpose. Because their ideals are wholisitic, INFPs feel responsible not only for their actions but for their desire to take action. They’re often wry, and if they’re comfortable, they’ll contribute a running patter of perceptive remarks and observations. Thus, it surprises people when the INFP abruptly winds down and wants to be alone. INFPs who use their inferior function, Extraverted Thinking are often excellent at managing time and resources for others but have a harder time structuring and organizing their own lives. [Thomson]

Although many would not consider what Oswald is doing as morally right or just, his dominant Fi is skewed by his upbringing in Gotham. Fi is shaped by personal and experience. For him organized crime is morally fine and he has his own ideal from his Fi as to what Gotham can be. Ne helps him see the patterns and he sees a deeper meaning to Gotham and the crime organizations. He is more of a poet criminal than a power hungry mob boss like Fish. For Fish it is about being in charge of a system, but for Oswald it is extremely personal. Gotham is his home and he is the only one who can get it on the right track. His tertiary Si makes him obsessive in this endeavor and his inferior Te is what makes him organized. However, as much as he is part of organized crime his inferior Te fights against Te systems in the form of the “law and order” of the GCPD. We see this most in how he sees himself as a kindred spirit of James (ISFP, sharing Fi dominance). They both want what they feel is right for Gotham and ignore the rules and principles in place. He constantly tempts James to his side of the game.

Barbara Kean ESFJ [The Supporter]

Organised, caring and driven by duty the ESFJ loves to contribute and remain constantly valued, productive, busy and liked. The ESFJ has an action-orientation that they will channel into people, helping and finding practical solutions to people issues and they’ll work hard at making this happen as they are naturally oriented to the needs of those around them. Whilst the ESFJ wants everyone to feel valued, they will also want to feel part of the group themselves - they need to feel included. If someone is hurting, the ESFJ will be the first to respond.

Barbara has constantly formed her identity from those she was with. Whether friends, family, or romantic partners (Fe). Once these were all stripped away from her with her split with Gordon, her girlfriend dumping her, and then when she killed her family, she has to create a new sense of self. All she wants is appreciation from others (Fe) and she kept getting rejected by all of those she loves. Instead of really trying to find herself with Si, She uses her Ne function and blames those around her for problems that she causes for herself. If she gets rid of Leslie, then her and Gordon can be back together. Without Si, she taks zero responsibility or blame for her own inner turmoil and actions. 

Selina Kyle  ISTP [The Craftsman]

The ISTP is one of the most complex of Jungian character types moving seamlessly from quiet bystander to active participant and leader of the revolution in one fell swoop, then back again to invisible, apparently disinterested introvert. The self-indulgent nature of the ISTP means that they will be full-on, or full off - they don’t do shades of grey. The ISTP is at their best in times of crisis and challenge, but will have little appetite for follow-through as they will be looking for a new complex challenge. Independent, inscrutable and self-contained the ISTP will be difficult to get to know as they will reveal only what they choose to reveal, when they choose to reveal it. 

Edward Nygma INTP [The Engineer]

The INTP is intellectually curious and enjoys the more complex and theoretical problems, often for their own sake. Practical application has little interest for them, preferring to identify the solutions and then leave someone else to plan the work. They do however like things done properly and have very high standards. The routine, the detail bores them rigid and they will put off completing tasks, especially those that they see as unnecessary, preferring to ‘blitz’ them nearer the deadline. For the INTP follow-through does not come naturally, and completion will be via huge bursts of energy at the last minute but it will be done. 

Edward is obsessed with structures. Whether it is the structure of science or riddles. He loves to be involved hands on, take things apart and put them together again. His Ne makes him more abstractly minded and about figuring out how things work and why. He continually isolates himself in a Ti-Si loop. His inferior Fe creeps up on him afriad of people judging his riddle work and his general sense of self. As he tries to put himself out there with Ms. Kringle, he receives rejection and recedes into himself even more. He seems to be healhier when he is accepted by her, but once he reveals his true self to her he is rejected yet again and is in a full on Ti-Si loop. His “alter ego” is really apart of himself. The one that creates an unhealthy INTP who is arrogant and thinks they are better and smarter than everyone else. He grows obsessive with riddles and no longer connects with the outer world with Ne-Fe.

Fish Mooney ENTJ [The Leader]

Organised, productive with high willpower, determination and an intense need to be constantly ‘on the go,’ the ENTJ will not sit back and see what life brings but will proactively go make it happen. Rarely intimidated and with a restless desire to achieve and with no problems going against the grain or being very direct with people. This is of course not intentional but they can display a lack of patience with those who don’t grasp things as quickly as they do, or who appear to be blocking the plan, and can be seen at times as intimidating overbearing in their desire to get the job done, moving from A-Z in the shortest possible time-frames.

As an ENTJ Fish Mooney sees how inefficient the crime system is in Gotham and sees how it can be changed and adapted. She is the one to do it and takes on the leadership proudly. No matter what situation she is in she knows how to climb to the top and won’t share the thrown.

Victor Zsasz ISFP [The Artist]

The ISFP is the astute observer of life, quiet, introspective and kindly. If trust is broken, the ISFP will walk away, no fuss, apparently passive but stubbornly refusing to engage again. Quiet supporters, rarely will an ISFP be the leader, preferring to remain behind the scenes, observing, understanding, but saying very little. There is a stubborn side to the ISFP, but this is more of a passive stubbornness, meaning the person may say 'yes,’ but mean 'no.' 

Zsasz has perfected klilling to an art. Being a killer is all he needs in life (Fi). His Se is what helps him fulfill this Fi calling of his. He doesn’t need to do anything else, but be one with killing those around him. He doesn’t mind who he works for, but demands freedom from the organizations that hire him (inferior Te). As long as they let him loose and encourage his art, he is in bliss.

Dr. Leslie Thompkins ISFP [The Artist]

Reserved, intensely private, and unobtrusive, it can take many encounters to get to know the incredible warmth, generosity, kindness, playful humor, and often impressive skill set of an ISFP. First impressions do not do them justice; ISFPs are the type least likely to “advertise” their own strengths. They are one of the most sympathetic types who genuinely care about and enjoy people. However, being in highly social environments tends to drain their energy - they crave time inside their own head to process and recharge. ISFPs have strong personal values, and while they do not discuss them much with others, they have a large impact on the ISFP’s actions and decisions. They seek to feel that they are living their lives in accordance with their values and what “feels” right to them. ISFPs care deeply about people, seeing something positive in everyone. They take great pleasure in tangibly contributing to the well-being and happiness of others. [Type-Coach]

Theo Galavan ISTJ [The Inspector] 

The ISTJ is the behind-the-scenes worker making things happen. Their sense of duty and loyalty means that they will rarely be happy in the front line, preferring to be the engine room. Logical, detached and detailed, ISTJs pride themselves on their store of data and knowledge, all arrived at with clinical procedure and experience. They take great care not to get it wrong and like everyone to take responsibility for their actions - and their mistakes. ISTJs like to plan, schedule and drive through to completion, in a logical linear sequence. Any deviation from the plan would be questioned and may take some convincing of its merits. 

Theo Galavan has a ton of factual and concrete knowledge of his interest in family history and the history of Gotham. He grows obsessed with restoring his family’s name. He does not care about the emotions of those around him, as long as everyone is doing there job (Te). He feels morally justified by his tertiary Fi, that taking down the Waynes is the right things to do. He is unhealthy and sees the outside changes of Gotham (Ne) as completely negative, and only he with Si-Fi is the one who knows what is right for everyone, and how to stablize Gotham.

Tabitha Galavan ESFP [The Entertainer]

Life-loving, people-centric thrill seekers, the ESFP is interested in people and experiences throwing themselves into relationships and life in general. Their dislike of rules and routine.  If there is a crisis, the ESFP will be there, taking charge, offering support, revelling in their ability to help, loving the drama. The ability of the ESFP to drop everything and provide immediate, practical support may come at the expense of an ability to plan, schedule and prioritise. However those on the receiving end will be grateful and left feeling really special. 

Tabitha is engrossed in her sensate function. She loves to torture and cause pain for the thrill of it. She is in the moment. Her Fi directs her focus towards others, combined with her Se, it makes her very good at reading the emotions of others.. This helps her read situations well enough to know when to dip right out. Her tertiary Te makes her prioritize herself over all others and therefore she is inclined to dip once she has nothing to gain.

Jerome Valeska ENTP [The Visionary]

Engaging, plausible and entertaining the ENTP will be like a breath of fresh air, infusing people and situations with a whole array of new ideas and creative ways of doing things. However, they can become bored and withdraw their energies as they go off in search of the next thrill. Curious, child-like wonder characterises the ENTP, they are flexible, open-minded and love possibilities. They tend to see everything as a challenge, seeing opportunities even in the most difficult of circumstances. ENTPs can at times display impatience with those whom they consider wrong, and may show little restraint in demonstrating this.

Jerome is full of ideas for the future of Gotham, but doesn’t like to deal with the details. He is a villain out of boredom (Ne) and simply wants to challenge people (Ti) to get expected reactions out of them (Fe). If he doesn’t get the reaction he wants he grows very upset. When ever he is challenged he uses humor as a defensive mechanism (Fe) in order to regain control of the situation and his sense of independence (Ti).

Havey Dent ESTJ [The Executive]

ESTJs see reality as a kind of puzzle whose pieces must fit together logically if they are to understand the whole picture. They have an incisive understanding of organization and complexity. ESTJs reason conceptually, one step at a time. The problems that absorb them are too complicated to be solved by common sense or intuition. They require the negotiation of structural relationships by way of logic. ESTJs observe facts, draw tentative conclusions, predict what will happen next, then check their predictions against real-life consequences. Anything that can’t be proved by hard evidence is ruled out. ESTJs see themselves more as advocates–people whose position and knowledge permit them to represent a system and to negotiate structure for others. [Thomson]

Italicized descriptions from Prelude Character Analysis. Those labeled Thomson are from Lenore Thomson’s book Personality Type. Other writings are original copy of @fictionalcharactermbti.

[bet-on-me-13]

Dr Leslie Thompkins has some interesting references

So! The Batfam in in Dr Thompkins' Clinic for the usual Vigilante Related Injuries, and the Good Dr seems to be distracted.

One of them asks why she is so nervous and she reveals that her old teacher is coming over to visit, and she is worried that the state of her Clinic and the fact that she never managed to find a good job in a Hospital despite his teachings will upset him.

She is worried that she will disappoint him, because he has done so much for her in the past. He is the entire reason she ever managed to become a certified Doctor in the first place.

The others are curious as to what kind of person would illicit this level of concern from the Stric Doctor they knew?

There is a Knock on the Door, and she goes to Answer it.

In steps an 8 Ft Fall Glowing Yeti with an Arm made of Ice.

Frostbite smiles warmly at his former student, "Leslie! It's been too long!"

[dcbinges]

Detective Comics #574 (1987) by Mike Barr, Alan Davis & Paul Neary

[nerds-yearbook]

The first issue of the 3 issue limited series The Untold Legend of the Batman was published with a cover date of July, 1980. The issue covered some of the key events of Batman's past: his father dressing as a Bat-Man at a costume party where he was abducted to perform medical aid to Lew Moxon, his parents murder by Joe Chill, Bruce Wayne fighting crime as Robin with the help of detective Harvey Harris, learning about law and justice at college from his professor Amos Rexford, the incident where a bat flew through the window inspiring him to become Batman, his early adventures with Dick Grayson as Robin, and the deaths of Joe Chill and Lew Moxon. ("In the Beginning", The Untold Legend of the Batman 1#, DC Comic, Event)

[dc-tournaments]

[joaniejustwokeup]

[preyofolympus]

Worried About Bernard (You know that I won't let you fall) chapter 3 by etpereatmundus

“The person you have dialed can’t take your call now. At the tone, please record your message. When you have finished recording, simply hang up...” 

It doesn’t take a conspiracy theorist to conclude that a shitty magic cult goes about giving people shitty magic powers, or even more shitty hallucinations. 

Though fuck it, Bernard Dowd thought, with my luckthe two events could just be completely unrelated and I’m just built like that. Which would objectively suck. A lot. Either way, the likelihood of something shit happening and it not being linked to the cult I left almost exactly a month ago wasn’t exactly low, objectively speaking. Oh, you left a cult run on mania and now you’re seeing monsters? Gee Willikers, causation over correlation would be the village idiot’s guess.

He put the phone down after the fifth time he rang Asher Kensington’s phone, and it went to the same monotone voice. So much for trying to call the only ex-cult member he had the phone number of.

The cult was where Bernard had formed some of his strongest relationships since… since the day at the school when… since his last day at school with Tim and… her. Her. He shook his head of the memories. At the cult, they’d been joined in their goals- their very lives, running from the parts of themselves and others that they couldn’t face. Despite the fear, the pain and the madness of it all, they did draw a kind of strength from each other Bernard had never felt before. So he hoped that he could reach out, call his old contacts for help, for that strength they once shared even if he did end up being the only one with his recent experiences. But… he couldn’t be, right?

 The cult opened up their vulnerabilities, but Bernard and his fellow members were vulnerable together, and knew each other's truest selves as they endured the trials together. 

Asher piercing him, Yekaterina tattooing Bernard’s skin when she hadn’t known him the day before, parting skin and tracing fingers through streams of blood- they all spurred each other on, kept each other alive even as they tore each other apart. Dissected each other. 

Asher was the first person to dissect Bernard. On Bernard’s first day in the cult, he’d wandered the halls of the catacombs lost, unsure amongst the bustling crowds- until Asher grabbed his arm and pulled him to the wall. With a smile he took a knife and ran it down the back of each of his fingers. Gently held Bernard’s arm in place, allowing him to brace himself against the Asher’s thin frame. At first, Bernard tried his best to stay still. To not show the pain. However, he quickly learned that wasn’t the point- pain cults want to see the pain, they don’t want you to overcome it, but commit to it, experience it fully. 

The rituals weren’t all physical, and all the physical things ended up being piercings and tattoos, or exerting the self through things like running until you collapse. Isolation; navigating the dark caverns after a frenzied party; the fear that made you jolt so hard at the slightest sound you’d pull a muscle; the hunger that left you curled up clutching your stomach to alleviate the rolling nausea that came stronger and stronger each time. You had to really stretch it, find new ways of embracing pain. The memories of why they ventured further in pursuit of pain eluded Bernard- some reasoned it was for higher elevation (whatever that meant), others to show determination, devotion. Maybe, above it all, it was a show- they wanted to all be noticed by the higher powers, to be told they were good, that their suffering meant something. ‘Look at me, I’m going to rise above you all by cutting myself down.’

Somehow, the pain was meant to help them find themselves. Find salvation.

Suffering is holy. 

Asher believed that. He’d been there much longer than Bernard, and had stuck by his side, hoping to help him adjust to the new underground world he’d turned to to escape himself and his family. It had been months, and towards the end, Asher had begun to help other new recruits, as had… 

Then Bernard saw Tim.

He almost felt like he’d betrayed Asher more than the cult. Bernard had walked away from the life Asher had spent almost half a year acclimating him to, snuck out without a word, like there was nothing easier than leaving the family he’d found in the catacombs of Gotham. 

But Robin- Tim- had saved him, saved them all. 

The Chaos Cult was no more, and they were all free.

Bernard never reached out to the others, after, never spoke to those he’d once called family. He remembered the feeling- the way they all belonged. The intentions of the Cult were never made clear to the followers, but as the confusion lifted over Bernard’s first few months, he felt lighter than ever. They’d all felt the same way, felt the relief as they began to settle into the life they all came to share. Some had for years. How could he look them in the eyes after taking all that away? Especially with what they were all running from?

He called Asher. He needed the reassurance, the short, thin frame to lean on as he adjusted to his new life. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t do it alone. He couldn’t be the only one. So, he concluded that if they’d all felt the same way before the cult, felt the same way on their journeys as members, then surely there’d be someone out there who felt the same as they left. Wondering if they were going mad, or if they were something other than human after their experience.

Finally, he gave in, and opened his phone to try the next ex-member. Esen.

Esen Polat had been a Turkish influencer before the cult. They’d run away because, like Bernard, their family made them scared of who they really were. They were the only other one Bernard had seen change like him after the cult- changing the he/ him in their bio to they/them- so he figured if he couldn’t rely on a person he looked up to, why not rely on someone he saw himself in?

So there he sat, Instagram open on his phone, eyes flicking over the keyboard as he hoped some letter or other would prompt him to think of the right way to open his message.

He typed. 

Backspaced.

Typed.

Backspaced, then re-typed, then backspaced.

Turned off his phone.

What was to say they’d even answer? Maybe they also resented him for taking away the cult. Maybe they’d never see the DM because he wasn’t a friend. Maybe they just didn’t care about him. 

Then Bernard thought back to the Things; the fear as a Thing turned the corner before a person; trying to figure out whether he should tell someone or if it would get back to the wrong people; the itch to go back to the catacombs, to do what he didn’t know.

He sighed, and typed.

‘Hi Esen, it’s Bernard. I know we haven’t talked since we last saw each other, but I think something’s wrong. I need to know if I’m the only one.’

<<<<<>>>>>

Twenty minutes later, his phone buzzed.

From Esen Polat-

‘Thank fuck, I was wanting to find someone else too. Can we meet at my place? I’m kind of scared to leave the house with my… new condition.’

Bernard held his breath.

From Bernard-

‘Does today work?’ 

Three dots popped up.

From Esen Polat-

‘How quick can you get to mine? I can’t wait a second longer than I have to.’

<<<<<>>>>>

The apartment Bernard was directed to rose high above the trees of Gotham park, a red brick wall crumbling with old vines from Poison Ivy’s last attack. Each balcony had its own personality, adorned with flags, plants and Knick knacks that all came together into a single tapestry of colour that wrestled out a small feeling of hope that warmed Bernard’s chest. It was a pretty typical Gotham scene- the dandelions growing in the cracks. Pretty to those that noticed. Refusing to be stamped down.

He pressed the buzzer for flat five, and the door opened with a crack of the hinges.

Esen Polat entered the door in a lilac silk dressing gown, an almost empty, incredibly large wine glass clutched in their grip. Their eyes scanned Bernard up and down, bloodshot. A smile broke across their face.

“God it’s been so long since I’ve seen a familiar figure. Come in, come in! Just be careful where you stand.”

Following his host’s frantic gesturing, as the goosebumps rose on his arms, Bernard stepped inside. 

No Things inhabited the space. He tried to convince himself that was a good sign, even though he was too early into the whole seeing Things issue to know that for certain.

“So, there is no point in me pretending I don’t know why you’re here. Bernard, have you been blessed too? Do you… have you got the snakes too?” Esen’s voice dropped to a whisper on the last line, even though they were the only two in the room.

“The… snakes? I mean, cursed sounds more fitting than blessed if you ask me, and I haven’t seen any snakes since I left-“

“Not seen them, dear- spit them out.”

Bernard blanched. “You- you spit snakes? Well shit, I see weird monster Things attached to people, and I think I can touch them and affect the people they’re attached to. I mean… at least we’re both able to be more open minded to each others’, um, situations? When did you start spitting up reptiles?”

“It happened a week after the cult was disbanded. What about you? Your… monster Things? When did they start?”

“Three weeks after leaving,” Bernard said. “It’s been almost two weeks now, and until literally just now, I couldn’t tell if I was going mad or if it was some Metahuman shit manifesting. I guess at least I know I’m not mad, but being a Meta in Gotham isn’t great. Do you… have any snakes you kept?”

Emphatically, Esen nodded. “Five from this week. I drop them off at various shelters just before they open. I was almost drowning in them until I realised I could get rid of them in a more discreet manner. Follow me, just down this hall. The first few were so small, I thought I had some dreadful case of worms, but quickly they grew in size, now I’m coughing up snakes almost as long as I am tall. Truly terrible business.” They shook their head, ushering Bernard inside a room at the end of the hall.

A small cage, sat in one corner,  covered haphazardly in chicken wire and emitting an ominous low hiss from within. Shadows obscured whatever was inside, but a dark shadow rose and fell, silhouetted against the white walls. 

Esen crouched down, opening the hatch, and Bernard panicked.

“Don’t just let them out! What if they bite?”

Esen laughed. “They do what I will them to. I believe my power lies as much in their control as it does in their creation. Quite like a god of snakes.”

A shiver worked its way up Bernard’s spine. “Do you really think it’s like that? Like you’re some god?”

“I think therefore I am, right? I quite believe the cult left us with some left over gifts, as a thank you for our servitude. Why, you almost gave your life for the cult. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d been on that table…” they looked away wistfully, an expression that invoked both revulsion and rage in Bernard.

“What would have happened is you’d have been torn to fucking bits, tortured, and ended up nothing more than a dead body,” Bernard hissed. “Don’t be so naïve.”

“But we all wanted that, didn’t we? The pain, the conclusion?” Esen asked, tilting their head.

“I wanted to run away because I realized I was gay, for fucks sake. That’s all it really was, and they took advantage of that. They took advantage of all of us, and tortured us for months because we were all stupid.” Bernard sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, at the end of the day, I don’t care if we think differently of the cult. Can we at least both agree that being Metas in Gotham is a bad idea?”

“Of course it is, no one stays a Meta in Gotham for long before the Bat comes. I may call myself a god, but the Bat and his clan are a whole different breed of entity. Something else entirely. I don’t want to go against that.”

“At least we agree on that, sort of.” 

Tim was certainly something else entirely.

“I don’t want to see the Things anymore, and I want to find out where exactly these powers come from. So, there are two things we need to agree on; we need to keep this as much of a secret as we can, and we need to see if there’s a way we can get rid of the powers. Even if you don’t want to lose your powers, I do, and you might need to just in case.”

Esen nodded, placing their hand inside the cage. A Copperhead slithered out, winding around their arm, tongue flicking out as it surveyed the room. Yellow eyes trained themselves on Bernard. He shuffled away, back against the wall. 

“Of course,” Esen agreed. “But if I get even a slight feeling that you’re taking this away from me, I’ll stop you.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less,” Bernard sighed. “Just don’t get too paranoid.”

Esen waved a hand. “You can never be too paranoid, Bernard dear.”

“Once again, agree to disagree.” 

A high pitched noise rose up outside the door, and Bernard jumped, crouching low with his hands ready to strike. He really needed to remember the actual defensive positions he’d been taught in Krav Maga classes. 

Behind him, Esen laughed. “That’s just Kadri, my lovely little boy. He’s just a bit timid around my snakes.”

Bernard craned his neck around the corner, locking eyes with a dog that could hardly be considered ‘little’. A lanky, golden furred creature with a long nose and twig thin legs peered up at the newcomer, head cocked to the side. It’s tail tucked between its legs, as it danced back and forth on the fresh hold of the room, clearly nervous as Bernard felt around the snakes.

“He’s a Borzoi, truly a lovely creature,” Esen crooned, stoking a finger under the snake’s chin. “Now, as much as I love small talk and company, I have a feeling you would like to be sorted and far away from my snakes as soon as possible. Do you have any proposals for how we go about figuring out the root of our new powers? Whilst I am more than happy to return to the catacombs, I’m sure you are less than eager.”

Bernard huffed. “You can say that again. Look, I haven’t kept in contact with anyone since I left, Asher never answers my calls, and I only found you out through social media. If we’re going to find the origin, we need to find out if all of us have powers too, or if it’s a select few. If it’s the latter, it might even help us figure out more about the way we got our powers.”

“I have a few contacts. Most fled Gotham though, going back to their hometowns, going into hiding, some seemingly disappearing off the map. Not to mention the deaths.”

A breath hitched in Bernard’s throat. “How many?”

“Five that I know of. Likely more. I know some were accidents, in a sense, just people trying to carry out the rituals and going too far. Others were not so accidental. Didn’t you see Geoff on the news, getting pulled out of Gotham harbor? Dreadful news. If we were still together, we could make sure we all were ok.”

“You mean we could supervise each other while we tore ourselves apart? Fucking hell, Esen.” Bernard shook his head, expression creasing into a scowl. “Whatever. Call everyone you can, arrange to meet them on the weekend. There’s an old dive bar nearby that is loud enough for us all to have a conversation without being heard. Just dress discreetly, ok? No fancy gowns or designer brands, just put in a hoodie and jeans or something.”

“You do push me, but fine. I have no interest in being noticed in Crime Alley.”

Bernard thanked Esen for agreeing to help, deciding to ignore their somewhat classist sounding remark, and said his goodbyes.

 Kadri the Borzoi nudged his nose into Bernard’s hand, and he petted him as he passed, almost certain the dog was the nicest part of the visit. He resolved to bring treats if he ever came back.

<<<<<>>>>>

Dusk had begun to settle on Gotham, the neon lights of Robinson Square illuminating the lush plant life of Robinson Park.

Bernard sat on some old bench dedicated to some old dead guy, watching as people passed. 

Now he knew he wasn’t going mad, he’d decided that he might as well get used to his powers while he had them- and that meant practice. 

The Things weren’t always noticeable, sometimes because of their size, sometimes because of their appearance- but they were almost always there. Esen had actually been the first person Bernard had seen since he first saw the Things to not have one. Bernard had been looking for his own Thing, some little monster attached to himself, but hadn’t had any luck. Maybe their lack of Things had something to do with the cult- whatever them not having their own Things meant, a creeping feeling that that wasn’t a good thing had begun to grow on Bernard’s consciousness.

An old woman passed, her Thing bounding on ahead, its odd shape vaguely resembling a small dog- at least, a small dog with three necks and a dozen legs. She smiled as she looked at the passing flowers, and Bernard turned his attention to the next passerby.

A young couple walked in the opposite direction, holding hands and leaning on each other. Their things took on bird-like forms, one chasing the other in a never ending circle. The young man pulled out his phone, and as the woman angled her head to look, he moved it out of her line of sight.

The night sky above revealed no stars, and the smog caught the lights from Robinson square, turning the edges of the park into a red and purple setting that resembled some lost good dream. Bernard allowed himself to appreciate it for a minute before deciding to set off, not trusting anything beautiful in Gotham. 

He left the park fifteen minutes later. The north-east end of the city was only ten minutes away from his apartment, and in the southern distance, the Bat-signal lit up the sky, visible from the clutches of the entire city

The East End wasn’t a far cry from The Bowery- slightly better kept, but still clearly abandoned by the council, covered in old graffiti tags, with trash cans overflowing and glass bottles turning the ground into a hazard to simply exist around. He’d already pulled glass from his shoes on three separate occasions since moving down. 

It was on one of these streets that he heard a scream. 

The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and Bernard spun around in the direction it came from, seemingly out of some alley to his left. It was certainly a man’s scream, and Bernard froze as he realized something.

The scream was one he’d heard many times before: one of pain.

Trying to shake the feeling of claustrophobia that rose whenever he thought of his time in the cult, Bernard sprang forward, sprinting in the direction of the scream before he’d even thought about what he was doing. 

The further down he ventured, the darker it became as the lights from the Main Street slinked out of view.

He came to a stop, Blood rushing in his veins. The alley came to a dead end. 

Had he missed the person who screamed? 

Alarms sounded in his mind, to get the fuck out as soon as possible. Instantly, his mind went to it either being a trap or something much bigger than what he could handle. What was he even thinking? What idiot ran towards danger? What if he-?

“You lost?” 

Bernard jumped, turning around to see a tall man rise up from behind a dumpster.

He wore a baby blue tracksuit, two swords strapped to his sides, his face shrouded in the darkness. Light hair, possibly blonde, possibly white, hung in strands around his shoulders. He stood about two heads taller than Bernard, and seemed to be doing his best to use that to his advantage, towering over Bernard to try intimidate him.

It didn’t work.

“Were you just… hiding behind a bin?” Bernard asked.

“Umm… yeah, I, uh- shut up, I asked first.”

Bernard sighed. “Clearly not. What’s your gig? You gonna rob me? Are you one of the local traffickers? Maybe a shitty wannabe villain?”

“I’m not a shitty wannabe! I’m a villain. A super villain. See?” The shitty wannabe supervillain unsheathed two glowing swords, a menacing grin growing on his underlit face, long shadows leaving his eyes covered. 

Then, one sword stopped moving, and he tugged at it a bit. After a moment's struggle, the sword came free, something ripping as the lights went out.

“Oh my god,” Bernard groaned. “Tell me you didn’t add LED strips to your swords to make them seem magical. Please.”

“I didn’t do it to make them seem magical, I just-“

Bernard cut the man’s defense short. “Actually, I don’t care. I’m not being involved in your embarrassing ass origin story, so I’m leaving. If you try to stop me, I’ll give you a real tragic backstory, capeesh?”  A shiver of secondhand  embarrassment ran laps up and down Bernard’s spine, before finishing his sentiment. “Just… sort whatever this is out before you try again.”

“I am the Blue Hood, also known as the Blue Death, and I’m going to kill the Red Hood.” The idiot straightened up, puffing out his chest. He tried to cross his arms, but couldn’t with the swords in his hands, so ended up just trying to pose with them on his hips, his wrists bent awkwardly. “You won’t be leaving, and I’m going to hold you hostage to lure in the Red Hood.”

“Wait, is that why you screamed? To lure in the Hood?” Bernard threw his hands in the air, frustration rising. “Do you even know how ridiculously fucking stupid that plan is? Let me guess, you have no clue when his patrol times are. What’s your genius plan, just hide behind that dumpster for the whole night, occasionally screaming on the off chance he turns up? I genuinely think I’m starting to hate you just for how dumb you are. I actually feel insulted that you’re trying to… what is this? Kidnap me?”

He sidestepped the idiot, holding a finger up as he began to move his swords. As he made his way down the street, he caught a glimpse of something glowing nearby, and turned to see a Thing stalking him. Shit.

The Blue Hood (stupid, stupid name) lunged forward, swords raised at Bernard’s chest. Because of course, a dead hostage was a great idea. 

Bernard dodged under the strike, ploughing his fist into Blue Hood’s groin.

Bernard’s attempted kidnapper fell, cursing at the pain, as his swords clattered away from him. The light of the one unbroken sword illuminated the alley, and Bernard pulled the hood of his jacket low over his face, not wanting to be seen on the off chance the Red Hood had actually been drawn in.

“Please,” Bernard begged, “just fuck off.”

“Never!”

The Blue Hood scrambled towards his swords, blue light illuminating his pale skin. He grabbed one, rolling around and waving it wildly in the air, only to realise Bernard had simply stepped out of his reach in his attempt to regain his weapons.

“Come at me if you think you can take me,” he snarled.

“No. Fuck off.”

As Bernard watched the Blue Hood roll around on the trash strewn ground, he didn’t notice the Thing behind him gradually growing closer. It leapt, landing on his back and knocking him to his hands and knee with a yell.

He reached behind himself, grabbing the weird glowing blue and black substance of the Blue Hood’s Thing. He pulled, and slammed it into the ground with all the force he could manage.

The Blue Hood screamed, back arching as the Thing flattened itself against the ground. He gasped, grasping his head, his feet kicking out.

Had Bernard managed to hurt him through his Thing?

Bernard drove his fist into the center of the squished Thing, and another scream made its way to his ears. Definitely related then.

Bernard stood, brushing off the dirt on his hoodie and jeans, making sure his hood had stayed low.

“You ok?” He whispered.

The Blue Hood whimpered.

“Well, I would help you, but you did attack me, so…” 

Tim would help the idiot. Fuck.

He sighed. “I’m too tired for this shit. There’s a clinic nearby, I’ll take you there, and if this shit ever happens again, I will leave you.”

The Blue Hood just groaned in response.

“Good. Also, seriously consider changing your name. Blue Hood will just get you laughed at. I’m literally dying of second hand embarrassment. Maybe that could be your schtick, killing people by being yourself.”

Maybe he was being mean, but as Bernard scraped the Thing off the floor and slung it over his shoulder, and threw the Blue Hood over the other, he realised he really couldn't care less. He’d earnt the bitchiness.

<<<<<>>>>>

Thompkins’ clinic was one of the places Bernard had first learnt of when he moved to the Bowery. He’s heard in passing that some locals could go there and get free, confidential treatment, no matter their issue. 

In the many turf wars and conflicts of Gotham, Leslie Thompkins’ clinics were always steadfast in their neutrality, treating anyone who stepped in, on the condition they never caused problems once inside. Rumor had it that the Red Hood even used it, not to mention the many local villains, and it had some level of protection from any power that had found help in her walls.

Bernard knocked on the front door, nerves coursing through him as he waited for a reply. What time was it? Ten pm? Eleven? Would there even be anyone in?

No lights were on, bar the glow of a fish tank in the office window. 

Next to him, the Blue hood whimpered, rubbing his head. Turns out, he only wore a cheap face mask from some corner store, and his outfit had no reinforcement except for skater pads on his knees and elbows. Bernard held no hope for him improving.

Then, a miracle. Warm lights flickered on in an upstairs window, and the curtains flickered.

Bernard thought about Leslie Thompkins’ clientele- if Red Hood, an associate of the bats, was known to come here, what if the bats did? What if Red Robin did? 

He looked to the still half-conscious Blue Hood, in his stupid trackies, and decided he was happy to bet on Thompkins’ confidentiality on behalf of the president wannabe villain, ripping off the shitty mask and putting it over his own face. He prayed the Blue Hood wasn’t sick.

The door opened, and a white haired old woman appeared, a young, brunette boy at her side. She was dressed in a casual linen shirt, white baggy trousers stopping at her calves. The boy wore a massive red hoodie, his wide blue eyes peering up at Bernard.

“Does your friend need help?” She inquired. “I don’t tend to get unfamiliar clients at this time of night.”

“He has… a migraine, I think. Also I might have broken his dick. By punching it.”

“Oh.” She straightened up. “Alright then, I can try my best. Follow me.”

“There’s no one else inside, is there?”

Bernard tried to peer around the door, suddenly paranoid that Tim would turn around the corner as Esen’s words came back to him; ‘Can’t be too paranoid.’ 

Bernard still had his doubts, but not in this instance. 

He stepped inside.

<<<<<>>>>>

Three hours later, Doctor Thompkins had patched up the Blue Hood, who lay sulking on the cot. Lucky for him, his dick wasn’t broken, but a few other body parts were, and his splitting headache had only just begun to subside, 

“Somehow, I have a feeling I’ll be having this Blue Hood guy in my clinic again.” Doctor Thompkins turned towards Bernard. “What about you, Mr. hidden-in-the-shadows? You’ve been trying your best to not be seen by me, so I’m assuming that means you’re some vigilante type who got caught out with your mask.”

Bernard shrugged. “Not really. Just don’t want to be known around here. I guess I'm… hiding?”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she said, shrugging. “You’re new to the Bowery then?”

She could be trusted. Neutral grounds. Right?   

“Yeah I'm new, but I know the area well. You work with vigilantes a lot though, don’t you?”

“Put up with them is more like it, but yeah. It’s kind of why I asked if you were one- Vigilantes always get mysterious airs about them, just like you have- and you’re definitely in your lone wolf stage, something I hope you get over soon.”

“My lone wolf stage..?” Bernard shook his head. “I’m not even a vigilante, so stop… whatever it is you’re talking about. I’m just a guy that got jumped.”

“Oh yes, a guy who got jumped and managed to give the guy an awful head injury with no physical marks?”

“The guy got a migraine,” he grunted.

She laughed, turning towards her computer. The blue light lit up the small room, and Bernard let his gaze fall on the illuminated equipment laid out on a nearby table. The warmth of the small orange lamp on the desk clashed with the cool lighting, and his gaze followed the dark neutral line between the two lights, trailing the path up the wall, across the ceiling, returning down the cross over the half-asleep Blue Hood.

“You know,” Doctor Thompkins said softly, “I’ve lived over half my life working with vigilantes, so I know a thing or two about them. But I’ve also worked with the civilians of Gotham too. You can come here, vigilante or not, and I’d be happy to help you if ever you need it.”

He hmphed, tilting his head. “Thanks, I guess.”

“I’m serious. I don’t take kindly to scooping people off the pavement. Come to me, I am not asking. I opened this clinic to keep the streets clean, and I won’t be happy if you mess them up with your insides.” Her tone was serious, but the smile in Doctor Thompkins’ eyes settled Bernard’s nerves.

“I’ll keep you in mind if I get a papercut.”

Bernard headed towards the door, head turned under his hood to avoid the light of the hallways showing his face under the shadows. He stopped, just as he reached the door frame.

“Thank you… I appreciate your help with the Blue Hood. He’s clearly too stupid to survive on his own. Maybe you should give him the talk you gave me. I can’t deny it’s got me thinking.”

“I think I’ll give him a modified version of the talk,” she laughed. “Maybe suggest that he retires the- supervillain gig, was it?”

“Hard agree doc. Thanks again, but hopefully I won’t be seeing you again.”

“I hope the same for you. Goodbye, Mr. Hidden-in-the-Shadows.”

“I really need a better name than that.”

“I thought you weren’t a vigilante?” she called after him. 

“Bye, Doctor Thompkins!”

Bernard rounded the corner, making his way down the tight staircase towards the front door. The walls were lined with medical degrees, group photos of patients and medical practitioners alike, and even a few kids’ drawings to brighten up the atmosphere.

He reached the door, but just as he went to turn the lock, a small voice piped up from the doorway leading to a reception area.

“The man you brought in called himself the Blue Hood. Why?” 

Bernard turned, to see the young boy from before peering around the doorway.

“He called himself the Blue Hood because he’s unoriginal and not very bright. You don’t need to be scared of him.”

“I know he’s unoriginal, because I’m the Blue Hood.” Indignation lit up the kid’s voice. “Well, I’m actually called Tyler, but the Red Hood told me I could be the Blue Hood for my superhero name.”

The kid knew the Hood? Bernard was reminded of how close the clinic was to the vigilantes that roamed Gotham- including one elder vigilante, who would definitely dislike his newly-Meta-human presence in the city. Definitely time to disappear.

“Well, in which case, I’m sure the idiot upstairs will soon learn to change his name. You seem like a tough kid. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be caught stealing the name of someone as fearful as the Red Hood’s left hand man. Look, I’ve got to go home, so goodnight-”

“Tyler? I have Batburger for you!”

From the back, a gruff voice called out, as a door opened and slammed shut. Heavy footsteps grew closer, and Bernard stepped back as a familiar figure loomed up behind Tyler.

The Red Hood.

A grey armored shirt and red, sleeveless jacket stretched over six feet of pure muscle. A red face mask combined with a grey domino glared down at Bernard, red eyes directed at his face. His face, which was only covered by his low hood. If they were making eye contact, that meant the Hood had seen him. Shit fuck shit. 

Bernard ducked his head as low as he could. No way was he letting the Hood recognize him from the other night.

“Uh, hello?” The Hood muttered, seemingly taken aback by a stranger in the clinic. “You here on business or somethin’?”

“No,” Bernard whispered, willing whatever luck he had to manifest in the Hood not to recognize his voice. “Just dropping off some idiot. I’m on my way, so you two have a good evening.”

“Bye-bye,” Tyler called, waving Bernard off, a gesture which he returned.

“Yeah, see you around,” The Red Hood muttered, a farewell that set Bernard on edge.

Would he follow Bernard? ‘See you around’ implies that the Hood was expecting them to cross paths again, something Bernard really hoped against. 

He shrugged off the feeling of the Red Hood's eyes following his back, and sprinted down the dark street the second he knew he was out of the sight of the clinic’s windows.

It was only as he walked away that he realized something- The Red Hood had no Thing attached to him either.

<<<<<>>>>>

Five minutes later, Bernard had finally reached his street. Only one streetlamp worked, and even that flickered as he passed underneath. With his apartment only a few more meters away, and the street so quiet even the local dealers had vacated their corners, Bernard was finally able to stop enough to appreciate just how goddamn tired he was. His joints almost ached, and his head definitely ached. He sucked in a deep breath, counting to ten before letting it slowly escape. 

Just two doors away from his apartment building, Bernard stopped.

A small party shop, full of masks and costumes caught his eye. 

The bright colors, the light up decorations, the shiny glitter that coated every surface- none of that caught his eye.

But in the corner, a thin black mask, covered in matching black roses, with two curled horns on either side caught his eye. The piece sat nestled against a wall display, a small white tag attached, reading sale- $10. 

‘Vigilantes always get mysterious airs about them, just like you have’

Bernard smiled, and decided to come back the next day.

[righteousruin]

WHAT DO YOU WISH YOU COULD SAY?

"please, PLEASE want to know me."

you keep quite literally everything bottled up, don't you? you try to be there for everyone else, but nobody has ever asked about you. you have a mental list in your head of things that you wish beyond wishing that people would ask to know about you, but nobody has. you're afraid that if you tell them, you won't get the response you crave, which gets more and more mysterious and gut-wrenchingly necessary with every day that goes by in silence. it feels like you aren't allowed to exist

[ew-selfish-art]

Dp x Dc AU: Jazz Fenton, after years of fixing her brother’s injuries, becomes a Doctor with an inclination towards behavioral health and psychology- In order to make the difference she wants to see in the world she joins Dr. Leslie Thompkin’s practice. 

Jazz Fenton, M.D. has spent years of her life doing research, doing the hard work and the emotional labor, and finally, finally, she’s joining a practice she can feel 100% confident in. She’s goddamn good doctor and she wants to make the biggest impact that she can. 

Dr. Thompkins (who insists that she call her Leslie as they’re colleagues now), is a kind woman, sharp as a tack and keeps her practice open at odd hours to help the most unfortunate. It took some time for them to bond and trust to be built, but now Jazz is being allotted a few night shifts here and there. 

It’s incredible. Jazz gets to spend time with the kids who come in and really talk to them (in addition to getting them antibiotics, heating pads and pokemon themed bandaids) to help equip them with a few coping skills. Her passion for psychology never disappeared after all, but the expansive knowledge of how to heal the human body has made her find a sense of fulfillment like no other.

Having proven herself and worn Leslie down, Jazz now takes up about 1/3 of all the night shifts in the month. She’s hoping to get to 50/50 by the end of the year but she’s content with what she has. Danny keeps odd hours anyway so calling him after work on her walk home can happen any time of day and he will always answer enthusiastically. 

It’s a particularly busy night before he comes in. The Red Hood. 

He was known for being an ally to Leslie, despite being on contentious terms with the Bats, but Jazz had never asked directly. Never one to turn away a patient with bullet hole wounds, she hops into action to get his wounds cleaned, sewed up and gauze wrapped. She’s handing him a sheet (an Infographic! Dani made it with her! Graphic design is her passion!) on how to care for his wounds when he first seems to recognize that she’s not Leslie. 

“No, Of course not. I’m Dr. Fenton. I can’t blame you for not remembering but I did introduce myself as you bled in the entry way. You’re Red Hood, right?” 

“Hm. Didn’t realize the practice was expanding. Where can I find-” He grumbles before pushing her hand aside from where she had still been supporting his shoulder.

“Hold on there, mister. You’re going home, you’re following this infographic and you’re going to get some sleep.” 

“Lady you don’t know-” His voice modulated ton came across antagonistically. As if he was trying to intimidate her. Ha, Jazz rolls her eyes at the inclination.

“Who I’m talking to? Who I’m dealing with? You’re hilarious. I can eat you vigilante’s hero complexes for breakfast. Tell me who I’m calling to pick you up and then you can say thank you.” Jazz snaps at him. It really had been a long night but his whole dialogue thus far is making her a bit batty. 

“Oh really Doc? You know Leslie’s tough shit, and from what I can tell you’ve got nothing on her-” 

“Trying to make me feel insufficient when I just saved your life? That’s cute. I’m sure a lifetime of abandonment by both of your parental figures gave you that. I’m also sure that you inherited this desire to prove you’re not going to be dependent on anyone who wants to help from whoever got you dressing up in tights to fight crime in the first place. Again, I’d love to talk at length about how predictable you-” 

“Bwah- wait- I’m Predictable? You’re probably some nepobaby who had parents who told her she could have the world-” But Jazz cuts him off with hysterical laughter- he couldn’t be further from the truth. Her parents loved her, but nepotism? With what, the ghosts? If anything she got that from Danny, but he doesn’t need to know about her ghostly titles. 

“You’re just some guy who came back from the dead and made his trauma everyone else’s issue. So shut it. And tell me how I’m getting you home from this clinic.” She seethes though her voice stays devastatingly level with each word. 

Speechless for a moment, he eventually relents to Jazz that he’s already called for help on the comms but it will be hours before they can come for a pick up. The sun had already come up and the night had been over for most of them before Hood had walked into trouble. She groans and the realizes the time for herself and the empty clinic around them.

“Fine. My shift just ended anyway. I’ll get you home in one piece and I swear to all the ancients that you’d better follow the directions on the infographic.” 

And that’s how Jazz ended up calling her brother while supporting the weight of a grown ass man (who no longer wanted to talk to her) on her walk home. 

The next time Red Hood appears in her clinic, he’s brought a dozen roses in addition to the cut on his neck that definitely needs to be pressurized like ASAP. Did he stop for the flowers on his way to the clinic? He’s going to pass out from blood loss! She doesn’t even like roses!

[sanguineterrain]

Hello madame terrain, I have been thinking about boxer!jason for some time now and I'm wondering if you have any thoughts about him? if not that's totally okay too ☺️ love all your writing!!!

lol hi, madame terrain is adorable 💕 also boxer jason is big brained!!! let's do it ;)

boxer!jason todd x gn!reader. reader is an apprentice to a ringside doctor (leslie thompkins). tw creepy OMC intimidates reader, jason protects/defends r, fluff, my attempt at boxing stuff.

****

Leslie said she'd be back in an hour.

You're currently at the thirty minute mark, hoping for a natural disaster, an angel, anything, because...

"Doc gives me stuff for my pain all the time," Keith says for the third time. "It's real simple."

Keith Dixon is one of the gym's regular fighters. You haven't seen enough matches to judge his fighting, but you can confidently say that his people skills are in the toilet.

He'd barged into the office ten minutes ago and had refused to leave even when you said Leslie was out.

You need to make a break for it.

"You have to wait for Dr. Thompkins," you say, lifting your chin. You won't give in and risk losing this job. No way in hell. "I can't administer medications. I'm not licensed."

Keith rolls his eyes. He's a hothead, new to Gotham. Likes to fight. Likes to fight mean.

"Look, you're new. I'm just giving you a heads-up on how things work around here," he says, backing you up further. You're nearly against the wall.

Where the hell is Leslie?

"I'm sorry, Mr. Dixon, but I can't prescribe painkillers without her supervision."

"Uh-huh. Know what I think? I think you're just not cut out for the ring," Keith says, cornering you against the cabinet. "Cute thing like you shouldn't be hiding in an office. The Doc ought to know better..."

"Is there a problem?"

The new voice makes you flinch, just a little. Keith pulls back, posture easy but guarded. The second guy holds himself similarly. He's also well-built, clad in a gray tee and black sweatpants. His hands are wrapped.

"J-man," Keith says, daggers in his teeth. "Man, I thought you were benched for the week. You meet our new assistant? They're still getting used to how things run around here."

The mystery man looks at you. His eyes are a lovely teal.

"Is he botherin' you?" he asks.

"I—" You swallow. "I was just explaining to Keith that I can't administer medicine without Dr. Thompkins."

Keith huffs. "Jason, tell 'em how this works."

Jason faces Keith. They nearly match each other in height and bulk. You hope to God they don't decide to brawl here and now.

"I think you're the one who needs a reminder, Dixon," Jason says coolly. "Seems pretty straightforward to me. You need to wait for the Doc. So was there something else you needed?"

Keith's mouth presses into a line. You can tell he's got about a hundred ugly thoughts on his tongue right now.

"Nope," he grits out.

"Mm. Then step off."

Keith obeys. You slip out of the corner.

"I'll come back," he says.

"When the Doc's here," Jason adds. It doesn't sound like a suggestion. "If y'need a reminder of her schedule, I don't mind giving you one."

Keith looks at you. You hold his gaze, heart pounding.

"Of course," he says, all false charm, and pushes past Jason. "See ya in the ring, J.T."

You can't relax even after Keith leaves. Jason remains in the doorway. You close your eyes at the thought of dealing with another fighter. It's not bad with Leslie here, but this is your first time alone. It's already a disaster.

Obviously, none of the fighters respect you like they respect Leslie, even after three weeks of you working here. You don't even know all of the fighters.

"Hey." Jason doesn't move from his spot as he asks. "Y'okay?"

"Yes," you say, keeping your back straight. "I'm fine. Do you need medical attention?"

"I just came to get some more wraps. But I can get 'em at home."

His voice is softer now that Keith's gone.

"No need," you say. "That's what I'm here for."

You get a roll of tape from the drawer. It takes you three tries to pull the edge out. You drop it twice.

You feel Jason's eyes on you. You keep pulling the tape, but it won't comply.

"I got it," he says. "I can wrap myself. Toss it here."

You pause, tape half unfurled. "Dr. Thompkins told me to do all wraps myself."

"Leslie's cool. I won't tell her, anyway."

You shake your head. "Why don't you want me to wrap your hands?"

Jason glances to the side. He leans against the doorframe, purposely casual.

"'Cause Keith's a big guy. And I'm a big guy. And your hands are still shaking."

You tighten your grip on the tape.

Jason gestures to the office. "This is your space. I won't come in if you don't want me to. That's not how this works."

"It's... it's the job," you say, startled. "I don't—I've heard that Keith's rough with everybody."

"Yeah, well, he's an asshole. You shouldn't have to be rough back. Good fighters turn it off outside of the ring. I don't want to make you feel small. Alright?"

Tension bleeds out of your spine. You no longer feel like prey.

"It's easier if I wrap them for you," you say, and turn your back on him to fetch the antiseptic.

The tiles behind you creak as Jason hesitates for a moment. Then he walks in and sits in a chair, so you're higher than him.

He looks up at you. He really does have beautiful eyes. His eyelashes are dark and delicate. There's a faded bruise on his cheek.

He's boyishly handsome, with a mouth that looks like it smiles a lot.

"Do you also fight here?"

He nods. "Since I was eighteen. Been here a while."

You take one of his hands in both of yours. Jason's already thrown out the old tape. His knuckles are cut up. They're covered in scars. His fingernails are short and neat.

His hands are big, far bigger than yours. Veins feed into each other from the backs of his hands up his forearms.

You take out the antiseptic spray.

"Might be cold," you warn.

"'S okay."

You spray his skin. Jason doesn't even flinch.

"Your hands are really soft," he says.

"Oh, thank you. I use Isley's Salve. Works great."

Why did you share that?

Jason's mouth quirks. "Yeah? Might have to try that. My hands have seen better days."

"I have some in my bag." You let go of the half-done wrap and dig through your backpack. You pull out the small tube of salve and squeeze some onto his hands.

Jason is quiet and still as you rub in the lotion. He's pliant as you finish the wraps, letting you turn his hands over. You pull the wraps tight.

"All done," you say, face suddenly warm like you've been caught doing something you weren't supposed to.

He flexes his hands a few times. "Thanks. You're good. I can see why Leslie chose you as her apprentice."

You shrug. "Anybody can wrap hands."

"Dunno. I've seen some pretty shit wraps in my time."

"Oh. Well, um, I'm here most of the time, so feel free to come by and get your wraps changed."

He hums. "Sure. Don't worry 'bout Keith. I'll take care of it."

Your eyes widen. "I don't want more trouble..."

"You won't get trouble, I promise. We don't tolerate that here. 'Sides, he's overstayed his welcome."

You nod. "Okay. Thank you, Jason."

"No need for thank you's. Y'alright getting home?"

"Yes, I'm okay. Leslie's dropping me."

Jason nods, then picks himself up. He pauses like he wants to say something else, but he strides out of the room like he's in a rush instead.

"Well, um. G'night," he says over his shoulder. "Take care."

It's about fifteen more minutes until Leslie returns.

"Everything alright?" she asks in a tone that tells you she already knows the answer. "I ran into Jason on my way in. He said Keith Dixon gave you some trouble. I'm sorry I took so long. Are you alright?"

"You ran into—I thought Jason went home for the night."

Leslie looks like you've just told her the sky is red. "He wanted to make sure you were okay. So he waited till I came back. Are you okay? Did Keith hurt you?"

You shake your head. "No, I'm alright. Just shaken up. He's a bully. Wanted painkillers."

Leslie frowns. "He won't bother you again. I'll make sure you're not alone."

"It's okay. I mean, Jason was there."

She nods. "Mm. He's a good boy. I know his father."

"Yeah, he, uh, was nice. I wrapped his hands."

Leslie raises an eyebrow. Your shoulders rise.

"What?" you ask. "You said to practice my wraps."

She shrugs. "Nothing, nothing. I did tell you that. I'm glad you got some practice in."

You follow her to her car. Soon, Leslie pulls out of the lot.

"Leslie, do you mind if we stop at CVS?"

"Sure. What for?"

You feel for the little tube in your pocket.

"Need more Isley's Salve... I'm, uh, running low."

[unconventional-lawnchair]

His Scrubs

Jason Todd x Reader

Summary: A dedicated nurse in Gotham starts caring for the injured vigilante Red Hood, leading to a complicated bond between them. As their relationship deepens, she grapples with her feelings and the chaos of his violent world.

CW: No use of Y/N, mentions of blood, death, violence, trauma, survivors guilt, readers going through it and Jason is not helping, gn!reader

Wc: 5941

Working as a nurse in Gotham was a unique kind of hell. Your mentor, Dr. Leslie Thompkins, used to tell you that there was a special place in heaven for those who dedicated themselves to caring for the broken and battered souls of Gotham. The city, with its towering skyscrapers and shadowy alleys, was a paradox of beauty and despair. As a nurse, you witnessed the aftermaths of violence you never thought possible, the toll of addiction that ran generations, and the consequences of a society teetering on the brink.

Each shift brought a new wave of patients, the stories of their lives etched into their weary faces. You had learned to compartmentalize the chaos. To save yourself from the heart break younger you would face every time you would get to go home.

The survivor’s guilt destroyed you, you'd come home to your safe warm apartment, the stark contrast between your life and the lives of those you treated weighed heavily on your conscience. You would sit in your cozy living room, a cup of tea warming your hands, while the images of trauma and suffering replayed in your mind like a never-ending loop. Each laugh from the children in your neighborhood felt like a reminder of the laughter you had fought so hard to save; the laughter of those who didn’t make it, who had succumbed to the darkness of Gotham’s streets.

It got so much worse when Red Hood emerged. You despised him.

Forgetting his more violent approach, he sent more and more souls to your halls then you could count. Not the sympathetic ones, not the ones you wanted to care for. The monsters, the villains, men and women you considered a blessing to never see. People who sent most of the souls you mourned right to you.

That bitter anger is what prompted your switch to the day shift. You wanted- no, needed to get away from it. The day shift had its fair share of horrors and the lack of freedom was draining, but it meant that most of your patients were people you wanted to help.

Though, it came with its own downsides. Your pay dropped, your hours were longer, and now, you had to walk home at night. Walking home through Gotham’s shadowy streets after a long shift was a gamble with fate. The city, saturated in darkness, felt alive with danger. Danger you knew intimately. Every alley seemed to have eyes you couldn't see, and every corner could hide a lurking threat. What's worse is you knew first hand what could happen.

Not that you had a choice. You had traded the chaos of the night shift for the uncertainty of twilight; it was a decision that filled you with dread as well as relief.

You clutched your bag tight against your side, the familiar weight of your stethoscope a reminder of your purpose, even as the fear prickled at the back of your mind. Not bothering to change at the hospital, not risking it getting any later. The streets were quieter now, but that only made the ambient sounds of the city, distant sirens, the scuffle of rats, the occasional shout, more pronounced. You quickened your pace, your heart pounding against your chest with every step.

You made it to your shitty apartments, walking through your grounds and avoiding your vile neighbors. The old lady who insisted she heard every small sound you made after 8pm, the horrid teenagers who would do anything for the cash in your bag, and that awful married man from down the hall who took any chance away from his wife to make you as uncomfortable as possible.

When you made it to your door, you were quick to enter and lock it behind you. All three latches you had installed as well. The second you walked in the cold night was shoved away, warmth and bright yellows painted the portrait of a cozy home. A life you had made.

Yet, the paranoia never left. As you walked over to the kitchen and poured yourself a glass of water, you couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching you. You leaned against the counter, the coolness of the granite grounding you as you took a deep breath. The familiar sounds of your modest apartment greeted your ears. It was all the same, the hum of the refrigerator, the distant murmurs of the city outside it was always a comfort, yet they also felt like a mask hiding the lurking dangers beyond your walls.

As you sipped your water, your eyes wandered to the living room. Your eyes lingered on your darkened window that was on the fire escape. Not your favorite thing, which is why you installed black out curtains. Staring at it longer, you noticed something that made your heart sink.

Your curtains were opened. Yet the window was still dark, hardly letting any light in. At first, your mind tricked you into believing that maybe, possibly, there were eyes in the darkness. Staring at you, waiting for you to just make one wrong move. But when your eyes processed what they were receiving, you were rushed with a very familiar panic. It was red.

Your windows were absolutely painted with blood.

Your own blood surged through you like ice water, freezing you in place. The sight of the deep red streaks contrasting against the dark glass made your heart race. You blinked once, twice, three times, willing your mind to process what you were seeing. Was it real? Had it come from outside, or was it a figment of your exhaustion-induced imagination? Your mind wandered to the worse. Was it from inside?

But the metallic scent that wafted in from the window confirmed your worst fears; the air was thick with the unmistakable odor of blood.

You willed yourself to walk over. A guilty form of relief heated your veins when you saw no evidence the blood had, at any point, entered your home.

Then came the problem, do you open the window? Or do you keep it closed? Do you check on whoever or what ever was hurt? Or do you look the other way? Part of you wanted to turn away. Call the police and leave it to them.

But fuck, the paid hero you were, you couldn't stop yourself.

The anticipation was killing you. So as your fingers brushed the lock on your window, you flinched away for just a moment.

Then, you pushed it open quickly. Getting it over with, hoping your bleeding heart wouldn't be the death of you.

You covered your nose with your sleeve, staring out of the still dripping window, avoiding the fresh blood. You narrowed your eyes into the darkness only for your eyes to lock with a pair of piercing white slits. They were glaring at the window the second it opened, and you were greeted with none other then the Red Hood.

You stared him down, lips tightened in a firm line. He was covered in blood, holding his side, leaning against the wall and panting. Even in his clear pain he took the time out of his day, so selflessly, to stare into your eyes with a death glare.

You were an idiot.

Red Hood. Vigilante, murderer, anti hero, a right monster, just stared at you.

You knew your old mentor, how she used to care for the bats on their worst days. You wondered, just for a moment, if that's why he was here. Holding his gaze in absolute silence.

“You're bleeding.” You huffed at him and his eye slits narrowed. As if to say ‘No shit. Fix it.’

The tension between you was palpable, a charged silence hanging in the air. You took a deep breath, the metallic scent of blood mixing with the familiar smell of your home, and it made your stomach churn. “What do you want?” You asked, trying to sound more assertive than you felt.

“I need help.” He scoffed, his voice slightly strained, but there was an urgency beneath it that you couldn’t ignore. “I can’t go to the hospital. Not like this.”

“Of course you can’t.” You snapped, bitterness lacing your words. “You’d probably scare half the staff into quitting.”

He winced and after just a second or two of staring at each other you stepped into your house. Leaving the window open for him to slip in. You assumed he took the hint, as your window was slammed shut behind you.

You were quick to grab your emergency kit from the bathroom. When you returned, he was laying back on your coffee table. He must have remembered that from being treated by Leslie before. He was dozing in and out, and as you finally approached him, you could see the blood pooling on the table and down to the floor beneath him, a stark reminder of the urgency of the situation.

“Stay awake.” You ordered, your voice firm as you knelt beside him. “I need you conscious if I’m going to help you.”

He grunted in response, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “I’m trying.”

You could hear his teeth grinding and you simply didn't respond. “You're overheating.” You commented. “Take off your helmet.”

“Like hell.” He hissed and you scoffed, starting to work. Cutting through his suit without much complaint from him.

“You come to my house in the middle of the night and can't even follow simple instructions?” You hissed back. Like two cats locked, your voices could be mistaken as snarls to anyone listening in.

“Oh fuck off.” He snapped and let his head lull back, his eyes blurring. You snapped your fingers in front of his face as you took in his abdomen. Two gun shots.

“Unfortunately this is my damn apartment.” Your tone was sharper than you intended, but the urgency of the moment was drowning out any lingering resentment you felt toward him. “And I’m not about to let you bleed out on my coffee table. So either help me help you, or I’ll drag you to a hospital myself.”

He chuckled weakly, the sound gurgling in his throat, which only added to your frustration. “You know, you’re not very nurse like.”

“I'm off the clock.” You rolled your eyes as you began to clean the wound. “I’m about to throw you out if you don’t stop talking.”

He let out a labored breath, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth- not that you can see it. But god could you hear it. “You’re just arguing with me to keep me awake, aren’t you?”

“... just keep your eyes open, Red Hood. You're not as charming as you think.” You shot back, concentrating on the task at hand. “Or maybe you'd like to take your chances with the hospital instead?”

“Seems like you’re doing a pretty good job, don't doubt yourself.” He snarked, his voice slightly slurred, fatigue creeping in despite your efforts. Still, in what could be his final moments, he found the audacity to be sarcastic with you.

You didn’t respond, focusing on cleaning the wound with swift, practiced motions. The sight of the jagged edges of the bullet wound made your stomach churn, but you pushed the nausea aside.

You had treated countless wounds like this before, but somehow, this felt different. The adrenaline coursing through you mixed with a sense of dread that you couldn’t shake. Every second mattered, and yet here he was- this man who brought chaos into your life- laying in your apartment, bleeding out while making quips like it was just another day.

“Just breathe.” You once again ordered, your voice steady despite the turmoil in your mind. “I need you to focus on that. In and out, nice and slow.”

He nodded slightly, the movement causing him to grimace. You could see the sweat glistening on his neck, and his breath came in labored gasps. You hurriedly worked to clean the wound and apply a dressing, but the sight of the blood made your heart race.

“Who did this to you?” You muttered absentmindedly, trying to keep the conversation going. It was a tactic you often used with patients to distract them from the pain.

“Just another night in Gotham.” His voice was strained but laced with that same dark humor. “You know how it is. Bad guys, good guys, everyone in between.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” You snarked as you applied pressure to stop the bleeding. “You think you’re funny? Dying anti hero?”

“I have been told I am.” He smirked again, not that you could see it, his tone playful despite his condition. “But you’re the real hero here, yeah? Playing nurse to a monster like me.”

You paused for a moment, looking him dead in the eye-slits, swallowing thick. “You're not a monster. Not in my home.” You corrected, the sound of tearing elastics and the ripping of tape sounded out in your empty apartment, as you got the bandages. “You're my patient.”

He stopped speaking, and for a fleeting moment, the bravado he usually wore like armor slipped away. "Your patient.” He echoed, a hint of something almost vulnerable beneath the sarcasm. "Well, I guess that makes me lucky."

You shook your head, forcing yourself to remain focused on the task at hand. "You're not lucky, Red Hood. You're just in a lot of trouble, and I need you to stay with me while I help you."

He let out a low chuckle that quickly turned into a wince, the pain evident in his covered eyes. You had to admire the expressive mask, it kept you keen on his emotions. “You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

“Special isn’t the word I’d use.” You mumbled, your fingers deftly applying more pressure before you began to wrap his torso and start on the next wound.

You both slipped into a comfortable silence. Eventually, you turned on the tv, and he seemed to actually be interested in whatever nonsense was playing. Some black and white movie, dramatic and sappy.

You spent the next few hours cleaning and inspecting each wound. You managed to get him to drink some of your juice, eat some plain crackers, and by the time you cleaned up after everything, he had disappeared from your couch where you had shifted him.

He had taken his ruined tattered uniform with him, but left a lovely gift in his potent blood that stained your table and floor boards. You weren't surprised he left, more annoyed he didn't even bother to thank you.

But what did you expect from the ‘monster’ that was Red Hood?

You sighed, running a hand through your hair as you surveyed the mess he’d left behind. Pushing away the ridiculous concept that your night had become. The stark contrast of the blood against your clean, modest apartment felt like a personal affront. You had spent so much time trying to create a safe haven for yourself, only for it to be tainted by the chaos of the man you tried to escape.

The silence of the apartment was deafening now. As you cleaned up the blood with a damp cloth, you couldn’t shake the feeling of anger mixed with concern. Why did you care? Why did you even help him? You should have just called the cops and let them deal with it. He was a wanted criminal.

But the truth was, despite everything he represented- the violence, the lawlessness, the depravity- you had seen a flicker of humanity in him. He wasn’t just a monster; he was a man shaped by the same city that had shaped you. You understood that all too well. Bitterly, you wondered what had gone so wrong for you to choose nurture and for him to choose violence.

“Ugh.” You muttered to yourself, tossing the bloodied cloth in the trash. “What am I doing?”

You sank onto the couch, the adrenaline from the night finally wearing off. Your body slid to the floor and you shook with leftover shock.

You leaned back against the couch, your mind racing. The events of the night played on a loop, each moment echoing in your thoughts. How did it come to this? You had always been the one to help, to heal, yet here you were, embroiled in the chaos of Gotham’s underbelly, caring for the very personification of its violence.

The weight of your emotions pressed down on you, suffocating in its intensity. Frustration, anger, and an inexplicable concern for the man who had just bled all over your coffee table. You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart.

“Get it together.” You whispered. You could almost hear Dr. Leslie, reminding you that everyone deserved to be saved. To be safe. No questions asked.

Well, you did two out of the three.

~~~

It became a routine, much to your dismay.

He came back days later, hurt again. You tended to him and you soon learned that you had rewarded bad behavior. Reinforcing this idea that you were some ally to him.

You reminded him of Dr. Leslie, that she was still available and willing to help, that she made a life of her golden heart. You did not.

Yet, the meetings became frequent. You began to leave your window unlatched, something he scolded you for. He was suddenly incredibly comfortable with raising his voice with you. That wasn't all.

Also comfortable with eating your dinner, watching your tv, demanding sympathy like a child. All under the idea that you were his nurse.

Most of your nights now entailed you cooking more than normal, to feed the behemoth of a man. He'd sneak in through your window and latch it locked. Or on your ruined coffee table and you would tend to him, feed him, and he would linger longer every time.

When he wasn't draining your supplies and food, he was watching you on your walked to and from work, making a routine of ensuring you made it home safely.

You hated to admit it. He was growing on you.

But every time he slipped through your window, each time he left behind traces of blood and chaos, a part of you felt like it was being chipped away. You had wanted to create a sanctuary, a respite from the horrors you witnessed at the hospital. Instead, you were becoming a refuge for the very chaos you tried to escape.

The first few nights after his first visit were filled with uncertainty. You found it hard to sleep, the memories of his bloodied form etched into your mind. You would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the sounds of his labored breathing and the sharpness of his pain. You had saved him, but at what cost? Each time he returned, you felt the line blur between patient and something else.

Days turned into weeks, and with each passing encounter, the boundaries you had desperately tried to maintain began to crumble under his comfortable behavior. You found yourself looking forward to his visits, despite the chaos they brought. Of course, you would never wish harm upon him. The initial anger at his reckless behavior transformed into concern, and then, surprisingly, a reluctant fondness.

He was breaking you down so perfectly. You knew he knew what he was doing too.

The nights he showed up were a mix of tension and reluctant familiarity. Sometimes he would come in badly injured, and you would patch him up, your hands moving with practiced efficiency, your heart pounding in your chest. Other times, he would arrive with only minor scrapes, a smirk in his voice, teasing you about your nursing skills or the state of your apartment.

“Rather cozy and plush for a nurse in this city.” He teased, leaning back into your pillow covered couch and groaned a bit as you continued to reset his middle finger.

“If you keep coming to me with these injuries you can fix yourself, I might just start locking my window again.” You huffed and he scoffed.

“Good.” He grumbled, taking his hand and rubbing his wrist. “Lots of freaks out there.”

“That's why I have you.” You scoffed and stood up, his eyes following you as he watched you go to the kitchen and grab a water bottle. He never took off his mask, he was glad for that now, he was positive his pupils were twice their normal size.

He liked it. That you took comfort in him. That he was your safety.

Because it was around that time that he admitted to himself that you were his safety too.

It was a strange and unexpected partnership that had formed between you two. Each encounter layered new complexity onto the already tangled web of your lives. You were both broken souls in a city that thrived on chaos, drawn together by circumstances neither of you could control.

As the weeks passed, you found yourself caught in a delicate dance. You would joke, bicker, and even share the occasional comfortable silence while watching old movies or eating meals together. He would often tease you about your habits, the way you meticulously organized your medical supplies, or how you always had to have the TV on for background noise. Just how human you seemed for a, as he called it, hero of the day.

You would ask him if that made him the hero of the night, but he didn't seem too keen on it.

“You know, it’s okay to have a little chaos in your life.” He would say, flashing you that infuriating smirk, his mask curled up to the bottom of his nose so he could enjoy the meal you made, that somehow managed to make your heart race. Trying not to think too hard about how sharp his teeth were. You wondered if he filed them. No way in hell they were natural. “You’re in Gotham, after all.”

“Not every part of Gotham has to be chaotic, Red Hood.” You would sigh, your hands on your hips, trying to maintain your authority. But even as you said it, you felt a warmth spread through you. You were beginning to appreciate the lightness he brought into your otherwise heavy existence.

Then came the day when he showed up with a gift- a half-eaten pizza, the grease soaking through the cardboard box. He had barged in through your window, an air of triumph surrounding him.

“I figured you could use a little junk food after all the healthy food you've been feeding me.” He chuckled, plopping it down on your coffee table, now permanently stained from his previous visits.

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. At least you didn't have to dirty your hands tonight. “You think a pizza is going to make up for all the blood you’ve left on this table?”

He shrugged, a playful glint in his eye slits. “It’s a start.”

And just like that, the boundaries you had set began to dissolve even further. You found yourself laughing more, enjoying the absurdity of the situation. You were a nurse tending to a vigilante in the heart of Gotham, and yet, with each shared moment, it felt strangely normal.

But the thought nagged at you; was this a good idea? You were still aware of the risks, the danger that came with his lifestyle. The chaos, the violence, the unending cycle of pain. You had seen it all too clearly in your line of work. But somehow, amidst the chaos he brought, you also found a strange sort of peace.

Yet you still let him in, you still fed him, you still spent time you should of spent sleeping, watching tv until you fell asleep. You hadn't realized how domestic his visits had become. Until he was on your couch, face down, shirt off, while you straddled his back.

You ran your palms along his shoulders, having forgotten which one of his many teasing comments had led to this. He was sweaty, his back rippled with red, and he was trying to pretend he wasn't aching. He groaned, low, into the couch as you continued to work your thumbs through the insane amount of knots.

You could truly appreciate how much bigger he was then you like this. Your hands barely fit over the small of his back, even as you pressed your wrists together and pushed down. You pressed deeper, feeling the tension in his muscles beneath your palms. It was a strange position to be in. Straddling both him and the line between caregiver and something that you both have been avoiding since this began. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the way he clenched his fists into the fabric of the couch as you worked. Breathing heavy and the hair on the back of his neck prickling.

“Is this how you treat all your patients?” His voice was muffled but laced with that familiar teasing tone.

“Only you, unfortunately.” A playful smirk tugged at your lips. Able to tell just how much he was struggling to take a full breath from under his mask.

He shifted slightly beneath you, the movement sending a spark through your body. “What a lucky guy I am.” He mumbled, though there was an edge to his voice, a mix of teasing and the strain of pain that lingered in his tone. “You should charge for this kind of therapy.”

“Therapy? Is that what you think this is?” You quipped back, trying to keep the atmosphere light. The truth was, you were painfully aware of how intimate this was. He lifted his hips to shift himself on your couch, lifting you up with him like you were nothing. You don't want to think about how different this would be if he was on his back instead.

You caught your breath, the sudden shift in his weight causing your heart to race. The closeness was distracting, his warmth radiating against your skin, and you fought against the urge to lean into him. The tension between you was disorienting, and for a moment, the world outside faded away. It was just the two of you, caught in this strange and fragile place where boundaries blurred.

“Yeah, therapy.” His tone was lighter now, but there was a seriousness buried beneath it. “You know, you could probably make a killing with all the heroes and villains in this town. Just think about it: Gotham’s very own nurse, providing ‘aftercare’ for the weary souls.”

“Or you know, I could just run for the hills and pretend I never met you.” You shot back, trying to deflect the weight of the moment.

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling in his chest. “That's alright… you can keep this just for me.”

“Just for you? You would be so special.” You scoffed and tried to ignore how your body seemed to respond positively to his more possessive tone.

His eyes, hidden behind the mask, seemed to glimmer with amusement, and you could almost hear the crude smirk in his voice as he replied, “Oh, I’m definitely special. You’d be surprised how many people want my ‘aftercare’...”

“Fuck off.” You huffed before you began to apply more pressure, making him groan louder into the pillows. You slowly pressed your thumbs against his back dimples, hearing another low groan reverberate in his helmet.

“You know, you can take that off.” You huffed and he seemed to stiffen all the knots you worked so hard to untangle. “Hey-”

“I'm fine.” He huffed and slowly relaxed under your fingers again.

You could feel the tension radiating off him, a mix of bravado and vulnerability, and it made your heart race. “You’re clearly not fine.” You muttered, your voice softer now, a hint of concern creeping into your tone. “You’re hurt, and I’m not about to let you pretend otherwise while I’m trying to help you.”

He shifted again, this time with a hint of irritation. “I'm not-”

“I don't have to see.”

“What?” He whispered, a bit bewildered. You climbed off of his back and pretended you didn't hear what you could almost distinguish as a whine leaving him. You could feel his eyes on you as you picked up one of your larger silk clothes. You turned to him and walked over, he sat up, staring up at you as you stood before him.

“It's only fair. You won't relax like that.” You mumbled and lifted it to your face. With a bit of a struggle, you managed to tie the cloth around your eyes. Suddenly plunged into darkness, instinctively reaching out to grab his forearms. “See? Can't see a thing.”

He scoffed, but wasn't able to help how he admired your more oblivious state. He was used to your shameless challenges, your demanded presence, your snarky comments. But now? You were perfectly content and calm. Even your tone shifted the second you did it.

You were being weak with him.

It didn't help that everything he wanted to say was caught in his throat. Your lips parted ever so slightly, he could just see the top of your teeth peaking through your lips. You looked absolutely exposed and he had to do his best to shove away the more unkind thoughts he had.

Still, the room was thick with tension. Eventually, he lifted his hand, holding up a few fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

You scoffed with a laugh, looking to the side a bit and moving your hands to run over his large bicep, down to his forearm, up to his hand. And your fingers ghosted over his own. Smirking to yourself at your win. “Three.”

“Fucking hell.” He whispered your name, soft, careful, before he moved his arms. You were curious at first, until you heard the soft clicks of something metallic, and something falling to the floor. “You'll be the death of me, yeah?” He muttered and a shock ran down your spine.

That was new. It was the first time you've ever heard his voice. His actual voice. You ran your hands up his chest and slowly up his neck. Your fingertips ghosting over his jaw line and neck, making him release a breath he didn't know he was holding in.

“Hood?” You whispered, and he let out a shaky groan, as your thumb traveled up his chin to his jaw, discovering a few scars. What was getting to you the most, was his breath. It fanned over your face, you hadn't even noticed how much you had leaned into him.

Cigarettes and strawberry candies. That made you smile. You never in a million years would of guessed he liked strawberry sweets, but you'd commit that to memory.

The intimacy of the moment was overwhelming, and you found yourself lost in the cadence of his breath, the way it mingled with your own as you traced the contours of his face. The softness of his skin contrasted sharply with the violent persona he projected to the world, and it made your heart ache with a mixture of sympathy and confusion. Who was he?

“Why are you really here?” You whispered softly, your voice barely breaking the silence that enveloped you both.

His breath hitched slightly at your words, and for a heartbeat, you could feel the weight of unspoken thoughts hanging in the air. Before he could second guess it, his lips brushed yours.

It was so soft. Softer than you'd ever thought he'd be. You guessed it made sense, he had always been tough, firm, and harsh with everyone. Not with you. Not with you in a long time.

The kiss was unexpected, yet it felt like a long-awaited surge of electricity between you. You squeaked and that made him deepened it. Time seemed to pause, the chaos of everything outside your walls faded into the background as you melted into the moment. Red Hood’s lips were warm against yours, and you could feel the tension in his body, a mix of pain and uncertainty- a need that mirrored your own.

You pulled back slightly, your heart racing as you furrowed your brow, as if you were trying to study the face you couldn't see. “What was that?” You asked, your voice trembling just a little.

He hesitated, his eyes narrowing as if weighing his words. “A mistake?” He offered, but the way he said it was more self-deprecating then teasing. He was nervous. He was offering you an out.

Like hell you'd let him get away with that.

“Not the way I’d describe it.” You whispered, giving a gasp when he reached for your hips and you were reminded how big he was. His hands made you feel pathetically small, as he pulled you between his legs. You tightened your lips in a thin line, still not able to see a thing.

“Yeah?” He prodded and you nodded, taking a deep breath. Leaning closer. “What is it then?” He asked softly.

“I don't know.” You whispered. “I may need another kiss. Just to be sure, you know?”

He gave a laugh at that, one that shook your entire body. He took your lips again and his hands raised up to your waist, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss. It was intoxicating, sending a wave of warmth through you that made you forget everything else- the dangers of Gotham, the blood on the hands he held you with, the weight of your responsibilities. In that moment, it was just the two of you, lost in the warmth of each other’s presence.

You melted against him, your body responding instinctively to his touch. You could feel the tension in his muscles, but also a gentleness beneath his bravado that took you by surprise. It was as if he was allowing himself to be vulnerable, if only for a moment.

He lifted your waist up until you were straddling him again, leaning back into the couch and pulling you with him. Not an inch of space between you.

When you finally pulled away, both of you panting slightly, you could see the hesitation in his eyes, even through the mask. “So… that wasn’t a mistake?” He asked, his voice low and hesitant.

You shook your head, your heart racing. “No, it wasn’t.”

He studied you for a moment, and you were trying to catch your breath. His hands slipped up from your waist to behind your head. Suddenly, you felt the blindfold fall.

You quickly reached up, managing to catch it under one of your eyes, closing both of them tight. He gave a weak laugh and cooed at you. “Open them. Please, Scrubs.”

You were shocked by his words, but obeyed them easily. Slowly you opened your eyes and looked at him. Taking in his features, a bit breathless.

“Hood?” You croaked out and he took his own uneven breath.

“Just.. call me Jason.”

Your heart raced at the sound of his real name, feeling like a revelation that changed everything. “Jason.” You whispered, testing the name on your tongue, savoring the intimacy of it. It felt like a key unlocking a door to a part of him that was hidden beneath the mask, a glimpse of the man behind the vigilante.

He seemed to relax at your acceptance, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Yeah, just Jason.” He said, his voice low and gravelly, yet there was a softness in it that made you feel safer then ever before.

“Jason Todd.”

You were the first one he ever confessed his true identity to.

[bet-on-me-13]

Dr's Assistant Danny

So, Danny has to run away from Amity after deciding to tell his parents about his powers. They acted like they accepted him, but when his back was turned they shot him with one of their Inventions and dragged him into the Lab for Study.

They think he's been taken over by a Ghost and decide to be "Surgeons" by opening him up and removing the Ghost by hand. Throughout all of this, they are just telling Danny that they are qualified doctors and can definitely do this perfectly. But they don't even use Anesthesia, and don't know the first thing about Surgery. But their delusions of being perfect Doctors have taken a hold of them, and they can't even comprehend the idea that they are doing it wrong.

After a week of "Surgeries", they mess up and forget to lock his Cell, and Danny manages to escape, hopping on a Bus headed to New Jersey.

He ends up in Gotham, hiding in an Alley to avoid Civilians and to bandage himself up. Thankfully his parents stitched him up fairly well after the last session, but he is still really hurt. And the cuffs restricting his powers don't help either.

He passes out in the Alley and wakes up in a Doctors Office. He panics, thinking that his parents found him and took him back to the Lab. Thankfully, the resident Dr rushes in to calm him down.

It's Dr Leslie Thompkins, and she really wants her patient to stop struggling thank you very much.

She manages to calm him down, and explains that she found him in the Alley, but that he was seriously injured. He was out for 4 days.

He explains what he can, that he told his parents that he had powers and that they didn't take it well. Not the Ghost thing, but he does explain that his parents could charitably be referred to as "Mad Scientists", and Dr Thompkins figures it out from there.

Since he doesn't have a place to stay, she let's him stay at her place. It's not much, but it's enough for 2 people.

After a few days, he starts helping out in the Clinic as a way to repay her.

After a few weeks, he starts taking on the bigger jobs and starts learning about medical aid

A few months in, and both Danny and Leslie realize that he has basically become her Personal Assistant. So she trains him in the legitimate way, teaching him all she can about being a Doctor and basically everything he would have learned in Medical School, which really helps with his trauma over the whole "constant unethical surgery from people who claimed to be licensed professionals" thing.

He still has those Restraining Cuffs on, they could never figure out how to take them off and they were basically unbreakable, but he was fine on his own.

And a note to add to this is that all of this is taking place in the early Years of Batman, like Years 1 and 2. So it's certainly a shock when Danny walks in for work and sees The Batman lying on a Cot.

Over the many following years, Danny gets used to his life in Gotham. He managed to contact Jazz, and his friends as well, even if they needed to keep it very secret for fear of his parents finding out.

He manages to get on friendly terms with most of the Bat Family from their many, many, many visits to the Clinic.

He never does reveal his past to them, he knows that they would never not poke their noses into it, so he tried to keep it on the down low around them. He even hid his Cuffs all these years. (He doesn't want to attract his parents attention)

But that all changed one day.

He messes up. He accidently calls Jazz outside of their scheduled safe times and his parents just so happen to be visiting her new house at the time. They pick up the call for her, and Danny, not knowing it's not Jazz on the other end, says "Hey Jazz, it's Danny. Just wanted to let you know that I'll he busy with work for a while so I won't be able to call as often".

When he gets no response, he gets concerned and asks "Jazz? You there?"

His parents immediately begin to trace the Call, but before they can get an exact location Danny wises up and hangs up. Buts it's too late, his Parents know he's in Gotham now, even if they don't know exactly where.

Danny doesn't know that they tracked him down though, but he quickly figures it out when Red Hood is rushed into the Clinic a week later after being attacked by "A big guy in an orange jumpsuit with a laser gun", who was joined by "A tiny lady in a blue jumpsuit with a baseball bat"

The Drs Fenton reached Gotham and immediately began tracking any Ecto-Signatures they could find. And Red Hood just so happened to be the closest one.

Now Danny has to find a way to deal with his parents without his powers. Since the Anti-Ecto Laws are still in effect, they aren't technically doing anything Illegal, and their Government Contracts would protect them either way.

He needs to figure out how to get rid of them. Due to the high concentration of Ectoplasm in Gotham, there are many unknowing Liminals in the City. His parents could end up attacking many innocent Civilains in search for him, maybe even subjecting them to the same things he was subjected to.

The only way he can think to do that is to give himself up.

Of course he knows Dr Leslie would disagree, but before she can stop him he sneaks out in the middle of the night, leaving a note thanking her for all that she had done for him over the years. It explains that the people who attacked Red Hood are his infamous Parents, and that they are searching for him. They could end up hurting alot of people if they stay, so he needs to nip this in the bud and is going to turn himself in to them.

She immediately takes the note to Batman.

She still vividly remembers the state she found Danny in. He still has the V-Shaped Scar on his chest from his experiences with his parents, and she'll be damned if she' going to let that happen to him again. (She kind of adopted him as her son a while ago)

She tells them everything. How she found him in the Alley, his injuries, how she nursed him back to health, his story about Meta-Hating Mad Scientist Parents, the unbreakable Cuffs he always hid, all of it.

Now it's a race to find Danny and save him from his Parents again.

[dcbinges]

Detective Comics #579 (1987) by Mike Barr & Norm Breyfogle