Second Chances

A Batman Fanfiction

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman, I'm simply playing in DC's sandbox

I rolled onto my back, staring up at the white ceiling and criss-crossing steel beams. Turning my head to the side, I could read 3:13 on my little black alarm clock. 'Why can't I sleep? My small apartment was quiet. My dad was still on his shift. He hardly returned to our two-bedroom apartment overlooking Robinson Park.

Six gunshots echoed in the June morning air. I scrambled out of bed and crouched below my window. I waited for several minutes, and didn't hear any more shots, so I stood up slowly. I examined the small alley in between the apartments but no one was visible. The area wasn't usually prone to murders due to the presence of the GCPD offices a few blocks away. I checked once more and then began to turn away towards my fluffy grey comforter and soft white pillows. But before I left, I noticed something moving at the entrance. "What is that?" The what soon turned into a who. A tall figure stumbled closer to the trash bins near my building's rear entrance. I nearly shrug it off as some drunk or high idiot when I catch him lowering himself to the ground with an arm around his midsection. "Great. Dad's gonna freak," I mumble to myself.

My mother's medical kit, freshly supplied with a full arsenal of medical supplies, rests in its usual place under my bed. I slip the crossbody strap over my shoulder and make my way down the stairs. The creaky third step from the top seems to broadcast activity to my entire freaking block. The tiny step downwards from the door to the concrete alley has never failed to trip me, but thankfully my ballerina grace manages to prevent me from falling on my face. "Y'know, for 3 in the morning, that's a herculean accomplishment," I laugh to myself.

"Do you usually make jokes at three in the morning while tripping down the stairs?" His breathy voice is deep and tinged with effort.

"Do you sit in random alleyways watching girls trip down stairs? Is this a typical morning for you?"

"Come a little closer and find out."

The alley was cast in shadow, but as I walk forward I can distinguish a tall bulky form leaning against the wall. His chest rose and fell in stuttering gasps punctuated by the occasional moan of pain. "Do you think you can make it to my couch?"

"Risky move. Inviting strangers in" he gasped "to your house."

"You're bleeding. You're struggling to breathe. I don't think you could actually hurt me."

"Come on then. Help me up."

"I don't hear magic words anywhere in that sentence."

The man groans. "Fine. Please help me? I'm kinda bleeding here. It hurts like a-"

"Language, dude." I roll my eyes and pull some cloths out of mom's kit. "Give me your arm and I'll try to pull you up."

He obeys, and I manage to help him to his feet. Once he is upright, I press the bandages into his hand and pull his other arm over my shoulder.

"You're short," he huffs.

"Do you want me to put you down?" His face is turned away, but I can practically hear the grin in his voice.

"Now that would mean you came out here to help a random vigilante and accomplished absolutely nothing. Waste of energy," he huffed. He groaned when he saw the stairs. "Don't you have an elevator?"

"It's in the front of the building. With a doorman."

"Oh."

We ascended the stairs slowly and on his part painfully. I propped him against the wall outside my apartment while I opened the door, set the kit inside, and flicked on the blue kitchen lights suspended above the barstools. "Welcome to Casa Harris."

"Bienvenidos, actually." With the lights on, he looked normal. Except for the obvious presence of the red mask he wore and white lenses.

"Okay then. Up onto the barstool please." He complied with a stuttering groan of pain. I opened the kit on the counter next to him and stretched a pair of nonlatex gloves on my hands. "Before I do anything else, I need to know a few things."

"Ask away."

"Are the people who shot you going to follow you here? Also, what are you allergic to? Are you injured anywhere else?"

"No, nothing, and just some bruises."

"Wonderful." I pushed him backwards to lean against the bar. "Try to be quiet please." I carefully pulled his leather jacket down his arms and tossed it onto another stool. His shirt needed to come off before I could do anything for him.

"This isn't exactly my first circus." I lifted his thick grey top over his head. Kevlar.

"Right. Red Hood. I've heard of you. My dad's run into you a few times at Arkham." The bloody chest underneath me tensed while I wiped away the blood and tossed the soiled gauze into a trash can beside me. "Has Batman not figured out how to stop armor-piercing rounds?"

"Apparently not," he groaned. He had been shot three times. One graze against his side and two bullets to the abdomen.

"Sit up a bit," I whispered. He glared at me. I shrugged and pulled him up to lean on my shoulder so I could check for exit wounds. "The bullets are still in you. Do you want me to call someone? I aced anatomy and physiology, and I can sew, but I've never actually done this."

"My communicator is gone. Got destroyed in the fight," he whispered. I glanced over into the kit and searched with one hand for my silver hemostats.

"Okay then. I'll just clean my equipment." I rinsed my mom's tools in hot water and alcohol and prayed it was enough. I didn't have sanitizing equipment here.

"Are you a doc? You look a little young to know anything about this," he observes quietly.

"No. I'm a biology major. My mom was a trauma surgeon in Metropolis before she transferred to Gotham General." My tools are ready. I take a deep breath before looking him straight in the ... lenses. "I need you to keep quiet. Do you want something to bite down on?"

"Just take them out please," he begs. My longest needle and a spool of surgical thread are sitting on the countertop beside his trembling arm.

"Okay. Let's hope you aren't bleeding internally. And that Batman can find you." I push him backward to lay on top of three stools pushed together. It isn't the steadiest setup but it's the best I can do. He moans and scrunches his eyes shut. "I have 200 milligram ibuprofen, but I doubt it would help much."

"I can handle it. I've had worse."

With one gloved hand, I start to pull the edges of the first wound apart. It's centered just below his ribs on his left side. He grabs onto the metal legs and squeezes hard. "I can see the first one. It's in there pretty deep." He nods quickly and wets his lips. I poke into the tiny hole with my hemostats and probe for the metal. "Got it."

Pulling the bullet out is easier than the aftermath. Blood continues to leak out onto the gauze pads. The clink of the metal in the trash can is oddly satisfying. "Okay. One down, one to go." The next one is lodged above his hipbone and requires me to lean over him and brace my elbow on his right thigh. For accuracy, let's just say he works out a lot. Hardly any fat on him at all. It's simple to pull out. For the Hood, it's a deep groan of pain and a bitten off curse that is the result of my work. "Stitches or bandages?"

"Stitch it."

I have to sanitize it first. The sting of the alcohol against his flesh tears a whimper from the man's throat. His spine arches weakly when I press down with gauze to stop most of the bleeding and clean the two holes in his body.

The stitches are clean. Possibly my best sewing job ever.

"Your mom would be proud." I tape a few layers of gauze onto the three injuries and reinforce it with surgical tape. The soft mention of my mom has me glancing up to his face in shock. "You have a steady hand. Even better manner."

"Thank you. Let's move you to the couch." I carefully drag him up and let him stand up. He leans on me slightly on the short walk to my black couch.

"Do you live alone?" He sinks gratefully into the cushions but has enough manners to not put his feet on the sofa. "Also, I hate to ask but-"

"I do not live alone and yes, I will take your boots off for you." When he's not bleeding, this guy is really gorgeous. Silky dark hair, tanned skin, and great bone structure add up to the Red Hood underneath the mask. He's also really tall. Tall enough that his bare feet hang off the arm rest. I reach over and shove them off gently.

He grinned. "Sorry ma'am. Feel free to sit on your sofa."

"Thank you, kind sir. Now tell me, where might your helmet be?"

"That's a story involving Robin and some explosives."

I had heard from cops that there was a rivalry between the boys who patrolled the , city at night, so the idea of Robin destroying a helmet wasn't entirely surprising. "Hmm. Little brothers. I can't say I understand sibling rivalry."

"It's not so bad. Robin's a good kid and an even better fighter. Unless he gets cocky," he explains.

"My dad says he's a cocky little turd."

"Probably correct."