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Bernard was running as soon as he heard the explosion.
He shoved his way through the crowd, uncaring of how he must look – frantic, pale, and bizarrely headed towards the danger instead of away from it like every other person in the melee.
Most people weren’t even that concerned, honestly. It was just another night in Gotham. An Arkham breakout, a citywide lockdown, and updates shared on social media to keep everyone aware of which areas were cordoned off, which roads were diverted, and provide real-time rogue sightings. Standard stuff.
Bernard had been caught up in one of the waves of stranded commuters, as all subway lines in Gotham terminated through the central business loop due to a gas attack in one of the tunnels. Luckily it happened in the wee hours of a Tuesday and not peak hour, but there were still plenty of shift workers like Bernard who’d been shuffled, grumbling, into the streets to source connecting buses or walk the long way home.
Emerging from the phone service dead-zone of the subway tunnel, Bernard had immediately refreshed his Le(X) app and realised he was only a couple of blocks away from his boyfriend, who was working his own night job.
Red Robin and Nightwing had been spotted in the old district, dealing with an escalating situation. The details were spotty but there were reports of people being treated at the scene by paramedics, and word was that the Bats had been seen liaising with local law enforcement. While not unheard of, it was concerning – usually Gothamites dealt with Bats or the boys in blue during incidents like this, not both.
Bernard had been about to shoot Tim a text to let him know he was okay, when an explosion rattled the cars around him. People shouted in shock, stumbling and swearing as telephone poles wobbled precariously.
Seasoned Gothamites might not panic easily, but they definitely know that when the explosions start, you get the heck outta Dodge. Everyone turned and booked it – except Bernard, whose immediate thought had been: Tim.
Jogging down the street, Bernard vaguely registered Vesna, one of his colleagues, speaking to a police officer beside her ambulance. A few other paramedics and EMTs were helping civilians with purple gas masks and shock blankets.
Bernard’s adrenaline spiked. Purple gas masks meant one thing: Joker toxin.
“Hey,” shouted one of the officers, as Bernard skidded around the corner and ducked under the police tape. “You can’t go through there! Hey!”
Bernard ignored him and continued up the street towards the main entrance of the building – or at least, what had been the main entrance.
The building was split into two levels, likely having been renovated into a larger office space years ago. The front of the building closest to the street was brick, five storeys high, with a more modern structure affixed to the rear and towering at least thirty storeys. It was the smaller front section that had been damaged, from what Bernard could see. On the one hand, it was lucky that thirty storeys weren’t about to come crashing down on everyone. On the other, it was still a mess.
If Tim had been in there…
Bernard scanned the area, disregarding everything that wasn’t relevant to his immediate goal. Blah blah, fire trucks, blah blah flashing lights, blah blah Batmobile, blah blah Nightwing, blah bla- Nightwing!
Bernard almost tripped in his haste to get to his future brother-in-law (shut up, a boy can dream), who was in urgent conversation with one of the police officers. As he did, Bernard spotted Red Robin – hale, whole, and stressed beyond belief judging by his body language. Red Robin was speaking into his comm and gesticulating in a way that he only did when he was panicking.
Bernard picked up his pace. As he neared, a flash of bright red fell from the sky as Arsenal grappled to Red Robin’s side. Arsenal landed badly, stumbling and skidding to his knees. Red Robin immediately whirled on him, shoving Arsenal backwards before he could properly right himself.
“-the hell were you thinking?” Red Robin was saying angrily, as Bernard slowed to a stop just close enough to hear, but not close enough to be in the way. “I said hold!”
“And he said go!” Arsenal snapped back, fists clenched. “He gave the signal and I blew the charges like we planned!”
“You shouldn’t have let him call the shots,” snarled Red Robin, fear making him vicious. “You know he’s compromised!”
Nightwing had noticed the commotion and was heading over, tense as a tripwire. He clocked Bernard hovering but ignored him for now.
“Fuck,” Arsenal was staring at the collapsed building, ashen-faced. “Fuck!”
Before either other man could stop him, Arsenal was sprinting for the rubble, shedding his quiver.
Nightwing was hot on his heels. “Arsenal!” He grabbed for his friend. “Hang on, we can’t-“
Bernard flinched as Roy whirled and cracked Nightwing across the face with his bow – not hard, but enough to startle the other man into letting go.
Nightwing stumbled backwards, and Arsenal disappeared into the dark and asbestos-dust-filled building.
Bernard reached Nightwing at the same time as his boyfriend – who, irritatingly, didn’t even blink at Bernard’s sudden appearance. Tim’s poker face was unparallelled.
“Here, let me see,” Bernard instructed Nightwing, falling back into work-mode. He reached for Dick’s cheek, telegraphing his movements.
Dick brushed him away. “I’m fine,” he said distractedly, watching the space where Arsenal had gone.
Bernard didn’t want to ask, because he wasn’t an idiot. He might not be “World’s Greatest Detective”-mug material, but he wasn’t a slouch. Joker escape plus explosion plus panicked Tim and Roy…
And no Red Hood.
Rather than making them say it out loud, Bernard whirled back the way he came.
“Vesna!” he shouted, waving his arms. “Over here!”
Bless her, she didn’t even pause. She slammed the back door of the ambulance shut, jumped in the driver’s seat, and with a courtesy whoop and flash of sirens, carefully manoeuvred the vehicle down the sidewalk to park as close to the collapsed entryway as possible.
Bernard jogged over to help with the stretcher. He was glad it was Vesna.
Arsenal emerged at the building entrance, half-dragging Jason, who was wearing his Red Hood helmet and appeared unconscious. Nightwing and Red Robin were at his side immediately, as close as possible while still giving Vesna space to work. She didn’t flinch when she realised that her patient was Red Hood, for which Bernard vowed to buy her a huge basket of muffins.
“He’s not responding,” reported Arsenal breathlessly, kneeling next to Hood. His face was covered in a sheen of sweat and dust. Bernard made a note to check them all for shock later. “Left side was pinned, he’s breathing, I had to move him but I tried to keep his spine stable.”
Roy’s hands were shaking. “He was in the building when it exploded,” he told them needlessly. Bernard couldn’t see his eyes behind his mask. “I don’t- He was close to the blast. I found him near where we laid the charges. It was meant to take the whole building down.”
“Is there anyone else inside?” asked Vesna.
Roy shook his head. “No. He’s dead.”
Vesna and Bernard looked up sharply, but Nightwing spoke first. “Are you sure?”
Roy nodded, looking up from Jason for the first time since coming out. “Yeah. He’s gone. The Joker’s dead.”
Holy. Shit.
Even Vesna paused at that. She stilled, took a breath, then refocused back to her patient. Bernard loved her so much. She could be a cantankerous old mule but she was his hero right now.
“I need to get this helmet off,” she told them.
Roy and Nightwing both moved forward. After an awkward beat, Nightwing waved Roy forward. Roy did something to the helmet that made it beep alarmingly before disengaging with a hiss. Arsenal pulled it off carefully, and Bernard was relieved to see that Jason was wearing a domino mask underneath. Arsenal pressed a button to retract the lenses (which was so cool, Bernard loved seeing all their crazy gadgets up close), revealing Jason’s closed eyes.
After Vesna had done her assessment, she instructed Bernard to help her get Red Hood on the stretcher. Arsenal stood up and fluttered his hands, like he was stopping himself from touching anything.
“Wait, where are you taking him?” asked Red Robin.
“Gotham General,” was the short and problematic answer. Bernard felt a twinge of anxious guilt. He should have anticipated this but all he’d been thinking of in the moment was, “Get help.”
“We can take care of him,” insisted Nightwing in his ‘smoothing things over’ voice. “We have a medical facility-“
“I can’t release him into your care in this condition,” Vesna told him bluntly.
“What about Doc Thompkins?” asked Red Robin.
Vesna gave Tim such an unimpressed stare that Bernard mentally added five muffins to her basket. “Leslie Thompkins, at the free clinic?” she said flatly. “She got an operating theatre I don’t know about?”
The three vigilantes squirmed – or shifted minutely in what Bernard could recognise as a superhero’s version of a squirm.
“I- no,” answered Red Robin, clearly unused to having to explain their ridiculous situation to outsiders.
“Yeah,” said Vesna firmly. “I don’t care what you normally do or what people let you get away with. Your friend’s got crush injuries and needs more than Leslie Thompkins can give him.” She sighed. “I’ll even let him keep the mask. But this isn’t a discussion.”
And with that, Bernard was loading an unconscious Red Hood into the back of Vesna’s ambulance. To her credit, she didn’t object when Arsenal followed Bernard inside. She just hopped into the driver’s seat, turned on the lights, and peeled off.
Bernard hoped Tim wasn’t too mad.
-_-
Video: An out-of-focus blur of white and pale blue, resolving into a sterile hallway. A sign on one wall reminds people how to wash their hands. A vending machine takes up half the screen, shaky and tilted.
Low voices are heard, but the fluorescent space creates too much echo for the phone’s speakers to pick up anything decipherable. The camera shifts again, a hand wiping across the lens briefly, and three people are visible at the end of the corridor. It’s too far away to discern facial features, but the clothing on two of the figures is garish and unmistakable.
Nightwing spotted in Gotham General, reads the caption.
Nightwing appears to be listening intently to a doctor in scrubs. Beside him, mostly blocked by the angle of the wall, is another masked figure in red, yellow, and black.
@GothamGeneral @NightwingOfficial @BatWatch @Batm
“Hey.”
Jonah jerked, nearly dropping his phone. “Woah!” The teenager stumbled on his crutches, accidentally deleting the last three tags he’d been adding to his video.
The stranger who’d startled him didn’t move to help. It was an older man, maybe late-twenties, wearing jeans and a thick jacket with fraying cuffs. There was stubble on his cheeks and he smelled like cigarettes. His hand was wrapped in a dirty rag, covered in dried blood.
“Delete that,” said the man, gesturing to Jonah’s phone.
Jonah blinked. “Delete…?” he asked, uncomprehending.
The man pointed calmly to the phone. He didn’t raise his voice. “Delete that.”
“It’s just a TikTok,” said Jonah, waving his phone. “There’s no patients in it or anything.”
The stranger didn’t blink. “You used that phone for anything besides TikTok lately?” he asked, without waiting for an answer. “Check the news, kid. It’s all over the place. The Joker’s dead.”
“Wha- Are you serious?” Jonah fumbled with his phone, bringing up Le(X) and scrolling through the trending news alerts.
“Yeah. So don’t be an asshole, alright?” The man gestured down the hallway, where Nightwing and his companion had discretely left with the doctor. “Show ‘em a little respect.”
“I- Yeah. Yeah, okay. Sure.” Jonah flipped through his apps as the man shoved him aside and went to use the vending machine.
Nothing had been officially confirmed yet, but the news was everywhere. The more reckless mastheads, more interested in generating site traffic than promoting journalistic integrity, were already posting clickbait articles. Le(X) and Threads were blowing up like it was fact. Eyewitnesses accounts and footage were popping up everywhere. Gotham PD was holding a press conference in an hour where they were expected to make the official announcement.
The Joker was dead. Holy shit.
-_-
Bernard spent the entirety of the ambulance ride casually having a panic attack about the fact that he’d just ruined everyone’s lives.
No, okay, he argued with himself as he clipped a pulse-ox monitor to Red Hood’s limp finger. He didn’t totally ruin things. He made sure Jason was going to get medical care. That was good. You couldn’t fault him for that.
But maybe he hadn’t entirely thought things through when he’d called Vesna over. It had been too much of a jumble – too much of a mess between his work and personal lives, and he’d just reacted.
Maybe if he’d waited, Dick and Tim would have taken Jason back to the Batcave and who knows, maybe there was a whole team of surgeons with ironclad NDAs waiting in the rafters for situations like this. Bruce could afford it, and there must have been some way that they were all still alive that didn’t rely solely on Leslie’s earnest but deeply-underfunded clinic resources.
Roy had once gone back to the Cave with a threatening punctured lung, concussion, and broken leg that Bernard had been positive needed surgery. He’d been fine. Why had Bernard interfered this time? Why had he involved an outsider when they’d all been doing this for years and managed to survive?
Had he just blown their secret identities completely? Had he ruined years of secrecy with one spur-of-the-moment decision?
No! He sternly told himself, adjusting Red Hood’s neck brace. This wasn’t a faceless elite special forces group. They were his very human boyfriend and his very human chosen family, who were impressively skilled and lethally trained, but who also didn’t change the toilet rolls, and drank expired milk sometimes, and landed on concrete roofs like knees came in packs of twelve, and thought protein bars and coffee were square meals, and broke Bernard’s lamp doing TikTok challenges, and they were just stupid fragile people.
Bernard wasn’t wrong for reacting the way he did, he defensively insisted to himself as he draped a shock blanket over Roy’s shoulders. He hadn’t ruined anything. It would be fine. If by some miracle Jason came out of this in one piece, it would be fine.
The ambulance lurched to a stop and Bernard helped Vesna wheel the stretcher into the ER by muscle memory, letting her manage the handover. Roy wouldn’t let go of the stretcher. Neither he nor Bernard had spoken during the ride over, with Roy gripping Jason’s hand like he could will him back to consciousness through force of will alone. The shock blanket had fallen from Roy’s shoulders as he stood, and the fluorescent lights amplified the cartoonish colours of his Arsenal uniform, which was covered in dust and scuff marks.
Bernard moved to follow the stretcher down the hall but was stopped by Vesna’s firm hand on his arm. He realised he’d been so busy debating with himself in the ambulance that he hadn’t prepared an iota of a cover story for why he’d been at the explosion site and roped her in like he had.
“Look, Dowd,” Vesna said, tactfully not giving Bernard a chance to stumble through a flimsy excuse. “I saw the news like everyone else, alright? I know what he did for you.”
It took Bernard a long moment to realise she was talking about the time Red Hood had rescued him from some frankly-incompetent kidnappers. He barely thought about that anymore, to be honest. It had been a super short kidnapping and he barely got a concussion out of it.
However, Bernard remembered now that the public had received a wholly different narrative thanks to some footage of Red Hood grappling Bernard away from the scene like a damsel in distress. Tongue in cheek headlines like, “Bernard Dowd and Red Hood – Gotham’s Unlikely New Couple” had flared up (and given poor Tim a mild aneurysm) in the days that followed, but quickly fizzled out when there were no follow-up sightings of Bernard and Hood holding hands at Starbucks or meeting for secret rooftop rendezvous. “Vigilante + semi-adjacent public figure” speculation puff pieces were a dime a dozen in Gotham and always ran their course.
It was harder to forget articles like that, Bernard realised now, when the subject of the article was someone you knew. He hadn’t really thought about how his coworkers would have interpreted the news, and none of them had brought the kidnapping up to him except for his supervisor awkwardly offering some time off for stress leave.
“I know you have a history,” Vesna was saying. “So you don’t need to explain anything to me. I figure you’re staying?”
Bernard nodded dumbly, immensely grateful for this easy out.
“The press are gonna be all over this place like vultures,” she told him bluntly. “I’m not saying anything, but we just wheeled Red Hood through a crowded ER. People are gonna talk. Look after yourself, okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” answered Bernard, mouth dry. He wasn’t prepared for this at all. He didn’t have his water bottle. He hadn’t had dinner. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
Vesna flicked the thanks aside with a twitch of her shoulders, like it was a spider crawling on her shirt. “Nah. Just be safe. Call out from work if you need. I’ll tell the boss I saw you shit your pants on the bus and he won’t ask questions.”
“Amazing, thanks.”
With a punch to his arm, she was gone.
-_-
The ER doctor that Nightwing and Tim had spoken to on arriving to the hospital had, to Tim’s eternal gratitude, taken their appearance in stride. He didn’t accuse them of being cosplayers, didn’t demand they remove their masks, didn’t call the cops on them even though Gotham PD technically had a standing warrant out for any and all vigilantes.
The doctor had confirmed that Red Hood had arrived and was being taken for x-rays, and that they were welcome to stay in the more discrete waiting room tucked down a long corridor between the two wings of the hospital. It was a further walk from the ER and ICU than the main waiting room, but offered more privacy and a quieter atmosphere.
Dick and Tim wanted to be as close to Jason as possible, but they also understood the practical necessity for not causing a scene in ER of Gotham’s busiest hospital after a Joker attack. Things were chaotic enough without their presence.
This waiting room was much softer, in lighting and ambience. Gentle lamps lit the space and soft lo-fi beats drifted unobtrusively from the recessed reception space where a single secretary tapped away on a double-monitor.
A water fountain and vending machine were tucked against the far wall, next to a table with tissues, magazines, and a shiny peace lily. It felt more like a shopping mall spa than a hospital waiting room, if you ignored the disinfectant smell and echo of intercom announcements.
The space wasn’t empty but it was much less crowded and frenzied than the ER. One exhausted man scrolled his phone as a young child wearing noise-cancelling earmuffs dozed against his side. An elderly couple spoke in low tones. A woman in her twenties held a book in a hand that had an IV port taped to it.
Nightwing and Red Robin’s appearance didn’t go unnoticed, but no one approached them or tried to take a photo. Tim felt his shoulders drop a fraction of an inch.
“Excuse me,” called the receptionist softly. They approached the desk.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, as thought they hadn’t just been standing shellshocked in the middle of the room, “But we just need some forms filled out by the next of kin.” She placed a loaded clipboard and pen down in front of them.
Seeing their hesitation, the receptionist gave a small self-deprecating grimace. “I know it’s a bit of a different situation than usual,” she told them, putting it very mildly, “so we don’t need names or addresses or anything. We just need the medical information like allergies, blood type if you know it, preexisting conditions. If you’re comfortable with it, age would help too. Just the second and third pages of the form.”
Tim looked down at the forms. They’d never come to a public hospital in costume before. “We can cover the cost,” he said, rapidly thinking of ways to set up dummy accounts and false insurance registration for Hood comma Red that wouldn’t leak back to their civilian identities.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” the receptionist said, waving a hand. “Don’t even think about that right now. Just fill in as much of the form as you feel comfortable with, in terms of medical details, and give it back to me when you’re done.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Nightwing gave her a pale shadow of his usual grin and took the clipboard and pen.
Dick was halfway through the forms when Tim touched his arm, alerting him to the fact that Arsenal had entered the space. He was pale, dust and dirt clinging to his costume and the sweat on his face. He looked like he was about to speak, but shook his head and muttered, “Hang on,” before continuing past to the bathrooms and shouldering his way through the door.
“I got it,” Tim told Dick, getting up.
Tim found Roy by following the sound of vomiting to the last stall. It wasn’t his most challenging detective work. He waited patiently, leaning against one of the sinks.
After a minute, the door unlatched and Roy staggered out. He rinsed his mouth and rested his arms on the sink, head hanging low. Tim hovered in case he was going to pass out.
Roy took several deep breaths in through his nose, and out through his mouth. His hair obscured his face as he said, “I could have killed him.”
Tim didn’t reply. Roy pushed himself up and ran a hand over his face, pushing up his mask briefly to press hard into his eyes. “I pressed the fucking detonator and I could have killed him.” He raked his hands into his hair. “Fuck. Fuck.”
Tim realised that Roy’s chin was trembling, breath hitching. He wished Dick was here but it seemed rude to leave now.
It also would be rude to say, “I told you so.” Again.
In truth, it had happened so quickly. They’d planned to blow the building where Joker was manufacturing his latest batch of toxin. They’d planned for the building to be empty.
But Joker had been there. Taunting them. Laughing. Jason had reacted like he always did, dramatically and self-destructively, and charged inside. There was the sound of a struggle, of unhinged gleeful laughter.
Arsenal had been on a roof across the street, waiting for Red Hood to give the signal to blow the charges.
The signal had come, and Jason was still inside. Tim had barely had time to shout, “No, hold!” before the blast hit. It had been less than a minute since Jason ran into the building. Tim could picture it, imagining Hood furiously tackling the Joker, dragging him cackling and shrieking towards the charges, pinning him in place so there was no escape this time.
Jason, you asshole, Tim thought, not for the first time and hopefully not the last.
It was absolutely typical Red Hood, to react without considering the total shitshow he’d be leaving in his wake.
And Roy knew that. He knew Jason didn’t think straight when it came to the Joker.
But they couldn’t go back now. If Roy was to be believed, Joker was dead. Tim knew that Jason would, if he ever woke up, tell everyone that it had been worth it and sever contact with anyone who disagreed.
Tim let Roy have another minute to splash some water on his face before nudging him towards the door with a gentle hand.
-_-
Brenda watched the three vigilantes discretely over her monitors from behind the reception desk. She didn’t want to stare and make them feel like they were in a fishbowl – not in a moment like this – but she was still curious and more than a little star-struck.
She’d never seen any of the Bats up close, and she was privately proud of herself for not becoming flustered when speaking to them earlier.
In truth, she had no idea if the hospital needed Red Hood’s real name, address, and insurance information. It seemed crass to ask though. She likened it to misgendering someone: She hated when patients were transitioning and she had to awkwardly list their deadname in their file, just because their insurance was still under that name even though they had a new driver’s licence. Transitioning was a bureaucratic nightmare but she still wanted to be sensitive about it.
Brenda felt the same surge of protectiveness here: She’d let herself take the fall if the hospital asked why she hadn’t pushed for personal details for one of Gotham’s most notorious antiheroes. Red Hood did good things for the city – they all did – and they deserved privacy and dignity just like any other patient.
The doctors could treat him without knowing his street address or middle name. She wasn’t a medical professional but she knew they didn’t need a phone number to do a blood transfusion. Okay, maybe the next of kin situation would get tricky if they didn’t have legal details but this wouldn’t be the first time that someone had been brought in unresponsive and unidentified.
So the hospital wouldn’t be able to contact Red Hood’s primary physician for a health summary. So what. Brenda was getting fired up. If her supervisor challenged her on this, she’d go toe-to-toe. Brenda was terrible at sticking up for herself, but she had a strong sense of justice when it came to other people. Gotham owed the Red Hood.
Brenda liked the Quiet Reception desk. It was better for her sensory issues. It had been her idea to play gentle music and have low lights, to create a more calming environment for everyone. She liked being able to create a soothing space amid the chaos of a hospital.
Now, Brenda kept an eye on the people coming and going past the waiting room, making sure that there were no rubberneckers or people trying to sneakily film with their phones. She knew details would be leaked – god knows what it looked like outside the hospital already – but she could at least make sure that her Quiet Reception was a small haven from the wolves.
The redheaded vigilante, whose name she didn’t know, had put his head in his hands. Brenda didn’t think he was going to faint (after ten years of medical reception, she could spot a fainter a mile off) but her fingers automatically drifted to the handbag by her feet. She hesitated, wondering if she was overstepping or being unprofessional.
Before she could overthink it, Brenda fished out a small packet of jellybeans she kept on her at all times, in case her son had a meltdown. She walked over to the trio, who looked up as she approached.
“Here,” she said, handing the packet to the redhead. He had a beaded elastic bracelet just like the one Brenda’s son had made her when he was still in daycare. It looked incongruous with his bulletproof armour. “We’ve got water over there,” she pointed to the bubbler, “and I’ve got a stress ball at my desk if you need it.”
The redhead coughed a surprised laugh. “Thanks,” he said, fiddling with the plastic sachet. “I’m good. I think I’d destroy a stress ball right now.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened,” Brenda replied truthfully, heading back to her station. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
Her heart was racing. It was just a packet of jellybeans and some truncated forms, but she couldn’t think of any other way to say it: Thank you. Thank you for everything you’ve done for us.
-_-
Officer Derek was not having a good day.
Look, he didn’t like this any more than you did, alright? He was just doing his job. There’d been an explosion, set off by people who were technically wanted by the GPD. A man was dead. A terrible, ghoulish, demonic monster of a man, but technically a man.
And now Officer Derek, because of Life Choices, had to try to break through a picket line just to get into a hospital.
It was chaos. Press and police on one side, lined up outside the entrance to the hospital trying to gain entry. On the other side was a veritable wall of people blocking their way. The line was three bodies deep and formed a tightly-wrapped semi-circle around the building, completely cutting off access.
As if controlled by some hive mind, the wall would shift to politely absorb anyone with legitimate business in the hospital, accepting them without issue. If any member of the press or police tried to sneak or strong-arm their way past, the crowd reformed into something resembling impenetrable living steel.
Derek couldn’t figure out the crowd. It seemed like it was a mishmash of Red Hood’s crew (identifiable by their intimidating muscles and ‘RH’ branded tees), people who had come specifically for this (Derek spotted one or two hastily-made signs with slogans like Red Hood Is Innocent and the old classic ACAB!), and bystanders who’d seen what was going on and joined in.
The group’s demographics were sprawling but their intention was unified: Keep them out.
So Derek, already exhausted and on hour eleven of a fourteen-hour shift, was trying to radio for backup and break into a hospital like an asshole. He didn’t want this. Frankly, he couldn’t give a fuck if Red Hood was arrested. The Joker was dead. The official announcement had been made half an hour ago. In Derek’s opinion, it should be a day of celebration and a national holiday.
But instead, he and his colleagues had to circle the building and try to find an access point that wasn’t swarming with civilian defenders of the vigilante crew.
Actually, it wasn’t just civilians. Derek had watched in bafflement as one of the larger Red Hood goons (and that was saying something) congenially clapped a hospital security guard on the back and asked about his family. Turned out they’d done ju-jitsu together at the local gym last year.
So it was officially GPD against hospital security now. The police. Had to try to get past hospital security. This was ridiculous. Derek shouldn’t have to justify himself. Derek shouldn’t need to be radioing his superiors about this.
He wanted to go home. He wanted his bed. It was clean sheet day. What time was it now? Five in the morning?
Derek sighed. This crowd wasn’t going anywhere. Might as well take a breather and wait for the higher-ups to arrive. They could fight about it. Derek was clocking off.
-_-
“You absolute asshole.”
Sumitra didn’t mean to eavesdrop. She never did. During a cleaning shift in a hospital, you hear all sorts of things, usually things you don’t want to focus on because they’ll give you nightmares.
But this morning’s early shift was quiet, inside the hospital at least. There were hoards of people outside keeping visitors to the hospital to a bare minimum – and hadn’t that been a strange way to start her day. It reminded her of pandemic lockdowns, when only essential personnel were allowed in the hospital and it felt like a ghost town.
The Red Hood had been given a private room tucked behind the Quiet Reception area. Usually reserved for palliative care patients, it was a more secluded area than a patient in his condition would typically be situated. Sumitra had heard one of the nurses saying that Red Hood would normally be in the ICU, but because of his profile they needed to move him to another ward.
Well, that ward still needed cleaning. Sumitra quietly mopped the hallway, trying not to listen as she heard a low voice coming from the open door of Red Hood’s room. A glance inside showed that the curtains had been closed around the patient. The person speaking might not even realise the door was still open. She could see a bright red costume and tattooed arms, as the visitor leaned forward in his chair. She couldn’t see his face.
“You were going to let me kill you,” the man continued. Sumitra kept mopping. “You were going to let me be the one to blow you up, and you didn’t give a fuck. You fucking, absolute, self-righteous, self-absorbed, controlling asshole. You have no right, no right, to put that on me. You were gonna make me tell my daughter-“
The man drew in a wet, shuddering breath. Sumitra scrubbed at a dark spot on the wall by the door, not listening.
“You were gonna make me tell her you were gone. I fucking hate you. You’d better come out of this, because I’m going to fucking hate you for years and you need to make it up to me. Fuck you.”
The man sniffed and sighed. Sumitra slowly rolled her mop bucket down the hallway. He muttered something else, but she couldn’t make it out.
-_-
Franco was stressed. He’d woken up to the news, and hadn’t believed it. It felt like a prank. The Joker was dead? It was too good to be true.
Very discombobulated, he’d practically floated to work, mechanically opening up Franco’s Flowers on autopilot as he switched on the radio to hear the latest updates. Yes, it was confirmed by Gotham City Police. Yes, the remains were being held under guard to prevent zealots from attempting resurrections. A cremation was planned once the medical report was prepared by the coroner. Yes, Red Hood was also under guard at Gotham Hospital. He was alive but there had been no formal statement on his condition. Yes, there was still a blockade preventing police from accessing the building.
Later, Franco expected there would be riots. Later, there would be the gang struggles caused by a power vacuum. Later, there would be rewriting of history so that the police wouldn’t have to answer the question of why the Joker hadn’t been neutralised sooner.
But for now, there was virtual dancing in the streets. Batburger was giving out free Red Hood shakes and Jokerizing fries for no extra cost. There was a street artist already creating a huge mural at the park on Plain Street, commemorating the occasion with a skilful yet mildly tasteless rendering of the explosion. People were flooding social media and radio stations with stories of how the Joker had devastated their lives, and how they were individually processing the release of a city-wide collective trauma. Psychologists and trauma counsellors were offering telephone services for free.
So why was Franco stressed?
Everyone. Was sending. Flowers.
People were sending “Congratulations, The Joker’s Dead!” bouquets to everyone they knew who’d been impacted by the green-haired ghoul. Franco was out of champagne and it was only 9:15am.
And don’t get him started on all the gift baskets people were trying to send to the hospital. Franco had tried to explain, he couldn’t guarantee that anything bought for the Red Hood (or any superhero) would reach them because he didn’t know if Gotham General was allowing deliveries inside. He wouldn’t blame them if the hospital banned it all, since surely there would be some nutjobs wanting to get revenge for the Joker’s death by sending in explosives or weird clown robots or something.
Franco was grateful for the business, and ecstatic for the news, but he wished he’d known about this in advance so he could have rostered his shop accordingly. At the moment it was just him and Melissa, and she was very enthusiastic but still just learning.
Franco rolled his neck and cracked his fingers, watching the online orders come through as his phone lit up. Okay. He could do this. Let’s go.
-_-
That night, Red Robin stood outside Gotham General Hospital, surrounded by Red Hood’s goons and supporters, and read a prepared statement.
“Thank you for all the well-wishes and support. We greatly appreciate the efforts taken by Gotham General and the public to protect our privacy during this time. We thank the Gotham PD for their continuous protection of the city.”
(At this point, there were scattered boos from the assembled crowd and several of Red Hood’s crew members.)
“Nightwing and I want to reiterate that there’s been no change to the Bat-brand’s stance on lethal force. We believe that the best form of justice is courtroom justice, meted out by the fair and impartial members of the legal system and a jury of peers.”
(Some boos and faint applause.)
“The events that unfolded in the early hours of this morning were unplanned, and a loss of life is always regrettable. However, we believe we stand with all of Gotham when we say that it is a tremendous relief to know that the Joker will never again terrorize the people of this city.”
(The crowd erupted. Red Robin waited for the din to die down.)
“We are constantly in awe of, and humbled by, the courage and resilience shown by the people of Gotham. We are proud to fight for you, and stand alongside you. Thank you for the grace and gratitude you have shown us today.”
(More applause and some wolf whistles.)
“We understand that many of you are curious and concerned about Red Hood. As reports have indicated, he was in the building during the explosion that killed the Joker. Fortunately, thanks in part to his robust protective gear and helmet, he survived. His status was initially critical, but has since been downgraded to serious. He has not yet regained consciousness.
“We appreciate that many of you are invested in his wellbeing, but ask that you respect our privacy during this time. Rest assured, we will keep you updated on his condition. Our first priority at this stage, though, is to be with our brother. We deeply appreciate your understanding and respect.”
With a nod of thanks to the crowd, Red Robin slipped back inside the hospital.