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By the time Commissioner Gordon arrived on the scene, it was swarming with the fifth precinct, EMTs, news cameras, and onlookers who were barely held back by the thin, yellow crime scene tape. He hopped out of the car, barely sparing the thought to lock it behind him and hope that whatever poor kid was driving had the keys. He immediately spotted Bullock standing in a knot of people, only about twenty feet from the door, which was currently leaking smoke and flames and sparks out into the air with continuous gusts. There was some sort of commotion going on inside---he could faintly hear gunshots and shouts even from the distance. He drew his pistol from its holster, just in case, and jogged over to join them. There was a definite yell as he reached them, and another gunshot. No one seemed to be dodging or taking cover. He had no idea what the hell was going on.
"Bullock!" He yelled at the asshole, who swiveled his head and looked resigned and exasperated. "What's going on?"
"It's Hood," Bullock said, tone heavy with frustration. "He's hurt, and he won't let anyone near him. The guys have been trying to coax him out for the past forty minutes."
Jim glanced sharply towards the doorway again at another gunshot and muffled yells. "Has someone called Batman yet?"
Bullock deadpanned. "Of course. I assume he's just as busy as we are, or he'd have been here like a shot, or at least sent one of the others."
Jim set his jaw. "Did...did he kill anyone?"
Bullock shrugged. "Not on purpose, I don't think. He didn't cause the explosion, and he's probably in just as bad a shape as the guys we've been hauling out of here."
"Speaking of which," Jim sighed. "How many?"
"So far?" Bullock shrugged again. "Seventeen. Sent 'em off to Gotham General. Two to the morgue. Guess they were too close to the blast."
He was interrupted near the end of his sentence by a sudden commotion at the door, and the entire group had their pistols at the ready when the figures emerged from the smoky interior.
"Geroff!" The Red Hood almost fell out of the door, his voice somehow managing to be a half-whine even through the filtration in his helmet.
"Hood, come on, stop! Listen to sense!" Hood was closely trailed by one of Bullock's lieutenants, who was trying valiantly to restrain him...but it was pretty obvious the lieutenant was trying not to hurt him any more than was absolutely necessary, and Hood was still strong and slippery enough to avoid him---and fast enough, Jim noted with frustration. They'd have to start doing harder training. An injured adolescent outrunning the police force was not a good sign.
Speaking of which, Hood was staggering as quickly as he could away from the rookies still pursuing him, but Jim could hear him panting even through his helmet, and he had one arm locked tight around his ribs, but blood was still leaking out and down the front of his jacket. Hood didn’t seem to notice the crowd, and kept limping and pushing his way out. The officers all held still and let him knock past them. But when he was only about three feet away from Jim, he took one step and his leg crumpled beneath him, and he started to fall. Jim had to holster his pistol quickly in order to half-catch the boy as he hit him square in the chest, hard, and kind of slid down. Jim locked an arm around his shoulders---cautiously, he wasn’t sure whether he was injured there---and glanced up at the others, who were staring bug-eyed.
"Will someone please call Batman again, and don't stop calling him until he comes to pick his kid up," Jim ordered, exasperated. Three officers immediately yanked their phones from their pockets and started fumbling with them.
"And could we get some help over here?" Jim raised his voice a bit and tried to catch the eye of the EMTs. One out of the cluster standing around the ambulance--an older man, maybe a bit younger than Jim himself--jogged over with a bag. "What've we got?" He asked the commissioner, already taking a knee beside him and unzipping the bag.
"No idea," Jim said tiredly. "I'm not entirely sure he's even still conscious," he admitted, glancing down at the boy, who was limp and still in his grip.
The medic--he was a paramedic, not an EMT, Jim reminded himself--shrugged, yanking on a rubber glove, and then carefully reached out, sliding his fingers under Hood's arm, attempting to lightly pry it away from his chest.
Hood tensed right up, and Jim heard him draw a sharp breath in all at once. He weakly squirmed away from the medic’s hands. "No...touching..." he gasped breathlessly, trying to push free again.
"Son, you need to hold still, unless you just want to die," the medic said sternly.
"So what'f I do. S'mmy life. I can...throw it away if I damn well please--" he broke off to pant. There was an odd rasp in his words that made Jim's throat tighten a bit.
"Look, I'm sure I'm not gonna get the chance to drag you into the ER. At least let me patch you up." Jim saw the man silently digging gauze and bandages out of his bag; clearly, he was going to do it whether he wanted it or not.
Hood sighed shakily. Jim could feel him trembling finely. He didn’t say anything--he didn’t seem to have the breath for it--but he slouched just the slightest bit, and the paramedic took that as permission to carefully pull Hood's arm away from his chest. His brows drew together a bit. Jim glanced down out of curiosity, but he nearly bit through his tongue at the sight of a jagged piece of metal sticking out of Hood's side, between his ribs.
"Kid," the medic said slowly, voice calm, "Can you breathe okay?"
“Does it--” Hood panted, “sound like it?”
“Take that as a no, then,” the medic said dryly, but he was digging quickly and carefully in his bag, pulling out a stethoscope and a few small sealed packages.
Hood didn’t answer, just slumped against Jim and gasped tiredly.
The medic pulled a pocket knife from his belt and sliced down the side of Hood’s shirt, pulling the slash apart to make room to work. Hood sighed raggedly but otherwise didn’t react.
Jim watched with a wrinkled brow as the medic pressed the stethoscope to the boy’s ribs, moving the diaphragm around and listening for a moment. He glanced up at Jim. “He really should be headed to the hospital. Right now.”
“No. Hospitals.” Hood rasped hoarsely, barely moving against Jim.
The medic mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “oh, fuck it,” under his breath, and then said, “Alright then, we’re improvising. Set him down. Garcia! Mitchell!” He yelled back towards the ambulance. “Get a length of tubing and some oxygen over here, please!”
Jim eased the boy down towards the pavement with surprisingly little resistance. “What’ve we got?” He asked the medic, beginning to feel just a little bit more stressed. Batman was nowhere to be found, and he would not be happy if anything happened to Hood while he wasn’t there, and especially under Gordon’s watch.
“Sounds like the beginnings of a tension pneumothorax,” the medic said, cutting more of Hood’s shirt away. “Thank God it’s just the one wound and not too deep, or there’d be no way in hell we could treat it out here.”
One of Gordon’s lieutenants--Ross, he knows, the first name he’s not sure of. James-something, maybe--steps up behind Gordon. “We got through to someone. Not sure which one of them it was. Didn’t talk much. Said something about a mean lizard and nice clay?”
“Black Bat,” Gordon mumbled exhaustedly. Raising his voice, he added, “They’re probably trying to wrangle Croc with Clayface, then.”
Ross reacted stone-faced. “Oookay. She assured us that someone would be by as quickly as possible. I think.”
“Great,” Gordon said, mock-brightly, turning back to the situation at hand with no small amount of alarm when he heard Hood again. His breathing was sharp and high and loud; he’d only been talking to Ross for a few seconds. The other two paramedics had arrived and were conferring with the first one and working quickly in combination. One was swabbing the area around the shrapnel, the other unrolling tubing, and the first one was tearing open plastic packaging around a syringe. He also raised his head at the sound of Hood and ordered, “Someone put oxygen on that kid, now.”
As soon as a hand came within an inch of Hood’s head, his arm--over the shrapnel, no less--was batting out and knocking the hands away from him. “No!” He growled breathily, and shoved away weakly by a half a foot at most before he slumped back onto the pavement.
The two paramedics moved automatically to follow, glancing at their senior as they went. He exhaled in frustration and shook his head. “Give it a few more seconds. He won’t be able to fight you off.”
Sure enough, one of the two--Garcia, Gordon noted--managed to carefully remove Hood’s helmet while the other was working. Gordon tensed even as he watched her doing it, hand on his gun. He hoped they were right, and Hood was too out of it to try anything, and he didn’t think Hood had been for his older, bloodier ways in a while, but--
The instant the helmet was off he loosed his grip. Batman’s second oldest was conscious, but barely, green eyes shifting dully. He was pale as a sheet with twitching blue lips and half-lidded eyes, black hair plastered to his forehead. The slightest hints of a scowl crossed his face for an instant and quickly gave way to pained listlessness.
He looked about twelve. Well, not really, but…..young.
“Shit,” Garcia mumbled under her breath with feeling, and Gordon was apt to agree. Mitchell shook his head and grabbed the oxygen mask again, pressing it to the boy’s face without hesitation and moving his hand on his non-injured side on top of it. “Hold that there,” he instructed, not unkindly.
Hood did, and blinked his eyes shut and breathed, slack against the pavement.
Gordon glanced at what they were doing to Hood’s side, caught a glimpse of a needle sliding into skin smeared with dried blood, and turned away, guilt churning in his stomach.
Bullock came over and whistled through his teeth. “Not good, huh?”
“Yeah,” Jim gritted, nervously running a hand through his beard.
“—Yeah. A word?” Bullock tugged him off a couple steps. Jim glanced back at Hood in confusion and Bullock released him quickly and wove around in front of him. “Are we taking him in?”
“Are we ta--what? What are you talking about?” Jim asked incredulously, but Bullock’s eyes were serious. “Jim. You know what he’s done. You know what he can do.”
“He’s a kid.” Jim hissed. “And they’d kill him in Arkham. If Joker found out---”
“No,” Bullock instantly bit out, with an expression like he’d eaten something rotten that told Jim he’d hit a nerve, “but come on ...twenty is not a kid, and even today he was involved and the Bat hasn’t come for him yet…”
“He will.” Jim insisted.
Bullock looked skeptical. “Look, I’ll admit I don’t know the guy as well as you, but without the Bat here to vouch for him, he has no leeway. I’m not saying I want to drag him into custody on a stretcher, but---”
“We’re not dragging him anywhere, Harvey.” Jim left no room for debate in his tone. “You’re right. You don’t know the Bat as well as I do. So trust me when I say,” Jim emphasized with a finger pointed decidedly at Hood--Jason , his name was Jason. “That he is coming for that kid, and when he does, I’m not going to be the one to tell him I want to lock him up with the same criminals who try to kill him on a weekly basis. Got it?”
Harvey didn’t look pleased, but nodded. “Yeah,” he relented with a huff.
That settled, Jim stepped back, satisfied, and headed back in the direction of the little knot of paramedics.
Garcia and the older guy were on their feet, gathering trash into one of the plastic bags, and Mitchell was still on his knees beside Jason, carefully applying tape around the gauze on his side. Jason looked like he was on the verge of drifting off, his lashes fluttering against his still-pale cheeks and his eyes half-unseeing.
“Gave him a dose of painkillers. He’ll be drowsy for a few hours, at least,” the older medic addressed Jim.
Jim nodded, glancing up and around at the scene. The fire was mostly contained now, and a couple firefighters were wrapping one of the hoses up in a mechanism in the truck, only about twenty feet behind the spot where Hood was sprawled out. They were casting furtive glances at Jason every few seconds, and Jim could make out the quiet, “holy shit, dude, he’s just a kid,” and a “why the hell is he here,” pretty clearly. Stifling a sigh, he glanced around. Come on, Batman.
Just as Gordon was pulling his phone out of his pocket in an attempt to buzz Batman again, there was a distinctive thud of someone landing on the pavement behind him, and Gordon turned, but Nightwing was already past him and kneeling beside Jason.
Jim sighed, and turned around again and nearly jumped when he came face to face with Catwoman. “S-Shit!” He managed to stifle what was going to be a jump but wound up as more of a full-body shudder. “You all have to stop doing that to me. One of these days…” he muttered.
Catwoman gave a slight grin beneath her mask. “Sorry. What happened?”
“Warehouse explosion. He took some shrapnel. Paramedics removed it and dealt with the collapsed lung it was causing.” Jim stepped closer to Jason as he spoke, and Catwoman followed. Dick was brushing Jason’s hair back, and Jason was blinking his eyes open and squinting up at him. “Oh. Hey, w’ing.” He mumbled blearily, as if his tongue weren’t working properly. His eyelids dropped shut again. “Wh’re’s D’d?”
“Coming.” Nightwind assured, continuing to smooth Hood’s bangs back. “We’ll getcha home real quick.”
“Sweet,” Hood said, and didn’t talk again.
Gordon watched the exchange with an odd wistfulness twisting in his chest, but was distracted by the familiar click of a grapple. He and Catwoman turned to see Batman swinging down from a nearby building. He released his grapple while he was still six feet above the ground and stuck his landing effortlessly, standing again to stride quickly over towards Hood, throwing a breathless “How is he?” over his shoulder at Gordon as he went. Or at Catwoman. Or both. Who knew.
“Fine, now.” The head medic spoke up before Gordon could. “Some second degree burns, bruising, mostly mild lacerations. That side is the worst of it.”
Batman’s gloved fingers ran the length of the tape on Hood’s side, before moving to his pale face and gently taking his chin in two fingers, tilting his head to the side carefully. He glanced at Nightwing.
“Think he’s asleep,” The younger man responded, a mix of fond and concerned. “You know what pain meds do to him.”
Batman simply nodded knowingly and turned back to the boy. His hand moved to the pulse point in Hood’s neck as he pressed at his earpiece. “Red Robin? Send the car to the warehouse district at Block 84 if you don’t mind. We’re taking Hood home. I’ll be back out if I can, but if not we’ll meet up later. Thank you.”
With that finished, he glanced up at the medics. “You wouldn’t have a stretcher to spare, would you?”
“Wait. You don’t carry one of those around?” Bullock said loudly from a good distance away, incredulous. Batman’s jaw twitched beneath the cowl. The medics rolled their eyes as well, and Garcia strode off to the ambulance, Mitchell on her heels. The older medic casually strolled over to stand over Batman and Hood after they were a bit away.
“How old is he?” The medic asked conversationally, like he was a cashier at a restaurant or something.
Batman’s neck ticked. “Nineteen.”
“Hmm. I’ve got a daughter his age,” the medic chewed at the side of his lip as he studied Hood. “Got an awful lot of scars for a nineteen-year-old.”
“He had plenty before he ever met me.” It should have sounded defensive, but it was sad instead of angry. Defeated.
“I don’t doubt it.” The medic replied. “Plenty of kids do in Gotham. Seen my fair share, unfortunately.”
“So have I.” Batman sighed.
Garcia and Mitchell returned with a clanking and rattling stretcher dragged along between them. They slowed to a stop parallel to Hood, and carefully collapsed the thing. Batman turned towards Jason, and the two firemen jogged over. “Need help?” One of them asked.
“Please,” Batman replied, and the three of them worked together to lift the boy onto the stretcher, Garcia and Mitchell lowering the rails for them. Nightwing appeared from somewhere with a blanket which he quickly tucked around the prone body as soon as he was safely lying in the stretcher. Batman worked with the medics and firemen to secure the straps and lock the stretcher open. They all straightened and took a step back when they were done to give Batman some space next to the stretcher. Jason blinked his eyes open for a moment, then closed them again. “Dad?” He croaked, muffled beneath the fogged oxygen mask.
“Yes. I’m here, J.” Batman’s hand rested lightly on top of his head again. It was large enough to almost cover one side.
Hood made a breathy noise and pressed his face against the hand, his exhale lifting a few strands of hair off his face. “Hi.”
Batman gave a strained chuckle. “Hi back.” He kept his hand slowly stroking the boy’s head as he drifted off again, going quiet and still, but breathing.
The roar of the car became audible, and the small group turned their heads towards the approaching noise for a second. Batman gave the smallest glance before turning back.
The car swung around a corner and roared up to pull to a quick stop at a safe distance from the burning building. Batman straightened and took hold of the rail of the bed, and the older medic and Mitchell stepped up to help. Garcia jogged over behind Nightwing to open the back door of the truck for them.
“S? If you wouldn’t mind to drive--?” Batman turned his head to ask, but she was already nodding and headed around to the driver’s seat.
The firemen took two corners near the back, and Bruce and the senior medic took the head of the stretcher and eased it into the back and got it settled. A set of tethers was tied neatly to the rivets inside, and Batman tugged them loose and tossed one to the medic. The two of them tied the gurney into place so jostling would be kept to a minimum for the drive back.
When they’d finished, Bruce looked up, a hint awkwardly. He sank into a crouch beside the gurney. Thankfully, the medic took the hint and nodded to him, and backed out towards the pavement.
“Thank you,” Batman said lowly, as he stepped down and out of the van.
The medic straightened, back in the small crowd of emergency responders. “You’re welcome,” he replied firmly.
Nightwing stepped up and nodded at Batman, and carefully shut the back doors. He glanced back at the Commissioner, and Bullock, and the medics and firemen. “Really,” he said, a little bashfully, raking a hand through his hair. “Thank you. He doesn’t say much,” he gestured at the back of the van to indicate Batman, “but it...really means a lot to him.”
Jim would have spoken up, reassured Nightwing, if the head medic hadn’t beat him to it. “After everything he’s done, for this city, and every one of us? It’s the least we can do.” He leveled his gaze at Nightwing, shoulders squared. “The absolute least.”
Jim knew Dick pretty well--had known him since he was a kid--and he could tell that he was about this close to crying at that statement, so he was relieved when he just nodded quickly instead, and murmured another quiet “thank you,” and ran to get in the car with a wave goodbye.
The engine roared to life only moments after he’d loaded up, and the whole hulking behemoth of a “car” slowly, meticulously turned around---Jim had to stifle a laugh with a cough, imagining how Batman was probably reacting to Catwoman driving his car with people she didn’t want to hit around--and sped off into the night, leaving the small crowd in its wake.
A collective sigh seemed to escape all of them as they turned back to their respective work. It would still be a long night for all of them. The medics still had criminal patients to be triaged and treated and transported to the hospital, the GCPD still had evidence to be gathered and statements to be made and prisoners to transport. It would be early morning before they were through.
Still, it was somewhat of a weight off their shoulders to see the Bats safely off the court, if only for a bit. They’d handle the rest of the mess.
Bullock drifted past Jim again eventually, shaking his head while sipping in earnest on a fresh coffee that had appeared from somewhere, a to-go box full of them sitting on the hood of a squad car. “I dunno how he does it, Jim.”
Jim shrugged, grabbing one for himself. “I don’t, either. Let’s both just be grateful he can.”