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Tonight, you had planned to have an uneventful evening after a stressful day at work. You laze on your beat-up second-hand sofa as the TV plays a movie that one of your friends recommended. Snacks and a cup of tea lay on the black coffee table in front of you. The ambient noise of the city calms you down. The soft patter of rain on the window, the speeding cars on the road, the gunshots in the distance. All of them to be expected here in Gotham. You slowly drift to sleep when—
A loud bang shocks you awake. The sound of a body hitting metal. You get on your feet and look out the window. A silhouette of red with gold lies on your fire escape.
You recognize the costume. How could you not? Red Robin had saved your life once. Last year, when walking to the grocery story, you’d been caught by Poison Ivy. You still remember how her vines had wrapped around your limbs and throat. It was Red Robin that had cut them down and brought you to safety.
Maybe it’s due to that debt that you open the window. The cold night air and rain hit you. The vigilante is already scrambling up, clinging on to the rusted metal railing. From the soft light of the TV behind you, you see him shivering.
“You need help?” you ask softly. He turns around, leaning against the handrail. His eyes narrow slightly behind the black domino mask.
“I’m good,” the strain in his voice barely audible over the rain. The vigilante makes an attempt to climb onto the railing. It’s quite embarrassing, really, to see him sink to his knees the moment he puts any pressure on his left leg. In his kneeling position, he looks back at you ashamed. You tilt your head in question. He lets out an annoyed groan.
“Okay, fine,” he sighs. You hold out a hand. He braces himself for a moment, before getting on his feet and limping forward. He takes your hand and the cold floods your system. You carefully help him inside. You drop him unceremoniously on the couch. A painful grasp escapes his lips as he shifts to a more comfortable position.
The TV’s glow is barely enough to illuminate his face, so you go and turn on the overhead lights. Your eyes widen at the scene in front of you. A trail of blood leads across your floor to the couch. Your rug and cushions are slowly soaking in it. Red Robin is holding a hand to his left thigh in a desperate attempt to staunch the bleeding. His breathing is heavy, as if he’s not getting any air.
“What happened?” you ask, panic slowly rising inside you.
“Got shot,” he grunts. His unoccupied hand digs into his utility belt. “I need you to get me a rag or something.”
You nod, not trusting your voice, and head into the kitchenette with shaky legs. You take a deep breath before opening the cupboard, as if that’s the scariest thing you’ve face tonight. From the pile of towels in front of you, you pick the first one you get your hands on.
You return to the couch, kneel besides the bleeding vigilante and press the towel to his wound. You observe how the blood seeps through the fabric and you force your gaze away. You take note of the variety of medical supplies scattered on your couch. Gauze, half a packet of painkillers, a syringe with a mysterious green substance. Red Robin had taken them out, yet didn’t pay them any attention.
It’s the object currently in his hand that holds his focus, a tourniquet. It’s an inconspicuous black with red accents. The same red as his costume and his blood. He loosens the adhesive band and tries to lift his leg, but it barely leaves the ground. He grunts in frustration and tries again.
He sighs deeply, “Can you...?” He looks down at the now-red towel. His gloved hand rises to grab ahold of the towel and in turn you take the tourniquet. You lift his leg and slide it on, leaving his foot to rest on the coffee table. He discards the towel and shifts slightly as you reach his thigh.
“About three inches above the wound,” he instructs you. You do as he says. His hands shake as he stubbornly tries to take over and tighten the self-adhering band himself. But he can’t gather enough strength to get is secure. Irritation and worry fill you in equal measure as you see him struggle. Without words you help him. You let your eyes meet his, waiting for his next instructions.
“The– the windlass rod—” You look at the metal bar attached to the band. “—turn it until the bleeding stop.” Just like him, your hands are shaking as you turn the rod over and over. Pained moans and sharp breaths sound from the vigilante, but you don’t stop until he tells you to. You lock it in place.
You lean back slightly in relief. The rug underneath your fingers is sticky. You take a deep breath. The smell of blood makes you want to throw, but you swallow your revulsion down. The man, now no longer actively bleeding out on your furniture, throws his head back against the backrest of the couch, his eyes closed. You take the opportunity to truly take in his appearance for the first time.
His jet-black hair sticks to his forehead. There’s a cut above his eyebrow. The blood slowly drips down his mask. You take note of his costume. The black and red shirt and pants are form-fitting, showing of his toned physic. A cape fashioned like birdwings is sprawled underneath him. The gold colored accents on his gloves and utility belt had caught your attention during your first meeting. But you hadn’t noticed the Red Robin insignia in the middle of his chest. As you focus on it, you observe how his chest heaves up and down.
“Can you call someone for me?” He sounds out of breath. Glancing across the coffee table, you spot it near your abandoned tea. You wipe your hands clean on your pants and reach for it. He gives you the number. You put the phone on speaker and pray you got the right digits.
“How did you get this number?” a woman’s voice answers. You flinch at the harsh tone, but Red Robin isn’t perturbed.
“Oracle, I– I got shot. Comms are out. I need—“ he takes a deep breath, “—I need help.”
The sound of typing comes through the speakers. “Where are you right now?”
“Uhm, I don’t– I don’t—“ His eyes close for a second
“I’ll trace the call.”
“He’s at 170 Lupin Street, apartment 6B, in Newtown,” you interject. The typing pauses, before the woman, Oracle, clears her throat.
“Thank you, someone will come and get him.” The line is dead once she says that. You look back to the vigilante that crash-landed on your fire escape. His half-lidded eyes stare back. In the peaceful silence you wonder what he looks like underneath the mask. Who is he if he’s not wearing the costume? Could you become friends if you met him like that?
His eyes slide shut. It reawakens the panic in your heart. You quickly get on your feet and loom over him. For a moment you think he died, but to your relief you see his chest move up and down. It’s too slow and shallow to be healthy, but there’s movement at least.
You lift your hand and let your fingers ghost over the pulse point on his neck before pressing down softly. You feel warmth and a soft heartbeat. Your lack of medical knowledge makes you unsure whether it’s too weak, but your nerves still calm with each beat.
Without his instructions you are clueless to what else you could do for him. You could only sit tight and wait for help. In your head you’re already applying for extra first aid training at your job. How delusional to think you’d ever need it to save his life again.
Before realizing you’ve begun cupping his jaw. You rub your thumb over his cheekbone once and then pull away. To your surprise, he catches it, holds your hand in place. He lets out a small whine like he’s trying (and failing) to speak. While you have no idea what he’s asking for, you keep stroking his cheek. He leans into your touch and it fills your stomach with butterflies.
A soft tap on your floor breaks you out of your trance. The cold wind hits you. You pull away quickly and look to whoever interrupted this moment. A tall woman clad in black stands in your living room. Orphan, if you remember correctly. She doesn’t say anything, just walks up to the half-conscious hero and lifts him in her arms. She nods at you once and the two of them disappear into the night.