For you, There's Nothing In This World I Wouldn't Do
The alarms sound at the end of the prison's book club.
The Joker's are after you.
And who the hell is this "Red Hood' guy and why is he trying to get you to believe he'd save you when his name is an homage to the Joker? When you killed the Joker?
You are finishing up the book club discussion, summarizing what you and the other prisoners learned this week, when the emergency lights go off in the prison and the entire complex goes on lockdown.
The guards begin yelling.
“Single file! Hands behind your head!” The guards are all female. The lawyer Bruce had paid for made sure you landed in a ‘nicer’ women’s prison.
You ignore the trembling in your hands as you all drop your paperback books. They hadn’t allowed you to buy them all hardcovers.
“What do you think it is this time?” Debora says as her eyes slide to you. She got twenty years after finally snapping and murdering her abusive husband. Never mind the fact the law never gave him his due justice. She’s looking at you because the last break in was your fault too.
Afterall.
Every criminal wanted the bragging rights of killing the girl who killed the Joker.
Or his fanatics wanted revenge on you.
Because of that there have been several attempts on your life.
Debora is far from the only pair of eyes on you. You would have thought you’d be used to it by now. After your trial, the mass media frenzy-of which you had only granted Lois Lane an interview- Bruce’s lawyer had gotten you a sweetheart deal based on the fact you had been a minor when you had taken the gun of your departed cop father and had used the skills taught to you by Jason and shot that sick fuck dead.
It had worked exactly because you were a nobody civilian girl. The Joker hadn’t expected it, neither had the Batclan, or the cops. Hell you weren’t even sure you’d be able to do it until the bullets had left their chambers.
You swallow back tears.
Jason.
It had been for him. In his name. You had told Lois that and she had published it to the world. You even started this prisoner’s book club with him in mind, remembering how you two used to read together. The club routinely read his favorites.
“Sweetie, why don’t you stay close to me, they could be after you again!” Esther frets. She killed her daughter's boyfriend after the boyfriend murdered her daughter. As the youngest person in the women’s prison she was rather protective over you.
“Quiet!” The guards snap.
Single file, you all begin to make your way to your cells from the common room.
The lights go off.
Esther screams.
“Down on the ground into your cells!” the guards bark and you can hear the fear and confusion they try to hide.
You all struggle to comply as their flashlights click on.
“Wait a minute, why go into our cells if we have intruders again? We’d all be sitting ducks!” Debora cries.
Three people had died last time.
Two prisoners and a guard.
You tried not to drown in your guilt.
The women stop obeying. They inch back from their cells as if to run and your heart jumps in your throat. The last thing needed is a prison riot.
“What if they’re after her?” A third prisoner accused, pointing towards you. A former henchwoman for some C-lister, she lacked sympathy for you.
The woman stares at you again and you go cold.
“That's enough!” Rachel spits, a guard who had looked at you in awe and asked for your autograph. Most people upon hearing of your new fame either tried to kill you or fell over you in an odd parasocial admiration for killing the Joker. “Back to your cells, or else!” She pulls out her gun.
The women skitter to their cells. Esther sends you one last look of concern.
Your cell is at the very end of the hall and right before you can enter another guard grabs your bicep.
“Come with me.” She ordered. You recognize her as Maeve.
You consider screaming. Then you are relieved because if the intruders really are after you then at least these other women won’t be in danger.
Maeve marches you quickly. The power flickers even with the backup generator and distantly you hear screams.
Gunshots.
Your scream catches in your throat as Maeve shoves you forward frantically.
“Breach! The Jokers have breached cell-block D-” The Walkie spits out in garbled static and Maeve curses as she frantically lowers the volume, gun now pointed at you.
You don’t dare speak.
The voice had sounded like Rachel's.
Cell-block D is where you had just come from.
What would happen to Rachel? Esther? Debora?
And why the hell is she pointing a gun at you? You had been nothing but a model prisoner! You had even taken the money Bruce had put on your books and started a reading club and bought everyone their own copies!
“Don’t give me that look! You have no idea how much trouble you were to keep secure.” Maeve spits. “Walk!”
You do.
The two of you can’t turn back with the echoes of gunshots and cell doors opening and women shouting so you press on deeper into the bowels of the prison, several floors underground.
But it doesn’t matter.
The Jokers catch up quickly.
It should have been impossible for them to know how to follow the path you two took. Unless….
“Someone told them how to find us.” You whisper to Maeve.
She swears.
The first Joker is a young man your age, clearly caught up in the cult. So many desperate driven insane, hooked on the laughing drug of Joker’s, made crazier after his death. This young man's skin is completely covered in tattoos and bright colors, and his hair is short cropped and dyed a bright red.
“Give her here, and it’ll all be over.” You expected insane laughter, but somehow his smooth, amused tone is scarier.
He’s covered in blood.
“Who let you in?” Maeve barks and is ignored.
He turns to you instead.
“This is the girl that killed the Joker? A mousy little nerd, isn't she?”
You’d have a snappy comeback if you weren’t shaking.
The two other Jokers come in dragging the body of Rachel behind them and you can’t help but cry out.
“Aww, was she your friend?” One of the girl-Joker’s coos, painting a heart from blood on the cheek of Rachel. You can’t tell if she was dead or not. The remaining two are pointing guns at you and Maeve.
“Get away from her!” Maeve growls. You stand behind her relieved it’s not pointed at you anymore. Maeve and Rachel were good friends despite the occasional disagreement.
“Only if you get away from her. Got plans for her.” He leers at you.
And to your horror.
Maeve inches away from you.
They drop Rachel.
“What-You’re leaving me?” Your voice cracks. You hate how young you sound and evidentially so does Maeve because she looks away from you in shame. You still don’t even know how the Jokers got in here, probably a security breach from a corrupt cop.
You are left uncovered. Your arms are behind your back and handcuffed.
The Jokers lunges.
So does Maeve,
The gun goes off and shoots Maeve through her head and you scream. Her finger squeezes the trigger in death and takes down one of the four jokers with a shot through the chest.
The splatters of blood gets into the eyes of the lunging jokers and you are able to dance around them and around the corner. There is no cover in a carefully designed prison. You are flexible enough to loop your arms under your knees and then your feet, barely squeezing through the circle of your arms so your arms are still bound but at least in front of you.
You clasp them together into a large fist and crouch at the corner. No chance of out running.
You feel that animal in you.
That rage.
You looked mousy but you grew up in Crime-Alley same as Jason. Who then personally taught you self-defense as he worried for your safety. Not your first rodeo.
The bitch turns the corner sharply and you get her right in the fucking mouth. You pull something in your dominant wrist but it’s worth it.
Her gun skids from her hand onto the floor.
The third Joker rounds the corner and lifts her gun.
She’s aiming to incapacitate you with a shot to the leg as they want to take their time torturing and killing the person who killed their leader. But she’s not anticipating her peer in her daze and fury to leap at you-
-and directly in the line of fire.
Another kill shot.
The Henchwoman screams as she kills her friend.
You lunge for the gun and are able to shoot the girl’s shoulder. You can’t tell if that's a kill shot too. If it is, she’ll be the second ever person you’ve killed, if you could call the Joker a person.
The final Joker comes around the corner and before you can fire he slams you into the wall.
His breath is acidic, he’s way too strong for you and he lifts you up again and bashes you against the wall.
You are so stunned your ears ring.
You drop the gun.
“Been waiting for that, your face is too funny!” He finally laughs. The blood from the new cut on your forehead mixes with your sweat and tears and he leans forward to lick it off your cheek.
He will pay for that moment of cruelty, mockery toward you
You turn your head like a snapping turtle and bite it off.
He rears back, mouth open in a gargled scream that sprays you with more blood. You drop on your leg awkwardly and shout in pain as something in your ankle gives.
You pull yourself to your good leg and begin to hobble as fast as you can, deer into the bowels of the prison. You pass the body of the now two dead guards, the dead jokers, and the one still alive and moaning from her shot shoulder. You take another gun from Rachel’s body and access keys from both of them. You unhandcuff yourself using their keys..
And take a suspicious access key from the dead Joker.
Administrative.
Either stolen from the main office or given to them from a mole.
Even if you’re able to hobble back up there’s a chance you’d find yourself in the hands of a spy.
When you go to open the door to hobble up the stairs with your injured ankle it’s only open for a second, long enough for you to see the shadow of several more Jokers descending before you slam it shut, relocking it.
The other Joker is now getting up from the hallway.
You literally can’t run.
You grab the gun and hobble past him cursing in your mind as you leave bloody footprints behind from the pools you had stepped in
You’re not sure how your day went from quaint book club to survival horror in an instant. But that was Gotham for you, even if you were technically in the unincorporated Appalachian mountain foothills where the prison was located, on top of old mineshafts and miles of natural tunnels.
The Joker who’s tongue you bit off hauls himself from the floor, rage in the sound of his fist slamming against the wall. He was hurt, but not down.
The gun you’re holding only has one bullet left, and your dominant hand is sprained and shaking. If you get that shot wrong he’d take you down. If the hardness in his pants had meant anything when he pinned you to the wall he’d really enjoy it too.
You don’t know the layout of the prison this deep. Your pilfered administrative access key keeps letting you in deeper and you’re sure you’re under the prison by the time cells turn into storage, hallways lined with old flickering bulbs that lead to cold war bunkers.
You’re not sure if the Joker is still following you.
Probably.
You keep limping like you’re trying to bury yourself, preemptively end it out of sheer terror.
And curiosity.
Book always in a nose, cause you were nosy. How deep do these tunnels go? Every limp is another toss of the shovel over your shoulder as you dig yourself into a deeper hole.
You can’t help but feel you are descending into hell.
You’re in yet another hallway when a crunch echoes from all the way down the hallway and you see the faint figure of a hulking man.
He’s not the same Joker who’s tongue you bit off.
In the flickering bulbs you can make out a red helmet.
A Red Hood.
Like the Joker’s earliest alias. You had studied the man with Jason when he had first become Robin. Those frantic notes taken to track down his birth-mother and the Joker had allowed you to track him down and kill him when the Bats or cops couldn’t.
This must be the leader of this break-in operation.
The sheer terror you feel as you both lock eyes is beyond anything you’ve ever experienced. He’s taken the same route so there’s no turning back.
When he sees you he stills.
Not the freezing of a deer in the headlights like yourself, but the stillness of a predator whose spotted prey. Standing in the double doors you just walked through you can tell he clears six feet easily. He’s covered in blood too.
You scream.
It echoes off the tunnel walls.
He lifts his hands, you can’t tell to do what, maybe to shoot you with the two guns you see are strapped to both thighs, but you’re turning and scrambling away,
You can’t run.
You have one bullet.
Your wrist and ankle are sprained.
You barrel into an old cold-war office and huddle in the corner, taking the safety off, and aiming.
He walks to the door.
His shadow is impossibly large and when he appears he’s so much larger you almost give up and turn the gun to yourself.
He takes up the whole frame. It’s as if the darkness tried to swallow him whole but found he was too big for it, the way he erupts into the frame, frantic.
“Stop. I’ll shoot.” You’re so terrified you can’t even muster up the energy to scream, just faintly tell him what you’re willing to do.
He raises his hands in surrender.
All it does is reveal how muscular he is, how heavily armed he is.
And then.
He murmurs your name like a prayer.
“You’re okay.” He says. The sheer relief in his voice nearly makes you drop your gun in shock.
His hand reaches out like he’s moving to cradle your face.
“Stop!” you wail. You would have shot but you don’t know how thick that helmet is, if he's wearing kevlar.
And he listens!
He takes a step back like it pains him to move away. His helmet tilts ever so slightly as he scans your whole body. When he sees your bruised ankle his upright fists clench.
How! How did he know your name? He really was here to kill you with the other Jokers wasn’t he!? Was he part of the group you had shut off when you slammed it closed? It’s possible they killed another guard and got their access keys!
“Let me get you out of here. I won’t let you die down here.” He begs. His voice is deep and it trembles faintly. In fear? An oddly human and relatable emotion from him. You hadn’t bothered to take the time to tell the Joker why you wanted to kill him. To let him plead his case. You just shot him. A boring end for Gotham’s most theatrical villain.
“So you’ll bring me up with the rest of the Joker’s to torture and murder slowly?” You quake.
He reels back.
His shoulders move like mountains.
“I’m not one of them!” The venom and disgust in his voice makes you flinch and he sees that.
“Not mad at you. Never you. I just-I hate the Jokers.” His tone starts tender so when he snarls at the end you look at him bug-eyed. He’s not doing anything to prove he’s less insane than the Joker’s.
“So what? You’re some unaffiliated third party here solely to rescue me?” You say sarcastically then freeze in terror upon realizing you’re mouthing off to an extremely powerful unknown.
But he seems amused by it.
He nods.
“I caught wind that the Jokers were planning a raid. To kill you.” His fists clench like that personally offends him. You flinch back.
“Hey. None of that. If I’m angry it’s not at you. I’d never hurt you.” His voice gets so gentle you don’t understand it.
“Why are you speaking to me like we’re friends?” You ask nervously.
He flinches like you’ve struck him.
Oh good lord. Was this another weird parasocial thing?
“Why should I trust you? What are you going to do with me?”
“Lead you out of here. Protect you from the Jokers. You shouldn't even be here in this damn prison. You didn’t do anything wrong! You-” His voice cuts out, like a teenager going through puberty. “ -You were just doing it for your best friend. Your family.” He quotes your Lois Lane article like he's read it a thousand times. He recites it like poetry. His hand goes to over the breast pocket of his jacket, right over his heart.
“Hands stay raised!” You bark.
They go back up.
He’s really just humoring you. His reflexes would be faster than you’d be able to get your sprained hand to respond.
But he doesn’t know you have a sprained hand and only one bullet left.
“Why should I trust you?” You say. You begin to cry and you see his helmet track the first tear, how it tilts to follow it to the ground.
“You wear a Red Hood. Like how that was an early moniker of the Joker’s. Why shouldn’t I think you’re one of them?”
He realizes you’ve made a damn good point.
“You’re scary.” You say. It slips out.
He lets out a shuddering breath like it hurts him to hear that. Why does your lack of faith in him seem to cripple this man?
“I know. I didn’t ask for it but I make the most of it now.” He says, voice thick. “I’m sorry I scare you. Can’t say I blame ya.”
His body language is purposefully gentle.
“I…I’m going to remove my helmet. Partially. To show you why you should let me help you.”
You hold your breath.
He unlocks the helmet to reveal a strong neck and the bottom corner of his jaw and cheek.
He hesitates.
He audibly sucks in a steadying breath, exhales slowly, then lifts his helmet.
His visible face is horribly scarred and covered in scruff, the face of a man. And yet with a suppleness and hints of acne that indicated youth. He had to be around your age and you are stunned that a man this powerful could be so young.
Only the corner of his mouth is visible, and it’s trembling.
Somehow he’s just as nervous as you are.
And then you see it.
A Initial.
A J shaped scar.
For the Joker.
You see red.
It was uncommon but not unheard of for Joker to brand his victims of significance. He’d cut or burn with acid or heat his J in their faces.
Jason had been one of them.
This young man had been branded by the Joker. Nearly killed by the looks of him. Hell those head injuries should have killed him. Like Jason.
Despite yourself the gun you’re holding begins to waver. Being that deeply hurt by the joker did give this guy a believable motive for wanting to fuck with the Joker’s plans.
“Pretty ugly, isn’t it?” His tone is light and joking. He refuses to take his helmet the rest of the way off and you can’t blame him. You’re impressed with the amount of vulnerability he’s showing you know and you so desperately want to trust him…
You tremble.
Bite your lip.
Your gun wavers.
And then a figure blooms from the shadows. Blood drips from his mouth like saliva from a hungry predator.
It's the first of the Jokers.
The leader whose tongue you had bitten off.
He’s wielding a fire axe and it’s coming down in an arc of death right to the now exposed neck of the Red Hood.
You pull the trigger.
A red circle immediately stamps itself into the forehead of the lunging man and your gun makes several audible devastating clicks signaling its empty chambers as you instinctually keep firing at the arm holding the axe, hoping to shoot it away.
Red Hood had stood frozen like a man awaiting his judgement from you.
Then when he realized you were aiming at something behind him due to the desperate empty clicks of your gun he had rolled to the side just in time to avoid the heavy swing of the axe.
He catches it instead in a smooth liquid movement full of feline grace.
And stares at the body thuds to the ground behind him.
The silence echoes.
Red Hood had yanked his hood back down and is now a monolith of reds, blacks, and gunmetal grays.
And both of you now know you have no bullets left.
His head turns slowly to you.
His chest heaves despite being mostly still these past several minutes.
He steps towards you still holding the axe but he wouldn’t need it to kill you.
“Just make it fast. Please.” You sob quietly, not even bothering to throw your gun at him and letting it clink harmlessly to the floor at your side.
Red Hood staggers.
He drops the axe in a large clatter and sinks to his knees in front of your huddled, shivering form.
“You saved me, and you think I’m going to kill you.” He croaks. He stares at his own trembling hands, then at the useless gun.
“I was never going to hurt you please understand that. And now I only want to get you out of here. I want you okay, I need you okay.” He begs you. Even sitting in front of you he towers without trying.
“What choice do I have?” You sob.
He flinches.
“You always have choices. I’ll go out there and kill the rest. I’ll go get some of the guards. I’ll find a crutch and you can limp back but you could also let me help you.”
Silence.
There is something so familiar about him. The way he talks is like reading from the pages of a book. You know him from somewhere and that inspires terror and hope in equal parts. It’s like spotting an actor in one movie then trying to place how you know them.
He mistakes your silence for rejection.
“I know you don’t trust me.” And he’s crying! His voice is thick with tears! But why does your lack of acceptance hurt him so?
He reaches into a pocket.
Stops when you flinch.
He pulls out ammo.
Red Hood slides your gun to your hand then the ammo. He steps back with his hands raised. Watches as you refill the chambers with shaky hands, take the safety off and point it at him.
“Please.”
A beat.
You lower the gun.
“...How do you plan on getting me out of here since I can’t walk?” Your voice trembles.
He animates with hope.
“May I carry you?”
Your eyes widen at the idea of being so high up off the ground but you’re trembling with exhaustion, cold, and honestly you’re realizing he’s got a nice body. You don’t know nearly enough about this young man except that he has taken great pains to comfort and reassure you, including putting his life in your hands.
You nod.
Red Hood half-kneels next to you.
A massive gloved hand goes to your shoulder places, pressing tenderly like a paint brush on fragile paper like he can scarcely believe you’re letting him do this. The other goes under the triangle of your knees and in a motion that shouldn’t be that effortless he lifts you up and presses you to his chest.
He’s even bigger up close.
His hands grip and flex like he can’t believe you’re here. Hood settles you in the crook of his arms and shifts to almost cradling you. You catch his helmet tilted to you, inches away from your own face.
It’s like a princess and her knight, except this knight was rescuing her from a prison with Jokers instead of a tower with dragons. He holds your weight effortlessly, securely, hands finally clamping around his own arms like a lock, like he hopes to stay forever like this.
“We’re gonna have to go back a different way. Similar to the one you came down first but that’s been shut off, and there are a few Joker’s left I didn’t get to.”
Didn’t kill.
You nod and ignore the sharp stab of fear.
“...The mole was a cop. Shot another guard on A-Block and let the Jokers in. We gotta take a roundabout way so the cops can’t get you either. Not until we can verify they’re not dirty.”
You whimper.
“Shhh.” It’s not condescending or patronizing, but comforting, practical. You cling tightly to his warm frame in the coldness and he grips back. You wonder if he notices the way his gloved thumb begins rubbing circles into your outer thigh.
The two of you walk in silence because every noise could be another Joker, or maybe a cop waiting to shoot.
Then,
A noise.
Hood is whirling before you even have time to react.
And her too.
The female Joker you shot in the shoulder uses her good arm to grab for her gun and she’s just as surprised as you are. While you and Red Hood had been off in the side hallway she must have continued down the main one when it became clear there was no going back.
Hood’s hands are full of you. He’s running to shelter behind a door but you know that’s not necessary.
You shoot her other shoulder.
She howls in pain in a way that echoes.
Both arms now hang limply but she’s loud like a siren and her hysterical laughter terrifies the hell out of you and you whimper again. Red Hood hears that and turns his body to press your ear directly over his covered heart, other hand at your head to cover your other ear, and he swings a heavy booted foot directly into the skull of the Joker.
She drops instantly.
“Crackshot, aren’t you.”
“Had to be to kill the Joker.”
Red Hood nearly preens, like he’s so proud of you.
You two get moving again and the swaying of his steps puts you at ease.
You hear people behind you.
“Hang on!” He tells you.
You nearly shriek as he takes off in a sprint as the noise of the other Jokers catching up reaches your ears. You nearly pant in terror and yet even as he runs he finds the time to hoist you up and comfort you by rubbing your back.
“Almost there, mouse.” He says.
You nearly bite your tongue off at the term of endearment. It’s oddly sweet and captures a lot of your personality. Your blush surprises you.
A male Joker makes a grab for you.
He bangs against your sore ankle.
You shout in pain, not able to get a good angle with the gun, but Red Hood takes care of the problem.
“You tried to grab her?” He hisses, and does a kick so sharp you hear the Joker’s neck nap.
Hood kicks a door open and you’re both bathed in moonlight.
After hours in hell you gasp in awe.
Hood sees this and purposefully angles the two of you for a better view even as he multitasks and kicks the hatch closed, sealing it and then kicking a heavy desk on top for good measure.
You two walk from the watchman's residence and into his front yard, here on the edge of a forest preserve. You recognize it from the drive into the prison. It’s about two miles away.
You see sirens.
“That’s Gordan’s vehicle!” you say. “He’ trustworthy.”
Hood nods.
He sets you down on a flowery garden bench but does not let go.
“Mouse. I-” He cuts himself off.
You listen patiently. He has more than earned your trust. He has earned your respect and even fondness. He kneels in front of you, holding your hands in his.
“...I can take you away from here. You don’t deserve to rot in prison because you cared when no one else did.” His mask stares up at you
You inhale sharply.
You think of it.
Of the cool night air you just took in, how freeing and sweet it was. You dream of exploring and learning to your heart's content, of your anger at being locked up. You had accepted it was the outcome but it still hurt.
And this man was offering you that freedom.
You part your lips and watch as his Hood tilts to track the motion.
“No, thank you.” You say and it takes all your effort to tear those words from your throat. “I knew the price of my actions before I took them. It’s a price I’m willing to pay.”
He takes your rejection remarkably well. In fact his sigh is rather admiring.
“You’re not what's wrong with the world. You got more integrity in your pinkie finger than all of Gotham.” He says and you can hear the smile in his voice.
“I just radio’ed Gordon. He’ll be here in just a few minutes.” Hood says, and he sounds relieved but also…grieving. Regretful.
“Thank you for rescuing me.” You say.
His head bobs.
“Anytime.” His voice is thick. You hope there won’t be another murder attempt, but you don’t mind another chance to be with him.
Hood wraps your ankle with medical supplies found in the Watchman’s house. The watchman left when the alarms went off. Your ankle is dainty in his palms. He holds it like glass and after he finishes wrapping his fingers trace the fabric up to your bare leg just below where the pant leg was rolled up.
“Hood, can I ask you something?
“Anything.”
“...How do we know each other?"
He freezes.
He does not say anything like he can’t bear to lie to you, but he also does not tell you the truth.
“I’m smart. Mousey as you said. I’ll figure it out.” You jest, grinning at him.
He huffs out a shaky laugh.
A confirmation then.
You knew him somehow. From before. It settles your restless soul that at least this man could survive what the Joker did to him when your Jason couldn’t.
“I’m sorry you had to carry me. Thank you.” You pull him forward and into a hug.
He trembles.
His arms hang like he doesn’t know what to do with them before they come up and pull you to him. One cups the back of your head and holds your mouth to the side of his neck where he was nearly decapitated.
The last thing he does before he leaves is press his forehead to yours and promise you that he’d always be there if you needed him.
He stays long enough to salute Gordon from the top of the Watchman’s house.
And he’s gone.
But the scent of him and your memories of Jason linger.
Check out this fic on ao3 where I have addition works! Link Here!
