‹ Prequel: Smile for Me
Status: Ongoing
Smile With Me
Swirl
It takes me a few days to realize that I actually like Red Hood. It doesn’t feel the same as liking the Joker, which was obsessive and startling, or how I like Catwoman, which is awed and owed. I just like him. I like that he doesn’t ask personal questions about Joker after that one conversation. I like that he loves bad romantic comedies as much as I do. I like his scrappy, mean sense of humor and I like that he’s strong enough to kill those who need killing. I like sitting on the couch with him at six in the morning watching infomercials until the nightmares we both have fade away. So this is friendship, I think, and smile at him when he walks in the door.
After the tenth time I wake up sweating in Hood’s overheated apartment, I talk to him. It’s around eight at night, right before he goes on patrol, and I’m making us sandwiches.
“Why is it so hot in here, anyway?”
He pauses with his gloves halfway on. I can see the scars on the back of his neck tighten.
“I was dead for a while. It was real fuckin’ cold. When I came back, I was still cold.”
“Okay.” I don’t complain after that. We all have our ways of dealing.
My ribs are fine by my sixth week with Hood. I take pleasure in breathing deep and easily, lying on my back on the couch. I wonder what Killer Croc is doing. I think about Harley Quinn, who I hated when I was crazy. Now I just feel bad for her. I got out when she couldn’t.
I put an arm over my eyes and breathe deep and even, trying to relax. I feel jumpy and nervous all of a sudden. I wonder when Hood will be here. He promised to bring garlic bread, which I haven’t had since before the asylum.
“So, you’re still here.” I jump and fall off the couch, scraping my hand. I look up to boots and then up further to Robin’s face.
“Oh. Hey.” It’s only Robin. He probably won’t hurt me.
“I hear that Red Hood’s infiltrated Joker’s gang.”
“Okay.” That would explain why he’s been coming home covered in fake tattoos and fading makeup, the white greasepaint at his temples painfully familiar.
“You nervous?” I don’t like how he looks at me, constantly examining. Reminds me of Scarecrow.
“If I was, I wouldn’t tell you.” That makes him smile, and I think he’s around seventeen, the same age I was when Joker took me. Every time I see him, I realize that he’s so, so young, and I hate this city. Joker killed a boy his age right in front of me once, just because he wanted to. Hood couldn’t have been much older than him when he was killed. “Look, just get out of here. I don’t want you trying to get in my head with all your Bat bullshit. Get out or I’ll have Hood put a bullet through your brain.”
I don’t mean a word of that. I’d take a bullet myself before I let another kid get hurt. I’ve had enough of good people being hurt. He grins at me, not afraid, and leaves with a swirl of cape.
After the tenth time I wake up sweating in Hood’s overheated apartment, I talk to him. It’s around eight at night, right before he goes on patrol, and I’m making us sandwiches.
“Why is it so hot in here, anyway?”
He pauses with his gloves halfway on. I can see the scars on the back of his neck tighten.
“I was dead for a while. It was real fuckin’ cold. When I came back, I was still cold.”
“Okay.” I don’t complain after that. We all have our ways of dealing.
My ribs are fine by my sixth week with Hood. I take pleasure in breathing deep and easily, lying on my back on the couch. I wonder what Killer Croc is doing. I think about Harley Quinn, who I hated when I was crazy. Now I just feel bad for her. I got out when she couldn’t.
I put an arm over my eyes and breathe deep and even, trying to relax. I feel jumpy and nervous all of a sudden. I wonder when Hood will be here. He promised to bring garlic bread, which I haven’t had since before the asylum.
“So, you’re still here.” I jump and fall off the couch, scraping my hand. I look up to boots and then up further to Robin’s face.
“Oh. Hey.” It’s only Robin. He probably won’t hurt me.
“I hear that Red Hood’s infiltrated Joker’s gang.”
“Okay.” That would explain why he’s been coming home covered in fake tattoos and fading makeup, the white greasepaint at his temples painfully familiar.
“You nervous?” I don’t like how he looks at me, constantly examining. Reminds me of Scarecrow.
“If I was, I wouldn’t tell you.” That makes him smile, and I think he’s around seventeen, the same age I was when Joker took me. Every time I see him, I realize that he’s so, so young, and I hate this city. Joker killed a boy his age right in front of me once, just because he wanted to. Hood couldn’t have been much older than him when he was killed. “Look, just get out of here. I don’t want you trying to get in my head with all your Bat bullshit. Get out or I’ll have Hood put a bullet through your brain.”
I don’t mean a word of that. I’d take a bullet myself before I let another kid get hurt. I’ve had enough of good people being hurt. He grins at me, not afraid, and leaves with a swirl of cape.