Smile With Me

“Do you want to go out or something?” he asks when I’ve been there for two months.
“Why would I want to do that?” I like his apartment, where there’s food and warmth and safety. I only loved the streets of Gotham when I was with Joker.
“Uh, I dunno, stretch your legs a little, choose your own food, get some new clothes?” I stretch my legs out in front of me. I’m wearing shorts and a white t shirt, no bra, the clothes Joker took me in.
“I don’t want to walk around. I like the food you bring me. My clothes are fine.” On laundry day I walk around in Hood’s clothes. No need for anything else. “I’m fine here.”
The idea of leaving the apartment is, frankly, terrifying. I could barely stand the village of 54 people in Haiti sometimes. I hate the idea of being surrounded by the seething mass that is Gotham. I try not to think about the memories it’ll force up.
“Okay.”
“Look, if you want me to be more helpful or something….”
“No, no, God no. You’re not my servant, Quinn. I hate servants,” he mutters.
“Alright.” I assume that means he had servants, which is…weird. I grew up poor, and I’m poor now, and Red Hood doesn’t act like any rich person I’ve ever seen. I guess that explains how he can afford everything, though.
“You don’t have to leave. I actually kinda like having you around, I guess,” he mumbles, and I hide my smile with a hand.

“Am I ever gonna…you know…be forced to go back to Arkham? Pay for my crimes?” I ask nervously.
“What crimes?”
I realize I’ve never actually confessed to either of the murders I’ve committed. “Uh, never mind.”
“Arkham isn’t a prison. Escaping from it doesn’t make you a fugitive. And now that you’re sane, why would they want you back?” I rub at the tattoo on the nape of my neck.
“Oh, yeah. Of course.”
I smile as brightly as I can and he sighs. “I know you probably killed someone while you were with Joker, but we really don’t need to talk about it.”
I picture blood on my fingers and laughter in my ear as Joker guides my hands, and nod. It’s not like Hood doesn’t kill people all the time.
“Okay.”
“Just one question. Did they deserve it?”
I think of my mom’s creepy boyfriend reaching for me with greasy hands, then of a gibbering man tied to a chair, and shrug. One of them deserved to die, the other doesn’t matter to me. “Probably.”
“Good enough for me.” His smile is open. I have nightmares of Joker that night anyway.