Smile With Me

I wake up in the dark, again. My body still screams, but I can breathe. I’m lying on something soft, no longer on the chilly streets of Gotham. Blankets are heaped over me. I think I’m actually on a bed. It strikes me that I haven’t slept on a real bed in years. Joker always had couches or the floor, and I had a cot in Haiti. Creature comforts.

“Hey.” I turn towards the voice. There’s a guy sitting in an armchair beside the bed. He’s around my age, blue eyes, dark hair with a white streak. Handsome. He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him. It takes me a moment to see how scarred he is, how scarred the hands turning a helmet round and round are.

“Wait…Red Hood?” He nods, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But…now I know what you look like. I could tell people,” I blabber. I wouldn’t, but he doesn’t know that.

“No, you won’t. Or I’ll give you back to Joker tied up in a pretty red bow.” I shudder.

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

“Get up. I gotta check your ribs.” I follow him obediently down a hall, to a dingy bathroom with a single, lonely toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. There’s a smudge of red on the mirror, and for a second I’m back with the Joker, his facepaint smeared on the sink, on my lips, the smell of him surrounding me. I don’t realize I’ve cried out til Red Hood puts a steadying hand on my arm.

“I’m sorry, I, memories,” I try to explain, and he nods.

“I get it. Take your shirt off.” I’m still wearing the clothes from Haiti, sleep shorts and a white tee. They’re splattered with blood.

“Shouldn’t you ask for my number first?” I joke, nervous, and he smiles.

“You already slept in my bed. You’re clearly a woman without virtue.” I laugh, then hiss from pain. His eyes narrow. “Alright. Shirt off.” I tug it carefully over my head. He’s already bandaged my ribs up, but he moves his hands over them anyway, surprisingly gentle. “Your ribs were just cracked. A bit of rest and you’ll be fine. The rest is just bruises.”

“Oh, wow, I feel so lucky. The Joker beats me with a crowbar and I “only” have broken ribs,” I snark, going still when his eyes darken. I should’ve thought before I spoke.

“Yes, you are lucky,” he says quietly, dabbing antiseptic over the cuts on my arms.

“Look, I’m sorry. I don’t really know what happened, but…I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” He finishes up, stands with a smile that almost looks real. “You can stay here.”

I’m surprised. “I thought you’d turn me over to Batman.” His eyes go cold. “Um…” He shakes his head, shrugs.

“You’re gonna help me kill the Joker, Quinn. He keeps coming back to you. There’s something there that he can’t keep away from. When he comes for you again, I’ll kill him.”

“My smile,” I murmur, not wanting to hear any more about killing or using me as bait.

“What?” I touch the scars around my mouth.

“He keeps coming back for my smile. It’s like his. He…that’s why he took me the first time. He liked Harley best, but, but he said my smile was better. He…He thinks it makes us alike. That we’re kindred spirits.” I bite my lip. I’ve said more to the Hood in an hour than I’ve said to anyone else, except for Joker. “We’re not. We’re not the same. We can’t be.”

“You’re a doctor or whatever. You heal. I guess you’re okay,” the Hood mutters, handing my shirt back.

“I…thank you.”

“Get some sleep. I’ll be on the couch if your start to die,” he says, giving me a two finger salute. I nod and head back to the bed. I’m dirty and hungry, and I kinda need to pee, but as soon as my head hits the pillow I’m dropping. It smells of gunpowder and aloe and I’m asleep quickly.

I dream of the Joker standing over me, grinning as always. Blood drips from his mouth, down his chin. “I’m inside you, Quinnie, and you can’t get me out,” he says, laying his fingers over the tattoo on the back of my neck, the one that bears his name. “I’ll never go away.” I wake up gasping for air, my ribs aching.

How could I have forgotten? How could I have been so stupid? That goddamn tracking device he put in my neck all those years ago. With all that’s happened since then, I’d forgotten about it. It must’ve not worked long distance, or he would’ve found me in Haiti earlier. But now I’m back in Gotham, and he’s close by, hunting me.

I swallow a sob and run to the Hood. He looks innocent when he sleeps, like everyone. His mouth is clenched tight even in sleep. I touch his shoulder and he wakes immediately, pinning me to the ground in seconds. I yelp as my ribs are compressed.

“Not…gonna hurt you,” I force out, keeping still. He rolls off me and sits up, pushing messy hair away from his face.

“What do you want then?” he grumbles.

“I need you to cut my neck open. Hurry, do it quick.” I’m tugging at his wrist, panicked, needing it out of me now.

“Wait, the fuck? Why?”

“Joker put a tracking device in me.” He’s up quickly, taking me to the bathroom, where the bright lights make me feel safe. “It’s inside the tattoo. You should be able to feel the bump.” His fingers are tracing my neck, searching, then there’s the familiar feel of a knife against my skin. I wince when he cuts me, but I’ve had worse. The device is a tiny silver chip the Hood crushes easily between his fingers.

“There. Gone.” I take a calming breath. The Hood watches me, tired.

“Thanks. I’m sorry, I just…forgot. It’s been awhile.” Eight years. Eight years with the Joker looming over me, laughing. Poking his fingers into my scars and ripping them apart.

“This place is protected. The signal wouldn’t have reached him,” he explains, calm.

“It’s good you got it out, though.”

“Yeah, I…yeah.” I’m too jittery to sleep now, hands shaking. Red Hood notices, of course. I’m sure he misses nothing.

“I have bourbon,” he says shortly, already heading out of the bathroom. I follow.

It’s been awhile since I’ve had alcohol. I didn’t party after I got my scars, and Joker was never into drinking. The bourbon goes down hard and makes me cough. Gets me loose though. Red Hood’s smirking slightly, sprawled out on the only chair in the kitchen. I sit on the table, legs swinging. I’m tapping my tattooed fingers against the wood, waiting for him to speak.

“The tattoo on your ribs doesn’t have a tracking device, right?”

“No. He just got it for fun.” Hood tilts his head.

“You make it sound like it wasn’t your choice.”

“It wasn’t. He used to drug me and take me some place. I dunno where.”

“The Riddler, probably.” I smirk, thinking he’s joking. “I’m serious. Riddler’s a weirdly accomplished tattooist. It’s this strange skill he picked up somewhere. He does them for big bads all the time. Bane. Catwoman. Anarky. They all go to him.”

“Why would Joker hide that?” I ask, suspicious. The Hood grins.

“Probably embarrassed to be seen around such a lame dude.” I full on grin at him, but his eyes don’t ever dart to my scars. Of course, he has plenty of his own. I rub at the back of my neck out of habit, pausing halfway when I remember the new cut. “Why didn’t you get the tattoos removed?” I glance up, but the Hood’s face is innocent.

He wouldn’t know that when Batman visited me, made an offer to get them taken off, I said no. It had been a few months since I’d left Joker, and I had this lingering, pathetic desire to go back to him. By the time I changed my mind, it was too late and Batman was gone. I shrug.

“Not enough time or technology.”

“Yeah, I get that.” We go quiet for a while. There are cars nearby, people arguing. It’s overly warm in here, almost stifling. Even hotter than Haiti, which is odd. Maybe the Hood gets cold easily. He yawns widely, and I feel guilty.

“I think I could sleep now.” He nods gratefully.

“If you need me again, you know where I am,” he mumbles, falling back on the couch.

“Yeah.” The bed smells like my sweat, after the nightmare. I stare at the ceiling the whole night.