Smile With Me

Red Hood comes home dripping and angry. He tears his helmet off, shaking out his sopping hair to frown at me. I slide two beers towards him this time. “Long day?”

He shrugs, stripping his jacket and shirt off. He’s goosebumped. He leaves and comes back wrapped in a blanket. I smile to myself as he settles on the couch, legs drawn up close.

“I don’t want a beer,” he growls.

“Hot chocolate?”

“Yes, thank you.” When I come back with two mugs, he sort of smiles at me. I take a sip and smile back. His hair is still wet, dripping onto his face.

“Uh, do you want another towel? For your hair?” I’m already heading to get one, but Hood grabs my wrist and I flinch, still expecting to be hit after all these years. The Hood lets go immediately.

“Look, Quinn, you’re not my servant,” he says softly.

“I just want to make you happy.”

He frowns, angry again. “I’m not gonna hit you or anything.” I shrug and head for the bedroom, turning back at the last moment.

“By the way, someone named Oracle called. She wants you to call her back.” He nods, facing away from me. I watch the droplets of water trace their way down his neck for a moment before I walk out.

When I come back, Hood wordlessly, takes the towel from me and rubs it over his hair, making the problem worse. He huffs like a child and sits there, ridiculous, the towel perched on his head. I sigh and sit next to him, start to properly dry his hair. He goes very still and I pause, reminded of that fact that neither of us like unexpected touches.

“Is this okay?” He nods slightly and I continue until his hair is mostly dry. “There we go. Better?”

“Yeah. Where’d you learn to dry other people’s hair?” he asks, like it’s unusual to know how to take care of someone. I’m sad for him.

“My dad used to do that when I was little. And the kids in Haiti liked it. Thought it was funny when I sang.” I’m wistful, missing their smiles, their easy laughter.

“Well. Thanks.” He curls a little further into himself, and I move away. At least it’s overly warm in here. There’s no way he could stay cold.

“You going to call Oracle?”

“Eventually.”

“Okay.” His hands emerge from under the blankets, rest in his lap. They’re scarred and calloused. Clean of ink, unlike mine.

He must be thinking the same thing, because he asks, “Why did Joker tattoo your hands?”

“I dunno. Maybe because he’s a mass murdering psychopath. Maybe to make sure I couldn’t leave.” The Hood raises an eyebrow. “Well, you know. No one will hire me with tattoos this visible.” I clear my throat. “He wanted to make sure I had no way out.”

The Hood is quiet for a while. “That sucks.”

“Yeah. I know.” We watch TV in companionable silence until we’re both yawning.