A Narrow Escape

[Barbara Gordon]

She wasn't waiting by her car. It didn't look like a complete loss, but the back fender was bent so badly it was touching her wheel so it wasn't driveable. She could have called a tow truck, but her adopted father, her Uncle Jim, was the police commissioner and would have sniffed that out immediately. No, she'd needed a more discrete option, and on an inspired whim she'd dialed up Dick Grayson.

Uncle Jim had mentioned that the former GCPD officer had stopped by to say hello last week, and she still had his number from back when he'd been talking her through her algebra homework in 11th grade. Barbara had held her breath while the phone had rung, and breathed a sigh of relief when he'd actually answered. Of course he'd come pick her up. She was where?

She'd promised to explain when he got there (or come up with a believable lie, anyway), and was waiting for him to arrive. So no, she wasn't waiting by her car. It was an obvious target, and she hadn't killed the Crows, so they had probably already come around and were lurking by the car themselves, waiting for her to come back. Instead she'd run another four blocks and was leaning against a wall beside a bus stop, outside of the illumination given by a street light.

[Dick Grayson]

It wasn't long before an old beater limped up to the bus stop.

In any other city, the car might have looked out of place but not in Gotham. If the streets where anything to go by - especially in the Narrows - then Gotham was where cars came to live out their rusty, twilight years.

Dick Grayson stretched over from the drivers seat to the throw the passenger side door open and peered out at the dimly visible yet family shadow lurking just out of sight.

“Car for Miss Gordon,” he called out, tugging on the brim of an invisible chauffeurs cap.

[Barbara Gordon]

Barbara darted over, her satchel overstuffed with things she'd rescued from inside her now abandoned car, and slid into the passenger seat. It took a moment to get the bag situated on the floorboards, her busted knuckles protesting as she pulled the door closed. "Thanks," she said a little breathlessly, pushing her auburn hair out of her eyes. "I know this was a little out of nowhere, but I heard you were back in town, and..."

She noticed the bad shape her hands were in, and tried to fold them on top of each other so the damage wasn't as visible. "Well, Uncle Jim get's weird when he finds out I've been getting into car accidents in the Narrows. I mean, he would, if he knew. So..." Barbara looked over her shoulder out the back window of the car, just to make sure they weren't being surrounded by thugs in shiny black bird masks. "Thanks, Dick."

[Dick Grayson]

They pulled away from the curb as Dick took a quick inventory of Barbara's appearance. Over the years, under the cowl and out of it, he'd gotten used to making whip-fast calls about what the difference between 'mildly rattled' and 'on the verge of physical and mental collapse' looked like. Bloody knuckles, ripped jeans and a torn sweatshirt. Right now it looked like Babs was erring on the side of rattled, though it'd take more than a mug of cocoa to send her home in a state that 'Uncle Jim' would approve of.

“What happened?” He glanced at the rear-view mirror and added, “Are you expecting company?”

[Barbara Gordon]

"What?" She laughed, a little higher pitched (and longer) than normal. "No, of course not." Barbara settled back in the car, tugging a bit on her seatbelt. "Just got rear ended, that's all." Rear-ended? That sounds like a terrible innuendo. "Hit and run. I'll have it towed in the morning, I just..."

She realized she was just parroting the same things she'd already told Dick over the phone, and lapsed into awkward silence. "Sorry. The driver tried to rob me, instead of exchanging insurance. So, uh, I'm a bit of a mess."

It was probably the worst excuse for not involving the police that she'd ever come up with. To her credit, however, she managed to not blush with shame, and instead gave Dick a half-smile. Man, he was just as hot as ever. Ok, there was the blush; Barbara turned and looked out her window for a moment.

[Dick Grayson]

"You're not going to report it?" Even as the words passed his lips, Dick knew the answer. Had he been in Barbara's place, letting Gotham's finest know about a hit-and-run would have been low down on his priorities. It wasn't that the GCPD wouldn't do anything about it. Jim would fret and frown about it, sure, but it was like trying to report a drop of rain in the ocean. There were too many of them, in too many places, for you to find that one drop. He'd seen it all first hand, as an officer within the force and when working with Bruce.

Dick shook his head. No sense in arguing. "Okay. I'm taking you home and patching you up, then you can tell me what you've been up to since I was in town last time. Deal?"

[Barbara Gordon]

She was going to protest, but she wasn't about to pass up a chance to spend more time with Dick, so she just nodded. "Okay. Deal."

Barbara flexed her right hand, the broken skin on her knuckles protesting. "I guess I'll need to wear a glove around Uncle Jim." She held up her hand and waggled her fingers, jazz hands style. "Like Michael Jackson! No? No, I guess not."

She slouched down into the car seat, her hair falling into her face as she looked down at her overstuffed bag. "You have to tell me what you've been up to, too." Was that a hole in her jeans? Barbara rubbed the knee of her jeans where it was scuffed from falling, and felt the scrape on her skin underneath. Thankfully kicking Crows in the face didn't hurt her feet.

[Dick Grayson]

"Sure," Dick smiled, a practised easy smile. He barely even need to fake it when he was around Barbara. Fortunately for Babs, and perhaps less so for Dick, his 'apartment' wasn't too far from where he'd picked her up. It wouldn't take long to get her patched up, then he could drop her off at her home. In the meanwhile, she'd have a chance to settle her nerves and maybe warm up to the idea of explaining what she was really up to.

Hollywood would have had him believe that working as a spy would have given Dick certain perks. Sharp suits, fast cars and a veritable selection box of penthouse suites in which to woo the enemy agents he was inevitably going to charm. The reality was less glamorous, by a few factors. His apartment was in a moderately respectable neighborhood, as far as Gotham went. The first time he'd walked into the building, he could practically hear the tut from Alfred at the state of the lobby - dust, discarded trash and even the leftover stain of graffiti that hadn't been thoroughly cleaned away.

"Elevator?" he asked Babs as they stepped inside., leaving the beater parked on a curb around the corner. Without waiting for a reply, he pressed the call button and held out a hand. A beat passed, then he added. "Your bag. Let me carry it."

[Barbara Gordon]

"Oh, I've got it," she said, adjusting the awkwardly stuffed bag so it was directly in front of her. The strap dug into her shoulder a bit, but having it slung across her body helped carry the weight. Barbara looked up at him and smiled as the elevator made it's way slowly to the lobby. Somehow it didn't really feel like they'd spent nearly two years apart. He looked the same as always, of course. She didn't - at least she hoped she didn't. Hopefully this wasn't going to be an elevator trip up for band-aids and a lecture about keeping out of trouble. She was a grown woman now, and obviously capable of taking care of herself.

Well, mostly, anyway. Except for the whole broken car and needing a ride thing. Barbara had managed to talk herself out of some of her confidence, and she shuffled into the elevator with Dick, bracing for the we're going to have to call your father young lady speech. But no, Dick wasn't like that. That's why she called him in the first place

[Dick Grayson]

The elevator rattled back up a few floors and shook the two of them into a dimly lit hallway. “Don't judge me,” Dick said, giving Barbara a pointed look while he fumbled for his keys then unlocked the door.

The apartment opened on a lounge that looked lived in, though only just. There was no clutter, either as a result of having just moved in or otherwise, but there were a couple of touches of personality. A rug added some warmth to the bare floor. On a side-table there was a small framed picture of three young men - all of a likeness - and one older gentleman standing behind an armchair, in which Bruce Wayne sat. The rich wooden paneling, plush carpets and obvious luxury of Wayne manor was completely at odds with the sparse, modern feel of the apartment.

“Feel free to drop your stuff wherever,” Grayson said, with a gesture at the couch as he ambled into the small kitchenette set directly off the lounge, the two rooms separated by what a realtor would call a breakfast bar. He tossed his keys and cellphone onto the counter, then ran a glass of water for Barbara, putting it down on the bar. Turning back to the kitchen, he reached on top of the 'fridge to pull down a small first aid kit.

“You hungry? I've got the makings of a grilled-cheese somewhere.”

[Barbara Gordon]

She leaned toward the picture on the side table, but was distracted by Dick's offer of food. "Yeah, actually. I could murder a grilled cheese." She hesitated, and added, "But don't feel like you need to take care of me. I can eat at home."

Barbara dropped the bag on the floor and sat at the bar, tucking it behind one of her legs. Bringing drugs into a cop's house, not your best move. Even if he isn't a cop anymore. She had the mental image of the satchel being bumped and the buckles giving way, making the contents explode out like the snakes-in-a-can trick and the pen with the drug in it managing to somehow impale Dick or coat his apartment in a fine layer of illegality. She reached for the glass of water, draining half of it before setting it down again. "Nice place," she said. "Cozy."

[Dick Grayson]

At that compliment, Dick simply smiled. Whether she meant it or was just being diplomatic, he didn't mind. It was four walls and a roof and that was about as much as he needed. The fact that the super wasn't the chatty, curious type was a bonus.

“So, tell me everything,” he said over his shoulder as he fired up the stove.

[Barbara Gordon]

For a moment she froze, trying to come up with details about her 'hit and run' story to tell him, but then she realized he was probably talking about everything in general. Thankfully his back was turned, so he didn't catch her momentary lapse. Best to start at the beginning. "Well, I got into Metropolis U, just like I wanted. And it was great, made some friends, did some learning, basically general ed..." Barbara's voice trailed off for a moment, and she focused on her busted knuckles, picking off a bit of torn skin.

"It just felt too... perfect, I guess. Didn't feel like it was real. I actually started missing this shithole city." She sighed and leaned back into the couch. "Sounds stupid when I say it out loud."

[Dick Grayson]

"It's not stupid. I'm here too, aren't I?"

That was the way of Gotham, though. The grass was always greener until you looked back and saw the city skyline. From far away, the smoke and smog gave the city the look of a mirage and you could almost imagine that you weren't going to kick yourself for going back.

"There's nowhere like home," Dick added with a smile, standing side-on at the stove.

[Barbara Gordon]

"Yeah," she agreed, "I guess. Starting to wonder what I was thinking." Barbara leaned forward a bit, looking at Dick with interest. "So why'd you come back? Homesick? Or...it's a job isn't it." She wracked her brain for the easy answers to 'jobs for former police officers.'

"Private security? Undercover," she looked pointedly at the shitty apartment, "FBI? ...Math tutor?"