AN: Self-indulgent bullshit written, partly, while logging 'cat-social-hours', a phrase which here means, 'sitting outside with a semi-feral cat to get him acclimated to his new home'. (The cat is nice, just skittish around people. He's getting there.)

Meli-Mel150-Probably soon; I think I'm going to do a Whumptober thingy (probably a separate story, for organization reasons) and there WILL be Good Dad Bruce inside.

Nicole was going to see a therapist. She'd hit it off with a really nice man that had come in one night, even. He'd been a tall, thin man with a quiet demeanor and with nothing but five minutes and a few soft sentences, she'd been convinced he could help her with the nightmares and the paranoia.

But then she'd popped into the kitchen for somebody's order and the chef had told her to stay away from him, that he was some freak called the Scarecrow who scared people literally to death for shits and giggles and science.

"But he said he's a psychiatrist," she'd said helplessly.

"Yeah. Used to be one, over at Arkham. Look, you wanna claw your own eyes out, that's your business, but I'd stay away from him."

So no therapy. She'll get some, she decides, when she goes home. Six more months. She's made it this long, right?

Six months, though. She still wakes up three nights a week. Sometimes the man shoots her in the head, sometimes the Red Hood advances on her next, intoning, "Let the punishment fit the crime."

Sometimes she just has to run from him, but that faceless red mask is always a few steps behind her, like Michael Myers.

But. She's. She's doing okay, all things considered. She bought some pepper spray. She followed Batwatch and the GCPD on Twitter to help avoid anything major. Most people, her coworkers say, don't see the vigilantes that often. Robin's the most common one, then Batman, then Red Hood. Batgirl hasn't been seen for years, she's probably out of action. Sometimes someone (something?) called Nightwing pops into town, but he mostly operates in Bludhaven. So odds are she'll be fine, right? Go to work, then stick to nice, normal places like Starbucks and Wal-Mart. Chains, she thinks, are key. Don't be a local and it's safer.

But she still hates walking under the skylight.

Taking out the trash sucks, too; the alley's dark and cramped and it smells like death and rotting McDonald's. And there's rats, big ones that don't scatter when she shakes the bag at them. Sometimes there's a raggedy old cat with a torn ear and one eye, but it's mean.

Tonight the lighting's worse than ever. Their bulb's out, apparently, and the neon sign across the street has a few letters not working, so all she's got is a flashing purple girl and three blue 'M's. But that's okay, because the dumpster's literally ten steps from the door. It's okay.

It's not okay. She's just hefting the bag up to try and hurl it in when the flashing neon goes sort of red in the corner of her eye. She drops the bag, already trying to tell herself it's nothing.

It's not nothing. The Red Hood's slouched against the wall not three feet away. He raises his head, slow and deliberate, and rasps, "Who are you."

Shit.

"I just. I just work here-I wait tables! Just tables! Please-"

"I'm not gonna hurt ya." He sets his head back against the bricks. "Finish whatever you came out for and go back in. I was never here."

Okay. Okay.

She bends down, picks up the bag, and inches towards the dumpster. Hood doesn't move, but she thinks he's watching her. She heaves the bag into the dumpster and steps away from him as fast as possible. And then she trips over her own feet and lands on her ass.

"Shit-"

"You okay?" The head moves again, still slow. "Need help up?"

Fuck no.

"No! No thank you. I'm. I'm just clumsy, I swear, I-"

"Breathe, kid."

She shuts up, scrambles to her feet and tries to brush herself off. She's just feeling for leftover gravel when the door opens and Dove's annoyed voice says, "Hon, what are you doing out here-Hood?"

He waves.

"Hi, Miss Marquis."

"What's up?"

"Think I scared, uh…"

"Nicole." No! No! Don't tell the scary man her name! "Out-of-towner."

"Oh." He sounds like he's trying to be nice when he tilts towards her and says, "Sorry."

"What are you doing out here?" Dove demands. "It's late as it is."

"Flouting authority," Hood says, shrugging towards the No Loitering sign behind him. "Yknow. Stickin' it to the man."

Nicole flashes back to the robbery. Can she go in? He's not talking to her anymore, will he care? Is it safe? Maybe she should tell someone to tell Penguin. Or, like, the cops.

Dove coughs. Or maybe that's her trying to hide a laugh, Nicole can't tell.

"What else are you doing out here, kiddo."

What.

That thing is no kiddo. He's huge! He kills people!

Why did I think Gotham University was a good move? I got accepted into two other ones, why did I come here?

Hood's silent for a minute, like he's nervous or something. Nicole wonders if she can sneak back inside and hide in the bathroom.

"I got Pyg. Like. He won't. He can't hurt anyone else."

Pyg? Who's Pyg? Is he dead? Is he human?

Whoever he is, Dove must know, because she goes very still before saying, voice rough and ten years older, "You're sure?"

"Pretty sure he's not gonna grow a new head," Hood says quietly. "So. Yeah. M'sure."

So it was another person. That Hood murdered. Great. How many freaks are in this town? Pyg was not in the warning brochure she got with her college acceptance letter! He wasn't even in the Google search!

Dove sighs and fidgets with the brace on her left wrist, and right about now Nicole wonders, again, where that came from. She'd asked, initially, but Dove had waved her off, said something about a mugger and goddamn meat-packing district with lazy beat cops, and she'd let it go.

"-sure you're good? You're movin' kinda careful."

"Storm's coming." So what, he's got arthritis or something? "M'good. Just crackly."

"Then go home before you get shot. Or worse."

"M'fine-"

"I am going to worry and I am going to be upset and if I have to, I'll call Harvey and have him tell Jim to call Batman on you."

"You wouldn't."

"See what happens."

Nicole has no idea what's happening here.

Hood's silent for a few seconds, like he's thinking things over.

"You would."

"I would."

He sighs, slumps a little more, and grumbles, "I'll turn in early. Promise."

"Thank you." Dove turns to Nicole, jerks her head towards the door. "C'mon. Back to work for us. And you." She jabs a finger at Hood. "You take care of yourself for once."

"I always take care of myself!"

"Bullshit. Go home, kid. I mean it."

He tips his head like he wants to shrug but can't, says, "Thanks for the tip on that bastard."

"Kinda wish I hadn't picked it up," Dove says dryly. "Home. Or I really will get Batman called on you."

Nicole blinks and Hood's just gone, like he was never there at all. Dove gives her a nudge back towards the door.

"Um…"

"Hm."

"Mugger?"

"Always carry mace in this town."

She does. But still.

You know what, no. No. She doesn't wanna know, she's not gonna go home and Google 'Pyg' or anything at all, she's gonna go home and lock all the doors and hide under the covers and try not to have nightmares about rolling heads and gunshots.

Christ, why did she come here?

THE END