It took him three days before he mustered up the will to hike all the way to Devon's apartment from his own.

Three days of sheer agony and self-medication, unable to bend his limbs to dress himself without almost snapping his sutures. Three days of unsticking himself from his bed where the blood had scabbed over the wounds and glued him to the sheets, each morning a ritual of ripping himself into reality. Three days of staring at the red hoodie folded up neatly on his dresser, wondering about the same shade of red splashed against Devon's door and the intensely private life she kept guarded behind it with the vigilance of a cornered, wounded prey animal.

He'd been that prey animal before, his twenty-three years broken into three separate lives rattling around inside him like fragments of bone.

And wasn't he still?

Death and rebirth. Death and rebirth. Like the phoenix, Jason rose from his own filth and ashes time and time again burning up something violent, something malignant, each new life a propagation of the rot that took hold of him and ate away at the space between his lungs. Each time he came back, he'd come back wrong. God wouldn't let him die.

At thirteen, Jason died pulling parts from some rich guy's sports car to survive the streets. He'd sprung back as Robin, donning the cape of a brand new life and an anger righteous, explosive as the thing that'd killed him. The next resurrection birthed the Red Hood, steeped in his own black-out rage that he punished the city with, running like he was angry at the pavement, at the city that'd martyred him. And now, this.

This pit he'd fallen into for a better part of the year.

A much longer, much more excruciating death. Caught in limbo, drifting across Gotham like a ghost searching for something besides himself to haunt. Was that what he was doing to Devon?

Was that why he was standing on the front stoops of her apartment building, the red hoodie folded up in his palm, a brand new Persian rug rolled up and tucked under an elbow and an envelope of cash tucked in his pocket, trying to remember the last time someone had touched him without intent to harm him?

So early in the afternoon, the overcast sky brought upon Gotham a smothering gloom, peppered by a light shower of rain. Cool drops slid down his bare face, soothing the still-prominent bruising that'd purpled and swollen in the past two days, but the pain had subsided. Or perhaps he'd grown accustomed to it. Jason cast a cursory glance at the curb where the plainclothes police car had been just three days prior.

He remembered their hawk-like stares feasting on Devon's mousey form, ready to tear into her at a moment's notice. For some reason, they didn't pick up on his presence, hadn't switched their attention to him, which made him wonder what else Devon was hiding. What elusive white whale swam in that dark pond.

The car wasn't there today.

He pushed the heavy door to the apartment building open—the security mechanism that usually locked these doors automatically had to be broken—and made his way up the stairs to Devon's apartment, wincing each time the stitches on his back strained.

There was a woman, swathed in a leopard-print kimono kneeling on the ground, scrubbing the paint off Devon's door. A cigarette dangled between her unnaturally plumped lips, painted a vibrant vermillion. The stench of tobacco smoke and carbolic perfumed the hallway, heady in its thick sterility. Her arms were scrubbed into overly large pink rubber gloves, and the thousand beaded necklaces draped around her neck rattled and tinkled sharply through the silent space. Her hair was bundled into a headscarf, from which a single lock of dark red hair escaped, falling over her face. She blew out a spluttering breath in an attempt to shift it out of her vision, expelling a plume of smoke. A bucket of water bubbling with soap sat to her left. Every now and then, she muttered darkly to herself while the brush in her hand scratched furiously against the door, bleeding diluted red paint onto the floor of the hallway.

"Who the hell are you?" Jason asked, gruffly.

The brush paused.

"Who the hell am I?" The woman mocked, scowling, ruby red lips puckering as though she'd sucked on a lemon. "You call me Ms Lilliana, boy. And who are you? Devon's boyfriend?"

Jason shook his head. "Just a friend."

"Well," Ms Lilliana sniffed, giving him a scaldingly appreciative once-over. "I didn't think she had any. Certainly none this handsome."

"What are you doing?"

Ms Lilliana glanced up at him. "It's an eyesore. I'm getting rid of it because this stupid, stubborn girl won't. God knows how she lives inside there—I bet there's rats. I shudder to think about the state of her kitchen. Young girls these days... they don't know how to keep a home."

From what Jason could gather, Devon was a closed door, but there was something about her that made others want to look out for her. Even someone as aloof and self-possessed as Ms Lilliana, who couldn't help but criticise Devon, and yet, here she was, cleaning up for her.

"You got any idea who did that to her door?" Jason asked.

"Loan sharks, darling," she scoffed. "They come every now and then, scaring the hell out of my kitties. These rough looking thugs, always pounding on her door. If she's home, she knows better than to answer. But most of the time, she isn't. Always in that library or always at work."

"Are they looking for Devon?"

"Her useless father." She dropped the scrubbing brush into the soapy water. "But he's gone. Her mother too. She's all by herself, you know? Works like a dog, day and night." A pregnant pause—something Jason had a feeling she didn't do often. Ms Liliana resumed scrubbing, her hackles smoothed over now, the previously inconvenienced expression on her face softening at the edges, morphing into one of fierce tenderness. "She's a good kid."

Jason nodded.

"I'm assuming she's not home."

"Hardly." Thick tendrils of smoke coiled around her as she eyed him, her gaze eliciting a flutter of consciousness about the bruises on his face, the scabbed-over cut on his lip. Even concealed under the leather jacket, the rest of his lacerations prickled with an awareness. He felt strangely exposed beneath Ms Lilliana's stare. "What happened to your face, boy?"

"Hockey practice got rough," Jason said, curtly, the lie rolling off his tongue like water.

She made a disgruntled, disapproving sound in the back of her throat. "What do you want with her?"

Jason shook his head. "It's fine, I'll just wait out here—"

Rising to her feet, Ms Lilliana shucked the rubber gloves off her hands with a sharp snap. She pressed them to his chest, sending a bolt of pain lancing through his sternum, but he hid his flinch well. "You take over, make yourself useful. My fingers are pruning. She'll be back by the time you're done." She squinted at him. "Whatever your intentions are with her, they better be pure. You understand? She doesn't need any more shit in her life."

Before he could refuse, Ms Lilliana whirled around and slipped back through the door opposite Devon's and shut it with a firm click. He heard the sound of bolts sliding into place, and then the hallway settled into a strange, echoing silence once more.

Blinking at the bucket of soapy water at his feet, the paint bleeding out into a pool of pale red on the floor, Jason let out a sigh. He set the rug a safe distance from the door, where the puddle of red-stained water wouldn't touch it, slipped out of his leather jacket and dropped it in the same area along with the red hoodie which he'd washed at home.

With a resigned grumble, he pulled the pink gloves on, lips curling in disdain at the unpleasant squelch his skin made against the wet latex, and picked up the plastic brush. Kneeling in the pool of red water, Jason began to scrub.

✷

Devon worked the weekend shifts at the animal clinic.

Her work at the clinic was mercenary, filling in gaps in staffing with a valence that rendered her saviours on most days. Claire, the sole vet—and Devon's boss—running the entire operation, sometimes allowed her into the treatment room to assist with some of the animals. On quieter days and for operations with lower stakes, Claire let her stitch up wounds, kindly guiding her through the entire ordeal. At the moment, she was pulling botflies from a cat, a procedure Devon had wanted to sit in for, but had other duties to attend to.

Today, Devon filled in at the reception desk, which gave her enough time to study for the upcoming Microbiology quiz between processing intakes and answering calls. At least she'd go home with a clean uniform.

Toward the end of her shift, Claire leant against the reception desk, her expression weary and her eyes misted with a light sheen of tears as she bid goodbye to a limping dog and its frantically grateful owner through the glass door.

"I can never get used to it," Claire sighed, clutching a Stanley cup in the same shade of blue as her eyes as though it were her last straw. Devon eyed the parakeet stickers pasted onto its sleek body. "It's a different sort of pain, I think, when animals get hurt, don't you think? Is that bad to say?"

Devon shrugged. "Growing up here tends to desensitise one to violence."

"But not to animal cruelty."

"No, because that's about agency. We domesticated all these animals, built our own structures on top of theirs. It's our responsibility to look after them, make sure they don't get hurt fitting into the world we stole from them."

In all fairness, that applied to people too, but Devon didn't feel like arguing that point with her boss. The reason she'd chosen the vet-med path was to escape the responsibility of having to care for another person, another thing with the license to hurt her. With animals it was different. All animals contained a shard of wild within them. Getting hurt on the job was expected, in a way. Devon never wanted to clean up after another person again if she could help it.

"That sounds a lot like childcare," Claire mused. "I mean, that's what I think it's supposed to be. But, hey! What would I know? I'm just a horrid spinster, according to my mother, and I'll die alone surrounded by my birds."

"Is everything alright, Claire?"

"Oh, y'know," Claire sniffed. "Mothers."

"I hear you."

"You got any fun, exciting plans tonight?"

"Oh, yeah, super sexy date with my Microbiology textbook and some very intriguing biochem slides."

Claire wrinkled her nose. "I'm so glad I never have to do organic chem ever again. You hang in there, kiddo."

I'm trying, Devon wanted to say, but thought it too close to admitting the truth, so she finished off her shift and left the clinic as the sky darkened. She walked without her headphones in, wary of the dark corners and the alleyways, adhering to the well-lit streets and keeping her keys tucked between her knuckles the way her mother taught her. There's something innately

You're not just the average Gothamite, her mother would say, in that blunt-force-trauma way she always spoke, you don't look like most of the people in this city, which makes you a target.

At a certain age, you stop flinching away from the sound of bones breaking. You learn to keep a knife on you at all times. You check every angle, keep your head on a swivel, and you no longer wear your hair in a ponytail to reduce the chances of someone with worse intentions to grab ahold of you. You are not special—and the flesh and bone and this acute awareness of your mortal fragility is only proof that you're the one inside the cage.

By the time she made it up the stairs, her stomach—having been short-changed a lunch break—was rumbling with a violence that threatened to rip her in half.

But the sight of the large man hunched over a bucket of soapy water midway through diligently scrubbing the red paint off her front door sent a jolt through her spine that finished the job.

"What the fuck."

Pink rubber gloves stretched over his large hands and forearms, black shirt stretched across his muscular back, rippling with every supple movement, cargo pants soaking in the puddle of water he knelt in, Peter was a sight to behold. Registering her presence, he sat back on his haunches, his thighs thick as tree trunks, pulled the material of his cargo pants taut across solid masses of muscle. He dropped the brush into the bucket, and peered up at her, a lock of his dark hair brushing the top of a shapely brow. The look he swept her with was both dispassionate and devastating.

"Evening," Peter said, deadpan.

"What the fuck."

Peter stood, stripping the gloves from his hands, his cargo pants—from the knees down to the shins—darkened by the water. He, however, didn't seem to pay them any mind. Without the cover of a jacket, Devon could clearly see the angry, inflamed lacerations slashing up and down his powerful arms, and the dark skeleton of sutures straining against the agitated flesh. Heavy bruising lay waste to his arms and face, and the wound splitting his bottom lip had broken again shining with unshed blood. He was the very picture of pain, an aggressive wound stuffed with infection, and yet, here he stood, as if none of it could touch him.

"If you don't want your money, I'm more than happy to leave—"

"Are you insane?" Devon snapped, a flash of alarm running her blood cold, spinning her head with unbelievable exasperation. "Hasn't anyone taught you not to get your wounds or stitches wet? It's literally common fucking sense!"

"It sounds like you don't want your money." Peter crossed his arms over his chest, his biceps bulging in a way that dried the words on Devon's mouth. He jerked his chin toward the rolled up rug—wrapped in plastic—propped up against the wall. "Or your new rug."

A deluge of convoluted emotion flooded her at once. Devon pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes and breathed out a shaky sigh. Guilt pinched her chest, chased quickly by the familiar poison of suspicion and mistrust stealing through her gut. No one gave anything without wanting something in return, and Devon was always worried about the return. Nothing came free in this world, and in Gotham, the interest rates tended to taper toward the steeper end. There was always a price. "I could've cleaned this up by myself."

"And yet you haven't."

"I don't need your help."

"As you've said multiple times." Sarcasm dripped from his tone like acid, hackles raised in answer to her stinging animosity. "Let's see what you've done with your window, then."

Devon shot him a death glare. Instead of granting him a proper response, she slung her backpack around and unzipped it, rooting through its contents before procuring the broken Red Hood mask he'd shoved into it just days ago. She held it out toward him, keeping an arm's length worth of space between them.

Appraising her with guarded eyes, Peter slowly, gingerly took the mask out of her hands. "You know."

"I do."

"And?"

Fingers tightening around her keys, steel teeth biting into her knuckles, Devon carefully regarded him, the tension in her spine coiled like a fist at her back. "You did a crap job of cleaning out the Gotham underground in your time."

"I had my reasons."

"Why did you go dark?"

"Where's the rest of your family?"

Touché.

Jaw clenched, Devon unlocked her door and stepped over the bucket to enter her apartment. Hesitating for a second, she glanced over her shoulder at Peter. "Thank you." The words were foreign in her mouth, the odd shape cutting her tongue. Through gritted teeth, she asked, a strange feeling knotting in the back of her throat, "do you... want to come in? I... I don't have much in terms of food, but—"

"It's fine." Peter shook his head. "I can't stay long anyway."

Devon frowned.

For a long, terse moment, neither of them moved.

Fuck it. Devon pushed the door open all the way. "At least let me take a look at your stitches. And your lung."

She had a feeling he hadn't gotten any of his wounds properly examined by a professional. Despite her limited, homemade medical first aid experience, coached by her mother's strict and urgent tutelage, Devon figured she might as well try. Might as well put the storage room filled with pilfered medical supplies to good use.

Running his tongue over his teeth, a shadow of doubt crossing his stone-faced expression, Peter considered her for a moment.

"Good lord," came Ms Lilliana's chainsmoker's waspish rasp from across the hallway. Her door was open now, but Devon had a feeling she'd been listening in on their conversation for a while. "You two make it so difficult to believe in your generation. It's not like she's propositioning you—just take the help and go, boy."

"She wasn't?" Peter drawled, picking up the items he'd discarded on the ground next to the new rug. "I hadn't noticed. Thank you for the clarification, lady."

"You're playing with fire here," Devon warned, though her tone was light, devoid of the animosity she'd greeted him with.

Peter scoffed, shouldering past her. "Get inside, let's see your window."

Devon made an inhuman squawking sound. "Shoes off first!"

"Yes ma'am."

"Watch the volume!" Ms Lilliana called after them, cackling.

Face flushing a vibrant red, Devon slammed her door shut with more force than intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.
devon biting off jason's head bc she's not used to accepting / receiving help from others. also the older women in devon's life rallying to help her out.... looking after her in any capacity they can......... yeah. devon may not know it but she is loved. she has her community. it's small but it's there.........