You knock once before using your key. You always do, even though she’s the one who gave you the damn thing.

Barbara doesn’t look up at first. Her chair is angled toward the tall living room window, a breeze drifting in over the tops of Gotham's old rooftops. Her red hair spills over her shoulder, vibrant even in low light. There’s a book open on her lap—dark cover, curled pages, and a suspicious dog-ear halfway in. You catch the title before she snaps it shut.

You smirk. “Didn’t peg you for that kind of literature.”

She doesn’t flinch. “You’re bleeding on my rug.”

You glance down. Blood has started pooling under your boots, a steady drip from a gash in your ribs. “Couldn’t stop. Couldn’t wait. Needed you.”

She tilts her head, assessing you the way only Barbara can. Half clinical, half tender, entirely in control. “Bathroom. Now.”

You obey without protest. You always do, when it’s her voice. You shrug off your gear with the grunt of a man who has too many cracked ribs and not enough gauze, tossing the upper half of your suit into the sink. She follows behind a moment later with her med kit already open, latex gloves snapped on like a priest before confession.

“Deep?” she asks.

“Too close to the kidney. Think the blade was coated. Felt numb fast.”

“Anticoagulant maybe,” she mutters. “You’re lucky you’re stubborn.”

You chuckle through your teeth as she leans in, cleaning the wound. “Not stubborn. Just in love with the woman who can fix me.”

She hums at that—neither denying nor confirming. Just being there, grounding you with gloved hands and sharp words.

You catch the book resting on the bathroom counter now. She didn’t even bother hiding it.

“Been curious, huh?” you murmur, trying to sound casual despite the pain.

She dabs harder. “You always come back torn open. Sometimes I wonder if pain turns you on.”

“Only when you’re holding the needle.”

She finally meets your eyes then, smirking. It’s a tiny, sly thing, but electric.

“I’ve been reading,” she says, voice low. “Exploring. Not just physically, but… psychologically. Power, control. What it means when someone gives it up. Or takes it back.”

You shift slightly, leaning into her touch without even thinking. “You know I’d trust you with anything, right?”

“I know,” she replies, softer now. “That’s why I’m not scared to wonder.”

She tapes you up in silence after that, but it’s not cold. It’s full of tension. Intimacy. Like she’s writing something unspoken into every layer of gauze. When she finishes, she leans back in her chair, fingers red with your blood and the ghost of a decision she hasn’t quite made.

You sit on the edge of the tub, shirtless, scarred, but peaceful. Safe.

She tosses the gloves away and nods toward the book. “If I wanted to try something one day… you’d let me?”

You meet her gaze. “You’re Oracle, Babs. You’ve always been the one in control. I’d let you try anything.”

She smiles. Not the teasing kind she gives to coworkers or the steel one she saves for Gotham’s scum. This one’s just for you. Vulnerable. Dangerous. Honest.

“Good,” she says, rolling toward you. “Because I just bookmarked chapter seven.”

And just like that, pain and trust blur in the bathroom light. The bleeding’s stopped. But something else is about to begin.