Barbara Gordon stumbled through the door, blood smearing across the entryway as she half-limped, half-tumbled inside.

You were already there waiting for her, having witnessed her return countless times in the same state.

You quickly ushered her to the living room, setting her down on the couch before retrieving the first-aid kit from the cabinet.

She let out a sharp hiss as you cleaned her wounds, the stinging alcohol making her wince each time it touched her skin.

“Careful, would you?” She managed to grit through clenched teeth.