The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of her computer monitors in the next room in Oracle’s domain, where Barbara Gordon still fought crime in her own way. But even with all the data feeds and encrypted channels, there were moments like this.

You walked into the kitchen, expecting to find her sipping coffee or scrolling through intel. Instead, you saw her reaching her arms stretched upward, fingers just grazing the edge of the top shelf. Her wheelchair was locked in place, angled awkwardly, and the carton of orange juice sat just out of reach. She knew she should’ve called you. You were only a room away. But that wasn’t the point.

Barbara had always been independent. Even after that night…the one the Joker stole from her, she refused to let anyone treat her like she was broken.

You stepped forward without a word and grabbed the carton, placing it gently on the counter. She didn’t look at you right away. Just stared at the orange juice like it had betrayed her.

“Thanks,” she said, voice clipped, cold.