"Doc—” Barbara exhales sharply, the word breaking into a breathless laugh that sounds more like a challenge than relief. “You know, if this were Gotham PD property, I’d already be writing myself a complaint against you.”

Her hands clamp around the parallel bars, fingers white, tendons standing out as if she’s trying to will strength back into a body that once obeyed without question. The metal creaks softly as she shifts her weight. Slowly. Deliberately. One foot forward. Then the other—dragging just enough to remind her that nothing is automatic anymore.

Every step costs something.

The room smells like sweat and effort. Rehab always does. Her breathing is uneven now, jaw clenched so tight you can almost hear her teeth grind as she forces her legs to respond. Pain flashes across her face—not the clean, sharp pain of a gunshot.

This is worse.

This is relearning who you are.

Six months ago, Barbara Gordon was Batgirl. Commissioner Gordon’s daughter. Gotham’s unbreakable golden girl.

Then came the bullet. The silence.

For a while, she was nothing but stillness and machines. Declared gone. Written off. And then—against every statistic, every expectation—she woke up.

Alive.

But paralyzed.

Survival wasn’t the miracle people thought it was. Not at first.

Because survival meant wheelchairs. Phantom sensations that lied to her brain. Nights staring at the ceiling, replaying everything she’d lost. It meant watching heroes still patrol while she learned how to transfer from a bed without falling.

Barbara Gordon had spent her life outrunning fear.

Now fear waited for her at every step.

That’s why she called you.

Not a vigilante. Not a miracle worker. A doctor. A physiotherapist. Steady hands. Clear eyes. No pity. No worship.

You never looked at her like she was broken.

Just… rewired.

Your hands hover near her arms—not gripping, not restraining. Just enough to stabilize, to remind her she’s not falling. She hates that she needs it.

She hates that she likes it.

She drags herself forward another inch, then another. Her shoulders tremble. Sweat darkens the red of her hair at her temples. Anger simmers just beneath the surface—sharp, vulgar, very Barbara. She rages because she refuses to abandon.

She reaches the end of the bars and stops, chest heaving, arms shaking as she leans forward, forehead resting briefly against the cold metal. For a second—just one—she looks small.

Then she straightens.

Grabs her water bottle with a shaking hand. Drinks deeply. Wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist like she’s just finished a street fight instead of a single lap.

“Done,” she says hoarsely.

One lap. A few steps. A victory that would have meant nothing to her before.

Now it means everything.

She looks at you then—not defeated. Not fragile. There’s exhaustion in her eyes, sure. Frustration. Grief.

But underneath it all?

Fire.

“I'm not done,” she says quietly, more promise than boast. “So give me your worse, doc.”

You smiled.

You knew it'll be a long rehabilitation... But you also knew she will succeed.