First Times-Barbara Gordon
I blame reading The Killing Joke immediately after Batgirl: Year One.
The first time the doctor tells her she’ll never walk again, Barbara Gordon throws back her head and laughs.
When he frowns and tells her that he’s serious, that she’ll probably be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of her life, she yells at him to get the hell away from her.
It takes her ten minutes to get into the wheelchair by herself, and then another ten to find the workout room in the hospital. She abuses the punching bag until her knuckles are pink and raw, until her arm muscles feel like they’re on fire.
She reaches out, stops the bag from swinging and rests her head against it.
Her breaths sound shuddery and faint, and her lungs feel weak. Weak like the rest of her. Weak like this stupid, broken body that refuses to *work,* weak like her idiot mind that didn’t even check the door before--
No, she tells herself. She’s not going to cry. She won’t give Joker the satisfaction, even though he’s locked up in Arkham and couldn’t possibly know.
She puts on a brave front when Jim comes to visit her that afternoon. Tells him that her first day in a wheelchair wasn’t that bad, really--these machines are actually pretty cool, and they’ve come up with some really great ‘chair technology recently that she can’t wait to check out.
Her father is already close to tears as he looks at her, the bruises and wounds from his encounter with the Joker still fresh. She can’t make things worse for him. She has to pretend that, even if things look bleak now, that someday it will be all right.
She wishes she could convince herself of that.
Robin visits that night. He’s mostly incapable of saying anything but “Oh god, Babs, I’m so *sorry,*” and she knows that he partly blames himself for what happened, even though there’s no possible way he could have prevented it. He just blames himself reflexively, because she’s someone he cares about and she got hurt, so somehow it must be his fault.
She wants to tell him to stop being an *idiot,* that she’s going to be fine and it wasn’t in any way, shape or form his fault, but all Barbara Gordon can do is stare out the window and tell him in a low voice to please leave her now.
She can see the Bat signal from her window, stark and brilliant against the stars. She can still feel the ghost of a batarang in her hand as she turns away to face the bleak sterility of the hospital room.
The first time the doctor tells her she’ll never walk again, Barbara Gordon throws back her head and laughs.
When he frowns and tells her that he’s serious, that she’ll probably be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of her life, she yells at him to get the hell away from her.
It takes her ten minutes to get into the wheelchair by herself, and then another ten to find the workout room in the hospital. She abuses the punching bag until her knuckles are pink and raw, until her arm muscles feel like they’re on fire.
She reaches out, stops the bag from swinging and rests her head against it.
Her breaths sound shuddery and faint, and her lungs feel weak. Weak like the rest of her. Weak like this stupid, broken body that refuses to *work,* weak like her idiot mind that didn’t even check the door before--
No, she tells herself. She’s not going to cry. She won’t give Joker the satisfaction, even though he’s locked up in Arkham and couldn’t possibly know.
She puts on a brave front when Jim comes to visit her that afternoon. Tells him that her first day in a wheelchair wasn’t that bad, really--these machines are actually pretty cool, and they’ve come up with some really great ‘chair technology recently that she can’t wait to check out.
Her father is already close to tears as he looks at her, the bruises and wounds from his encounter with the Joker still fresh. She can’t make things worse for him. She has to pretend that, even if things look bleak now, that someday it will be all right.
She wishes she could convince herself of that.
Robin visits that night. He’s mostly incapable of saying anything but “Oh god, Babs, I’m so *sorry,*” and she knows that he partly blames himself for what happened, even though there’s no possible way he could have prevented it. He just blames himself reflexively, because she’s someone he cares about and she got hurt, so somehow it must be his fault.
She wants to tell him to stop being an *idiot,* that she’s going to be fine and it wasn’t in any way, shape or form his fault, but all Barbara Gordon can do is stare out the window and tell him in a low voice to please leave her now.
She can see the Bat signal from her window, stark and brilliant against the stars. She can still feel the ghost of a batarang in her hand as she turns away to face the bleak sterility of the hospital room.