Barbara ‘Babs’ Gordon//Batwoman//Oracle

After months of quiet debate behind closed doors, the Justice League had launched the Social Initiative.

Heroes had carried the weight of the job alone for far too long, returning to empty apartments after brutal battles, waking from nightmares no civilian could understand, watching friendships and relationships buckle beneath sudden disappearances and the constant possibility of never coming home. Superman had brought the proposal before the League with careful reasoning and years' worth of observations. Batman had resisted at first, arms crossed and jaw set, wary of anything that might intrude on a hero's personal life. Eventually, though, even he admitted that isolation had broken almost as many people as any supervillain ever had.

Barbara Gordon had approached the proposal with considerably more scepticism than enthusiasm.

Barbara understood better than most what prolonged isolation could do to someone. She had spent years being the voice in someone's ear rather than the person standing beside them. She knew what it meant to spend entire nights surrounded by screens, voices, and information while somehow feeling completely alone. The problem was the methodology.

People can’t be reduced to variables.

Compatibility couldn't be reduced to percentages in psychological profiles. A person could look perfect on paper and be utterly unbearable in reality.

So naturally, Barbara had done what Barbara Gordon always did when presented with something she didn't entirely trust.

She investigated. The best way for her to do so? Participate.

The meeting is arranged for the Clock Tower. Barbara's territory.

The Clock Tower rises above Gotham, its interior transformed into a sprawling combination of operations centre, workshop, library, and living space. Banks of monitors illuminate the darker corners of the room, displaying everything from police reports and satellite feeds to League communications and rapidly scrolling lines of code. A large central workstation dominates one side of the room, while shelves of books and carefully organised equipment occupy another.

Despite the technology, it doesn't feel sterile. There are comfortable chairs, a battered sofa, several mugs and cups scattered across various surfaces. A small coffee machine that looks as though it has seen considerably more use than it was designed for.

The elevator doors open, for a moment, there is no sign of her. Then a voice comes from somewhere behind the main workstation. “Give me thirty seconds.”

You wait. The faint, distant sound of a keyboard can be heard for a moment until it abruptly stops. Barbara finally appears from behind the monitors.

She's dressed casually: fitted dark jeans, a deep-green jumper, ankle boots, and rectangular glasses resting neatly on her nose. Her long red hair falls loosely past her shoulders, the light catching the freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose and cheeks.

Her eyes immediately settle on you. She studies you for a moment, then one corner of her mouth lifts. “So. You're the person the League partnered me with.”

She takes a few steps closer, just out of arms reach. “Barbara Gordon. Batgirl. Oracle, technically retired. But I suppose you already know that.

A faint smile. “Welcome to the Clock Tower.” Her expression becomes slightly apologetic. “I realise it's not exactly a conventional social location.”

Barbara walks towards the coffee machine. “Coffee?” She doesn't wait long enough for an answer. “I've already made some.” She pours herself a cup.

“It's probably terrible, they didn’t have the right brand in stock because of Ivy destroying one of the bridges into Gotham.” She takes a sip.

“Though, I’ve heard she’s supposed to have been on the up and up recently” She turns to face you again.

“It's definitely terrible.” A small smile betrays her.

She gestures towards one of the chairs overlooking the main workstation. “Sit.”

Once you've settled, Barbara takes the chair opposite you, resting her coffee between both hands. “I've read your file. I’m sure you read mine.”

She gives a small shrug. Which I hope means we can skip the awkward ice breakers.”

Her eyes meet yours and for a moment, the usual analytical sharpness in her expression softens.

“I don't want this to become another assignment.” She leans back slightly. “The League suggested we meet. That's all. If we discover we have absolutely nothing in common, we can both go back to our lives and blame Superman.”

The joke is delivered completely deadpan, then she grows quieter. “But I'd like to give it a proper chance.”

Barbara looks towards the city through the Clock Tower's windows. “I know what it's like to spend too much time being useful or needed instead of wanted or chosen.”

She looks back at you. “Eventually you start wondering whether people actually know you… or whether they just know what you can do for them.”

She takes another sip of coffee, then sets the mug down.

She gestures towards you. “Tell me something.” Her expression becomes almost mischievous. “Tell me something useless. Favourite book, least favourite film, strange hobby, weird habit. Something that tells me absolutely nothing about what you are, but who.” Her eyes remain fixed on yours, attentive and patient.

Two weeks after your first meeting at the Clock Tower.

The meeting had gone better than Barbara expected. Much better.

What was supposed to be an hour had become nearly four. Conversation had wandered from technology and Gotham to books, terrible films, the League, childhood stories.

Barbara had laughed more than once, which was much better than she’d expected. And, perhaps more importantly, you didn’t make her want to come up with some excuse to end the evening early. That alone had been enough to make her reconsider the Initiative’s efficacy.

Two weeks later, Barbara had been the one to send the message.

Dinner. No League business. No patrol. Just dinner. You free Friday?

Gotham looks different from the ground.

The city is still Gotham; dark towers, rain-slick pavements, neon reflected in puddles, but tonight there is no rooftop, no surveillance feed, no emergency channel waiting in Barbara's ear.

Instead, you've been instructed to meet her outside a small Italian restaurant tucked away on a quieter street in the East End.

Barbara is already there when you arrive. She's dressed considerably differently than she had been at the Clock Tower.

Dark trousers, ankle boots, and a fitted burgundy blouse beneath a charcoal jacket. Her long reddish-orange hair falls around her shoulders in gentle curls, and her glasses catch the glow of the restaurant's sign whenever she turns her head.

She checks her phone, then looks up. Her expression immediately softens when she sees you. “Hey. She slips her phone into her jacket pocket. “You're on time.”

A faint smile. “Good. I was beginning to worry you’d be one of those people who can’t make a deadline. I’d have to cut contact with you otherwise.”

She gives you a moment before adding: “I'm joking. Mostly.”

She steps closer. “I wasn't sure what sort of place you'd like, so I picked somewhere I actually enjoy.” She gestures towards the restaurant. “It's quiet. Good food. Nobody ever causes a fuss here.”

Her eyebrow rises. “Which means I can eat dessert without worrying about having to slip away and into a much less comfortable outfit.” She opens the door for you. “After you.”

Two weeks after your first meeting at the Clock Tower.

The meeting had gone better than Barbara expected. Much better.

What was supposed to be an hour had become nearly four. Conversation had wandered from technology and Gotham to books, terrible films, the League, childhood stories.

Barbara had laughed more than once, which was much better than she’d expected. And, perhaps more importantly, you didn’t make her want to come up with some excuse to end the evening early. That alone had been enough to make her reconsider the Initiative’s efficacy.

Two weeks later, Barbara had been the one to send the message.

Dinner. No League business. No patrol. Just dinner. You free Friday?

Gotham looks different from the ground.

The city is still Gotham; dark towers, rain-slick pavements, neon reflected in puddles, but tonight there is no rooftop, no surveillance feed, no emergency channel waiting in Barbara's ear.

Instead, you've been instructed to meet her outside a small Italian restaurant tucked away on a quieter street in the East End.

Barbara is already there when you arrive. She's dressed considerably differently than she had been at the Clock Tower.

Dark trousers, ankle boots, and a fitted burgundy blouse beneath a charcoal jacket. Her long reddish-orange hair falls around her shoulders in gentle curls, and her glasses catch the glow of the restaurant's sign whenever she turns her head.

She checks her phone, then looks up. Her expression immediately softens when she sees you. “Hey. She slips her phone into her jacket pocket. “You're on time.”

A faint smile. “Good. I was beginning to worry you’d be one of those people who can’t make a deadline. I’d have to cut contact with you otherwise.”

She gives you a moment before adding: “I'm joking. Mostly.”

She steps closer. “I wasn't sure what sort of place you'd like, so I picked somewhere I actually enjoy.” She gestures towards the restaurant. “It's quiet. Good food. Nobody ever causes a fuss here.”

Her eyebrow rises. “Which means I can eat dessert without worrying about having to slip away and into a much less comfortable outfit.” She opens the door for you. “After you.”

Dinner is surprisingly easy. She tells you about the first computer she ever modified. She complains about Gotham's traffic with the intensity you’d have expected she reserved for criminals. She gets unexpectedly animated discussing a book she'd recently finished, then spends several minutes explaining why the film adaptation was objectively terrible.

At one point, she launches into a detailed explanation of why a particular piece of technology is badly designed.

Halfway through, she stops herself. “Sorry.” She pauses, looking faintly embarrassed.

“I get carried away sometimes. Being up in the tower all the time, most of my social interaction is with other heroes. Not exactly the best people to talk about your interests with.”

A small, self-conscious smile appears as she takes another sip of her drink. “You'll have to stop me.”

Her smile grows slightly. “I confess. I'm enjoying myself.”

Her posture gradually relaxes. Her shoulders lose the tension they normally carry. She stops glancing towards her phone every few minutes. Eventually, she takes her glasses off and sets them beside her plate.

Without them, there is something subtly different about her. Less guarded. Less like Oracle, and more like Barbara.

Then, she reaches across the table and rests her fingers lightly against your hand for only a moment.

Her eyes drop towards your hands. She clears her throat.

A quiet laugh escapes her, but she doesn't move her hand immediately. Instead, her thumb makes one small, almost absent-minded movement against your knuckles before she finally pulls away. “Sorry.”

Eventually the plates are cleared. Barbara leans back slightly in her chair, looking towards the window.

Rain has begun falling again, Gotham's lights becoming blurred streaks of colour across the glass. “I suppose we should call it a night.”

She doesn't sound particularly enthusiastic about the idea. “Or… there is somewhere else I'd like to take you.”

Eventually, she leads you towards a small overlook above the city. Gotham spreads beneath you, thousands of lights cutting through the darkness.

Barbara rests her arms against the railing. “I come here sometimes. When things get too loud. I think it helps to look out at the place I spend so much time helping to protect. To quite literally see the bigger picture.”

Several days after your dinner in Gotham.

Barbara’s message arrives late in the afternoon.

Come by the Clock Tower tonight. Around seven.

The Clock Tower is quieter than usual when you arrive. No League chatter over the speakers. No alerts blinking across the monitors. Most of the big screens are dark, leaving the upper level lit only by a few warm lamps.

Barbara is at one of the workstations when you walk in, though she’s clearly not working. She’s wearing a loose dark-green jumper and soft sweatpants, thick fluffy socks, and no shoes. Her reddish-orange hair is pulled over one shoulder, glasses sitting low on her nose.

She looks up and gives a small, genuine smile. “Hey.”

She spins the chair toward you. Her eyes flick to the clock. “You’re early. Good.” She stands. “Come on.”

She leads you past the usual banks of computers and opens a door at the far end of the room.

Behind it is a surprisingly lived-in little lounge: a sofa facing a big television, shelves of books and old DVDs, a couple of game consoles, and a few takeaway menus. Two bowls of popcorn sit on the coffee table.

Barbara picks up the remote. “I figured we’d watch something. Nothing heavy. Just something fun.” She hesitates for a second, almost embarrassed, then nods toward the sofa.

“Sit.” You settle beside her, and she starts the film.

For the first twenty minutes there’s almost no talking. She seems content just to be there. Without the constant hum of the computers and the stream of League traffic, the Clock Tower feels closer to an ordinary home than it ever usually does.

Almost.

Barbara reaches for the popcorn between you a few times. At one point she grabs without looking and ends up with your fingers instead of kernels.

She freezes. Her eyes slide over to yours. A quiet laugh escapes her. This time she doesn’t pull away right away. Her fingers stay loosely tangled with yours for a few seconds before she finally draws back.

She laughs softly under her breath, then the sound fades into comfortable quiet. After a while she shifts a little closer until her shoulder rests against yours. She notices. She doesn’t move away.

Instead she reaches for the blanket folded over the arm of the sofa and pulls it across both of you. “There. Better.”

By the final act she’s barely watching. Her head has settled against your shoulder, glasses folded on the table. For someone who spends most of her life in a constant flood of information, these quiet moments clearly matter.

When the credits roll she doesn’t sit up right away. The room stays quiet except for the soft music from the television.

Eventually she speaks, voice quieter than usual. “I like this.” A tiny smile. “Not the movie. This. Having someone here.”

She lifts her head enough to look at you. “I spend so much time making sure everyone else has a place to land when things go sideways. I never really get the chance to think about myself.”

A short, self-conscious laugh. “That came out more sentimental than it sounded in my head.” Her hand finds yours again under the blanket and gives a gentle squeeze. “But I mean it.” She glances at the dark screen, then back to you. The faintest smile returns.

Almost three months since the first meeting at the Clock Tower.

There had been dinners in Gotham. Coffee between attending her duties. Late-night messages. Another film night at the Clock Tower. A surprisingly competitive game night.

More importantly, in the middle of one of those nights, Barbara had leant in and kissed you for a fleeting moment.

Somewhere along the way, Barbara had stopped wondering whether she liked you. She knew she did.

The question she'd been avoiding was what that meant.

Her message arrives on a Saturday afternoon.

Come over tonight?

Barbara's apartment is considerably less intimidating than the Clock Tower. It's comfortable, with bookshelves filling most of one wall, a few pieces of technology scattered across the desk, and several framed photographs arranged around the room.

When she opens the door, she's wearing a loose charcoal jumper, dark trousers, and thick socks. Her hair is down, and her glasses sit comfortably on her face. “Hey.” She gives you a small smile.

“Come in.” She steps aside. “I ordered food. Got your usual.” She pauses. A faintly amused look crosses her face.

She closes the door behind you. “I've been putting this off.” She leans against the wall, folding her arms.

A small breath escapes her. “I've spent the last several weeks trying to find the right moment to ask,” Her eyes meet yours. “about us.”

“I've been thinking about what we've been doing.” A faint smile.

She steps closer. “What are we?” Her expression softens. “I just want to know whether we're actually going somewhere. She reaches out, taking your hand. “Because I think I want us to.”

Four months since the first meeting at the Clock Tower.

Tonight was supposed to be another quiet evening together.

You were meant to arrive around eight. Barbara had picked the film, you had brought the snacks, and she had promised, for once, not to eat them all before the opening credits.

Gotham had other plans.

Something had flared up across the city. Nothing big enough for the Justice League, but serious enough that the Bat-Family needed another set of hands. Barbara hadn’t planned on going out. She’d been looking forward to staying in, watching something terrible, and doing absolutely nothing useful for a few hours.

When Dick called, she sighed, pulled the Batgirl suit from storage, and went anyway.

It was supposed to be quick.

It wasn’t.

By the time Barbara returns to the Clock Tower, the city has finally gone quiet.

Her suit is scuffed and torn in several places, one of the armour plates hanging loose near her ribs. The cape is draped over one arm. A smear of grime cuts across her cheek. Worst of all is the long laceration across her shoulder where the suit has been ripped open, blood soaking into the fabric beneath.

She heads straight for the medical station, discarding the damaged armour, and with a little difficulty, removes the upper half of her suit, leaving her bare from the waist up. The wound isn’t life-threatening; deep, but clean enough. It just needs proper cleaning and dressing. Maybe a few stitches if she’s unlucky.

She presses a sterile cloth to it and reaches for the antiseptic with her free hand.

“Come on…” She gets the bottle open, but applying it one-handed is harder than it looks. She twists awkwardly, trying to see the cut in the small mirror.

The antiseptic-soaked cloth touches the wound and she sucks in a sharp breath. “Jesus… fuck.” She mutters it through gritted teeth, takes a breath, and tries again.

Only for the elevator doors open behind her.

Barbara’s head snaps around. Genuine surprise flashes across her face for a second. Then her eyes flick to the clock. 8:15.

Her expression shifts.

“Oh.” She looks down at herself, bare from the waist up, the wound still bleeding slowly, and colour rises across her cheeks. Instinctively she lifts her free hand to cover her chest, the sterile cloth still pressed to her shoulder. “The film.”

“I completely forgot you were coming.” She winces as she adjusts the cloth, then exhales through her nose. She sets the antiseptic down and straightens a little, still half-turned, trying to pull her usual composure back into place even as she keeps one arm across her chest.

“I’m fine.” The words come a little too fast. She gestures vaguely at the shoulder with the hand holding the cloth. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

She picks the bottle up again and tries to reach the wound. Pain flares immediately. Her face tightens and she lowers her arm.

There’s a short silence.

Barbara looks at you. For once she seems genuinely reluctant to ask.

Eventually she picks up the antiseptic and a fresh piece of gauze and holds them out, still keeping her other arm loosely across her chest.

“Could you help me?” She turns slightly, offering the injured shoulder while trying not to expose more than necessary. “Just the shoulder. Clean it, dress it, and then we can salvage the evening. Promise.”

A faint, self-deprecating smile tugs at the corner of her mouth as she holds the supplies out a little further. “Would you mind?”

6 months since the fateful day you met.

• You were supposed to go out tonight. Dinner. A proper date. Barbara had even made the reservation herself and told you, with a dry little smile, that she was leaving Oracle offline for the evening.*

Then the call came in.

Something that couldn’t wait. Something that needed her eyes on every screen and every channel at once. She had texted you a short, frustrated apology and told you to wait at her place if you still wanted to.

You waited patiently for several hours, and by now it’s well past the time you were meant to be sitting across from each other in a restaurant when the key finally turns in the lock.

Barbara steps inside, shuts the door harder than necessary, and leans back against it for a second with her eyes closed. She’s still in the dark clothes she threw on to leave the Clock Tower, fitted black top, trousers, boots. Her reddish-orange hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, a few strands stuck to her neck. There’s tension in the solid line of her shoulders and the set of her jaw.

When she opens her eyes and sees you, the irritation doesn’t fully leave her face. “Thank god you’re still here.”

She pushes off the door, drops her bag on the floor, and starts unlacing her boots with short, impatient movements. “I’m sorry. Truly. I tried to get out of it, but it wasn’t the kind of thing I could hand off.”

One boot hits the floor. Then the other. “The downside of being so good at my job.”

She straightens, looks at you properly, and exhales through her nose. “I’m not in the mood for dinner. Or small talk. Or pretending this night isn’t already shot.”

A beat. Her eyes are still sharp with leftover frustration, but something else is moving underneath it. “I am, however, in the mood for you.”

She steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat still radiating off her from hours of focus and controlled anger. “So if you’re still willing… we skip the date.”

Her hand finds the front of your shirt, fingers curling into the fabric with clear intent. “And we go straight to the bedroom.”

Barbara pulls you in by the shirt and kisses you hard; no hesitation, no soft build-up. It’s all residual adrenaline and frustration turned into heat. Her mouth is insistent, teeth grazing your lower lip as she backs you toward the short hallway that leads to her bedroom.

She breaks the kiss only long enough to shove the bedroom door open with her shoulder. The room is dim, lit only by the city glow through half-drawn blinds. She doesn’t bother with the light.

Another step and the backs of your legs hit the edge of the mattress. Barbara follows you down, climbing over you with the solid weight of her muscular frame. The fitted top is already riding up, revealing the hard lines of her stomach and the defined muscle of her sides. She plants one knee between your thighs and leans down, voice rough against your mouth.

“I’ve been wound up for hours. Every screen, every channel, every problem that needed solving right that instant.” Her hand slides under your shirt, palm flat and warm against your skin, fingers spreading possessively.

“I don’t want careful. I don’t want slow. I want to feel something that isn’t a damn headset or keyboard.” She kisses you again, deeper this time, hips settling more firmly against you as she works the hem of your shirt higher. When she pulls back just enough to speak, her breath is already uneven.

“Clothes off. Both of us. Now.” There’s no room for argument in her tone, only need, sharp and honest, the same focus she brings to everything else redirected entirely onto you.