Archive of Our Own

Stephanie’s elbow is clicking.

It’s been in the back of her mind for a couple days, ever since one of the perps she took down asked her weakly if that noise was normal. My knee’s been acting up, he’d said. If a vigilante like you’s in the same predicament, it’s alright, yeah?

No, Steph had said. Get that checked out. Your knee could deteriorate pretty awfully, champ, and then you'd need—ha, need—crutches just to get up the stairs. You want crutches? Do as I say, not as I do, she parroted, sounding way too much like her mother.

It’s getting worse, though. A twinge of pain every time she overexerts the muscle. Stephanie knows exactly how to fix it, is the thing. Strengthening exercises targeting her elbow; the carpis, rotator muscles, biceps and triceps. Dozens of diagrams flood her mind and she grimaces, willing herself to focus on the biting wind against her ears. She’s supposed to be taking a break from school. Anyway, it’d take the strain off her ligaments, so long as she went for consistently and longevity.

Steph hates consistency and longevity.

“This isn't a family reunion, asswipe,” Jason scoffs, jarring her out of her thoughts. “I'm going home.”

Steph honestly admires his pettiness. He likes to stress the word ‘home’ like he's proving to Bruce that the Manor isn't his home anymore, but the Manor is hardly anyone’s home anymore, so it doesn't really have the intended effect. Bruce launches into an explanation of how they need to consolidate their evidence on Sionis’ upcoming arms deal and work together, Jason, because the safety of Gotham is bigger than whatever grudges you may have against me, and no, I don't mean to undermine your feelings, would you please just come with us and stop being an obnoxious little bitch.

Okay, he doesn't say that part, but Steph knows he's thinking it. She loves Jason, truly, but she's also tired and the cold isn't helping her joints (how is it so cold? It’s freaking April). Steph tunes out, rocking forward on the balls of her feet and wondering if she can make a break for the Batmobile unnoticed when they seem to come to a consensus.

“Finally,” Steph groans. “God, you people are worse than a soap opera.”

Even from under his helmet, the glare Jason sends her is vicious. Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose, looking goddamn battle-worn as he motions for her and Damian to follow him. Steph slides into the backseat of the Batmobile, unfolding her legs and getting muck all over the upholstery.

“B-Man,” she begins, unlatching her mask from her face. She yawns big, stretching out her jaw, and opens her eyes to see Bruce looking at her in the rearview. Stephanie brightens. She hadn't expected him to acknowledge it, but he’s removed his cowl and raised a single eyebrow. “You look so much like Damian when you do that, holy shit. It’s almost like he’s fifty-percent you. That’s fucked up.”

“That’s how procreation generally works,” Damian snarks. He’s not nearly as intimidating as he thinks he is, all slouched like that in the passenger seat. All she can see of him is a tuft of hair and his bony elbow. She pokes said elbow and he lurches upright, snarling.

“At ease, kid. I'm supposed to be heading back to my place, B.”

To his credit, he has the grace to look a little guilty. “After rendezvous,” he promises. “We need your intel from fifty-second. You're free to go after that.”

Stephanie groans, loud and put-upon, but she's secretly giddy. Unreasonably giddy. Bruce used to be so dismissive with her. She wouldn't still be working with him if he hadn't changed at least a little, but she doesn't even have to worry anymore. It’s cool. They're cool.

When they get to the Cave, Stephanie realizes what Jason meant by family reunion. He and Tim are arguing over the origin of a bloodstain by the Batcomputer, which Steph thinks is stupid and pointless, because nobody goes near that mess of wires and monitors except for Tim and Bruce. Cass has joined Tim's side, though, and now they're both yelling at Jason and Jason is yelling twice as loud.

“Shut up,” Bruce says tiredly. “All of you. You'll wake Duke.”

Objectively untrue. Sound cannot reach the Manor from down here, especially not the top floors where the bedrooms are, but it works in shutting everyone up. They settle for glaring at each other until Damian shoves through them, and then they start glaring at him.

Steph steps up next to Alfred by the examination table, peering over his shoulder with interest. “Hiya. Whose blood is that?”

“Good evening, Miss Brown,” he sighs. He’s always doing this. Sighing. Steph doesn't think he looked half as tired as before she walked up, so she takes a step back to give him a little space, chewing her lip. “Timothy tore his stitches.”

“I thought he wasn't going out tonight?” Steph asks, surprised. Alfred sighs again, shaking his head minutely, and offers her a wry smile.

“He didn't. It was a staircase that did him in, I'm afraid.”

“Get the fuck out!” She gasps. “He's such a loser. The stairs!”

“Indeed.”

He doesn't reprimand her language like usual. When he moves past her without further comment, Steph scrounges around for something to say, feeling wrong-footed, but the moment passes before she can think of anything. Alfred adjusts the bundle of cloth in his arms, slipping one free to pat Damian on the shoulder, murmuring something that makes the kid shift his weight, glowing with both embarrassment and pride.

Steph looks away.

“Here,” Jason says, tossing Bruce a flashdrive. “Everything’s uploaded. I'm—”

“Staying here,” Bruce interjects. “We need to work out updated patrol routes until the case is handled. Don't give me that look, Jason. Unless you want your jurisdiction to be operating under outdated information, you'll work with us.”

Your jurisdiction. Using Crime Alley against him is a bold move. Jason grits his teeth, very obviously counting backwards from ten, and at the end of it, turns on his heel and stomps over to the couch. “Whatever,” he hisses. “I'll fucking kill you, old man.”

“All of us are on this?” Tim asks mildly. He runs a hand through his hair, which Bernard probably thinks is hot, but he mostly just looks like a wannabe frat boy. Steph vows to tell him later. Out of the goodness of her heart, of course, and not at all because he needs to be lovingly knocked down several pegs. “Jeez, Bruce. I call first P.P.F.F.”

“Absolutely not!” Damian shrieks.

“Hell no!” Jason yells.

“I'm the oldest here,” Cass reasons.

Stephanie coughs. Sue her, she just wants to be included. The others are already talking over each other.

“Let's vote,” Tim says finally, holding up a hand like he's a student asking to use the restroom. “Or get B to choose. He'll need a rotation if we're all on this.”

“A rotation for what?” Stephanie interjects, and she's immediately subjected to witheringly judgemental looks from everyone else.

Skeptically, Jason squints at her. “Food,” he says, like she's an idiot. “Post patrol fast food that Alfie wouldn't approve of. P.P.F.F for short. Mine was Batburger.”

“As plebeian as expected, Todd,” Damian sniffs. “The best choice has always been Al's.”

Tim snickers. “You only picked that because you panicked and thought Alfred owned the place. Taco Whiz is obviously superior in every way.”

“White people tacos,” Jason scowls. “Don't you even start, Cass. Nobody is considering Denny's. Fucking deranged.”

Stephanie is so out of her depth here it's kind of ridiculous. She blinks once, twice, trying to re-contextualize. Post patrol fast food? What the fuck is that supposed to be? Sure, she's indulged in enough midnight chili dogs to put a lesser man to shame, but who hasn't?

Bruce certainly never funded it. He never gave a shit, actually, where she went after patrol. He's ignoring them all, examining whatever is on Jason's flash drive, so when they all turn to her next, Steph runs. “Have to get home,” she squeaks. “Finals. You know how it is.”

“Weren't your finals two weeks ag—”

“Bye! I'll brief you later, B.”

He frowns after her, but Stephanie is out before he can open his mouth. She's so embarrassed it's not even funny. What if they had asked her? What would she have done? Lied? Bruce would correct her before she could blink, so either way, they'd know that she's the only one who apparently isn't good enough for P.P-fucking-F.F. Back then, she didn't even eat dinner some nights. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe they aren't cool and nothing has changed. At least Alfred’s always been honest with her, with all those tight-lipped smiles and clipped words. Will you be staying for dinner, Miss Brown? It’s not like she tries to stick around. She’s usually with Cass or Tim—or Damian, god help her—so some overlap at the Manor should be expected. It’s not her fault.

Abruptly, she remembers the dirt kicked over the Batmobile’s seats. Serves them right, she thinks furiously. Assholes.

She doesn't even want P.P.F.F. She doesn't want to spend any more time with Batman than absolutely fucking necessary.

Her elbow is still clicking.

-

Perplexed, Tim looks at the spot that Stephanie had just vanished from, feeling largely like he's missing something. For a moment, Alfred stares after her, something deeply, deeply sad etched into his features before he manages to school them. At least the others seem confused too, glancing around at each other and at Bruce, who’s still frowning. He’s always frowning, but his face is all pinched in a way that means it's a Thing.

“What was hers?” Jason asks finally. Bruce looks up at him, fiddling with the flashdrive in his hand, and back at the empty doorway. “Her favorite?”

“I can't recall.”

-

On April seventh, Stephanie lingers in front of the birthday cards section at Walmart, purse clutched under her arm.

Happy Birthday, Grandpasaurus! If Stephanie was a grandpa, she’d absolutely adore this card, but if she’s liking it, Alfred will hate it.

Grandpa, you fill all our time together with fun-shine! Stephanie grimaces, imagining Alfred as the smiling sun that's printed on the cover of the card.

World’s Best Grandpa! No Matter What Life Throws At You, At Least You Don’t Have Ugly Grandchildren!

It'll have to do.

She has to go to a different store to find those fancy chocolates he likes, the ones with gold wrapping and a name she can't pronounce, and on her way back, she's struck with the thought that he probably won't give a shit. She doesn't really regret buying anything, because Alfred’s patched her up too many times for her pettiness, but the realization sits heavy in her chest. It’s right alongside her mom missing graduation. Finding out Tim's distrust of her ran bone deep. Bruce’s weighted silences and constant— constant— disappointment. P.P.F.F. Christ. At this point, Stephanie isn't too proud to admit that it’s sorta kinda fucking her up, thinking about Bruce bringing every single one of his Robins out with him after patrol. Not even just the Robins. Cass, too, and probably others. He’d smile at them, patting them on the back and ruffling their hair. Good job, he’d say. Tonight was tough. I'm proud of you. We can go wherever you want. Don't tell Alfred.

Her hands clench around the steering wheel, cracked leather peeling under her palms, and she very carefully doesn't look at the chocolates on the seat beside her. She’s got ribbon left over from the holidays. She’ll wrap them up in a bow and sign the card, and then nobody can fault her for being a shitty family friend slash co-worker. Easy peasy.

Bruce extends a formal invitation later that evening. Everyone’s coming, the text says. You don't have to bring anything, but Alfred would be thrilled to have you. Even Dick’s driving down, he stresses.

Everyone's coming. Stephanie isn't sure why she needs to know. She isn't family, and it'd be nice if Bruce could stop pretending like he wants her to be.

The shitty blinds in her even shittier off-campus apartment are broken when she gets back. They were broken in the morning, too, but have somehow fallen more apart in the hour she was gone. Stephanie scrunches them together and stands on her tip-toes to tie them to the rack at the top, squinting against the rare bout of sunlight through the glass. At least it’s nice out. She plays funky music through her speaker, ignoring the screech on particularly high notes, and grabs her dumbbells from under her bed. They're the fancy kinds, the ones you can adjust the weight on. Dick got them for her as a housewarming gift. Motherfucker couldn't have been normal and gotten her a plant, but despite how weird he is, Steph appreciates it so much. Dick isn't around often, but he makes her feel normal. Like she’s a friend, not just Tim’s ex-girlfriend who likes cosplaying as a hero.

That’s not fair. Steph knows it’s not fair. She settles herself on the edge of her bench, spreading her legs and straightening her back to curl the dumbbell up. None of them really make her feel like that anymore. Jason and Cass and Duke, they've always been cool, with none of the crappy history that makes her clam up around the Waynes. After Tim apologized profusely for ghosting her like a piece of shit, now they're as close as they used to be—without the kissing and stuff. Babs and Damian never saw her as Tim’s anything. To the latter, at least, she’s always been the annoying family friend, which Steph hopes never ever changes.

There’s Bruce, of course. And Alfred. To them, she’ll always be an extension of Tim, even when it leaves a nasty taste in the mouths of everyone involved. Maybe she's less of Tim, now, and more Babs and Cass. Filling in for them instead.

Steph snorts. It’s a step up, in her opinion. She grits her teeth against the strain in her forearms, pulling the weight up to her collarbone one last time before gingerly letting it drop to the carpet.

Shit. She forgot to change her shirt, and now she’s getting sweat stains all over a nice top.

-

“Hey, Alfred! They got you opening the door today? Gotta be cruel and unusual punishment. Happy Birthday! I wish I could stay longer, but I wanted to drop this off in person.”

“It’s wonderful to see you, Miss Brown. You didn't have to get anything, but it’s very much appreciated. Oh, of all the places! Did you manage to find Jacquot in Walmart?”

“No, I wish. Swung by Robinson’s on my way back. I can grab some more if you'd like, it's not far out of my way.”

“That's not necessary, my dear. I'm very touched. Besides perhaps Master Jason, I doubt there’s a single other person who knows the sort of chocolate I prefer, down to the hazelnut filling. Thank you very much, Stephanie, and should you wish, do join me for tea.”

“‘Course. Of course, Alf. You mean a lot to me. I'll take you up on that!”

-

Jason doesn't speak to her for a week. Initially, Steph has a blast showing up on his patrols, needling him incessantly with shitty jokes and bad pick-up lines. It isn't until he finally snaps at her that she realizes why the stick up his ass seems to have grown exponentially longer.

"You blew Alfred off," he snarls. "On his fucking birthday. You couldn't even come up with a reason.”

Stephanie can't help it. She laughs—only a little bitter—and doesn't look up from where she's tightening the straps on her boots. Jason’s silence is louder than anything he could've said. She glances up at him, fingers fumbling when she realizes he's not joking. He has to know. There's no way he doesn't. There's no way it isn't obvious. Her, Alfred, and Bruce—they've got their own dynamic. It's whatever, she's given up on feeling sorry for herself, but the others have to at least noticed .

Jason's scowl doesn't ease up, and all of a sudden, Stephanie becomes inexplicably angry. "Alfred can't stand me," she snaps. "I was doing us both a favor. God, I can't believe that's what you've been so fucking anal about."

Jason reels back, his fists clenching around air. "What are you talking about? Alfred doesn't hate you."

"Yes, he does," Steph says slowly, like she's speaking to a child. "I'm—"

I'm too stupid. Too reckless. Too naive. Too callous. Too inexperienced. I'm not good for Tim, not good for Robin.

I'm not you.

"Whatever. Not my problem you're an idiot, Hood."

She moves to leap off the roof, grapple in hand, but Jason snags her wrist before she can and she falls backwards onto her butt with a yelp. It's only his hand between her shoulder blades that keeps her from braining herself on the concrete. Steph scowls, slapping him away, but doesn't get up. “You broke my ass.”

“Tailbone.”

“Eat glass.”

Jason snickers, lowering himself beside her and swinging his legs off the ledge. They're still on patrol, but he unlatches his helmet, hair sticking up every which way once he yanks it off. “Relax. I might've jumped the gun, whatever. I'm big enough to admit when I'm being a bitch.”

“Oh, are you?” Steph says snidely. “We should get you a sticker chart.”

“Why would Alfie hate you?”

Mean. Jason’s supposed to be the one that Steph can count on to bicker with her. Distract her, if the need arises. In her opinion, the need has absolutely arisen, but he's being annoying and earnest and she isn't prepared to deal with this. She waves her hand dismissively, not quite meeting his gaze, and lets it drop back to her lap. “It’s nothing,” she says. “He doesn't hate me. We’re just different people, it’s not, like…a thing. Don't make it a thing.”

For a moment, Jason doesn't say anything, and Stephanie is contemplating throwing herself off the edge of the roof to get away from the terrible-awful-no good awkwardness in the air. To reiterate: it’s not supposed to be like this. Steph isn't necessarily a closed off person, but she’s never voiced any of this out loud. Never wanted to—never even wanted to think about it. (She thought it had been getting better). Not even Cass would get it. She’d try, sure, and Steph loves her for that, but it's just not the same. Drop it, she wants to plead. Just drop it.

He does not drop it.

“Alfred didn't really like me,” Jason says abruptly. “At the start. Probably ‘cause I was caught stealing from ‘em. Don't think he appreciated the street kid in me, he’s too British. Too old. But he got over himself fast, and he's different now. He'd never think any less of someone for that.”

Steph hums non committedly. She hears what he's trying to tell her, echoing Tim when he says that the two of them are way too similar for their own good. Steph believes it. She believes Jason now, too, and he's looking at her sideways like he's trying desperately to make her feel better. It breaks her heart a little that it's not working. She lets herself smile, nudging their shoulders together, and even though she doesn't say a word, he takes it as the gratefulness that it is—if not for the right reason.

It’s not Jason’s fault. Even after his crime lord phase, he’s got an easygoing charm about him that has Alfred smiling so, so genuinely. Steph can only imagine how he was as a kid, all bright-eyed and eager to please. Alfred would have sat with him in the library, coexisting together like they'd known each other for years, or helped him with homework at the dinner table when Bruce was busy. He wouldn't have cared about the street kid in Jason. Not really. And Steph is happy for him, happy that he got the kind of love she knows he was deprived of.

It just hurts a little. That she's not inferior because she's Stephanie Brown of horrible upbringings and manners to boot. That’s where Jason had been at once upon a time, and he’s widely accepted as Alfie’s favorite. It’s not that.

It’s because she's her.

“I've got stuff to make quesadillas at Haven Nine.”

“Lead the way, my good sir.”

-

Damian is exasperating on a good day and a little terror on a bad one. He's spitting something vile at her, but Steph is more watching his mouth contort in fascinating ways than really listening to what he has to say. Something something half-wit-turkey-of-a-vigilante, something something grossly-inadequate-buffoon-masquerading-as-a-human-person. Fill in the blank. He should make a mad-lib book, Steph muses, and promises to introduce the kid when he's not waving his sword around.

“I cannot believe you would risk our mission for something so stupid as your hair!” He shrieks. “Come here, I'll chop it off for you.”

Steph sniffs disdainfully, tossing said hair over her shoulder as she removes her mask. It had gotten stuck in a pulley system by the docks that could not have been OSHA approved. Steph refuses to apologize for kicking Damian away when he tried to cut her free with his blade.

“Damian,” Bruce sighs wearily. This is all because of him. Damian had grumbled, sure, but it was only when Batman arrived on scene that he started freaking out about priorities and ridiculous hair lengths, etcetera etcetera. Steph hates how deeply she understands him, his need to reassure Bruce that it's not his fault, it's hers.

“Don't threaten your allies. We've talked about this.”

Damian scowls. “It's hardly a threat. If anything, I'm doing her a favor. Your hair belongs on a hand-me-down ragdoll,” he informs Steph icily.

“Damian.”

“Go to bed, punk,” Stephanie snorts. “Wake me up tomorrow for the aquarium, I'll sleep through my alarm.”

He blinks at her like he'd forgotten, but Steph knows that that's impossible, which means he just hadn't considered she would still want to take him after this. He hesitates a little, glancing up at Bruce, but he's looking at Stephanie. Finally, Damian gives her a stiff nod and scampers off before she has the chance to ruffle his hair. The kid is sorely mistaken if he doesn't think she'll make up for it tomorrow.

“You're good with him,” Bruce says. Steph doesn't startle, but her steps stutter. “There's still the matter of your hand-to-hand, but you've come a long way.”

Only Bruce would equate dealing with Damian to fist fighting.

“That was almost a compliment, B,” she scoffs. “He's a good kid. He's also funny as fuck, which doesn't hurt.” Her mask feels heavy in her hands all of a sudden as she leans against the table, fiddling with the straps around her arms. “He just wants to make you proud.”

“He does,” Bruce says immediately. He steps into her line of sight, eyes pinched almost anxiously. “You all do. You know that.”

“Right,” Steph nods. “Right, yeah. Jeez, Boss, you got so intense just now.”

Her throat feels like it's got a perpetual lump in it. She can't even look at the guy without wanting to punch him or sprint the other way. Maybe burst into tears while she's at it. She's pathetic. Things were fine. Why did she have to go and fuck them up again?

“After patrol tomorrow,” Bruce begins, and Stephanie's entire body seizes. She's moving before he can finish, fumbling to shed her armor and all but running to the showers, muttering something about plans with her friend from school. If Bruce—if that was going to be some kind of invitation, Steph wants no part in it. She's not a kid anymore. Bruce can't just change and expect her to forget anything was ever wrong in the first place. She knows where she stands with him and it's fine. She's okay with it.

Through the rapidly closing crack of the locker room door, Steph sees that he hasn't moved from his spot by the desk, completely still under the pale blue lighting.

-

“Timothy.”

“Stephanie.”

“Starfish have eyes on the end of their arms.”

Tim shifts, glancing at where Stephanie is flopped against his side, tinny geometry dash music coming from her phone. After her avatar explodes into pixels, she taps his knuckles in demonstration. “That's gross.”

“Don't let Dami hear you say that. They can only see light and dark with the eyes anyway, so it's not even that cool. If I had eyes on my hands, I'd want them to blink. Maybe sideways like lizards do.”

“Or not blinking like a fish. It'd suit you.”

She hums, tapping madly at her phone screen, and Tim pauses his twitter scrolling to watch her. They've been like this for forty minutes minimum and she's still determined to complete the theory of everything level. He knows that something is probably up with her, but all his attempts at subtle probing were thoroughly dodged, so now he's not sure what to do. For now, she seems content to just chill with him, but Tim hadn't missed her full-body twitch when Alfred asked if they wanted sandwiches.

Generally, Steph tells him things. He can expect to check his phone around one with a text of what she had for lunch, or copious whining if she didn't eat. Whenever the cute barista is on shift, Tim knows. If her classmate asks a stupid question during class, Tim knows. She hasn't been texting as much, and Tim means to ask, he really does, but whenever he sees her, she's exactly the same as usual and he loses his nerve.

Well. She's here now and he's already thinking about it.

“You'd tell me if something was wrong, right?”

Her fingers twitch, and Tim watches her avatar explode again, mildly abashed. “Fuck you,” Steph hisses. “I was so close!”

“Steph.”

“Tim.”

“What's going on?”

She groans, tossing her phone to the end of the couch and burrowing her face against his shoulder, silent. When they were dating, she used to make him sprawl on top of her like a weighted blanket, claiming it was good for circulating lactic acid, or something equally ridiculous. She's a tactile person, Steph. Tim leans his weight against her, resting his cheek on her head, hair tickling his nose, and resolves to sit his ass on the couch until she tells him what's up.

Or she falls asleep. Also probable.

“You have to see Babs tonight,” she mumbles, muffled. “About the thing with the thing.”

Right. Oracle wanted Tim's input on murder trial business. She believes the guy’s innocent, but she can't get out to the Narrows and do the sort of sleuthing she’d like, hence the outsourcing. Tim doesn't mind. He likes it when he gets the chance to do real detective work and take a break from sex traffickers and Ra’s freaking al Ghul. Tim purses his lips, considering how angry she'll be if he shows up late—or not at all —if Stephanie doesn't budge. Babs adores her, so maybe if he pleads his case convincingly enough, she'll hold out on hiring Jason to shoot out his knees.

“Yeah,” Tim agrees, mind made up. “So unless you want me kneecap-less, you'll spill it.”

“I hear boneless flopping is all the rage this spring.”

Tim pokes her and she makes a disgruntled sound, falling back into silence as she fiddles with the ring around her middle finger. Bruce got it for her, Tim remembers. A birthday gift. It hadn't cost a lot, because Steph wouldn't wear it if it did, but you'd never be able to tell.

Just as Tim starts to think they really will fall asleep here before Steph cracks, she huffs out a breath. Despite the fidgeting, her voice doesn't waver.

“Timmy.”

“Stephie.”

“Do you think Bruce regrets my Robin?”

Tim jerks up, jostling her away from him, and he'd almost feel bad if he wasn't so confused. “What?”

“Was I—nevermind,” Steph rushes, already groping behind her for her phone, ears turning pink. “Nevermind. It’s stupid, I didn't mean—”

“Steph. Steph. Jesus, hold on. Don't leave me with that,” Tim pleads. “Come on. What do you mean? How could—why do you think that?”

“Don't ask me that,” she bites out. She's still on the edge of the cushion, ready to bolt as Tim stammers through a response, wondering how the hell he's supposed to navigate this without scaring her off. “You're smart, Tim, don't you see it?”

There’s something almost desperate in her eyes when she looks at him, the knuckles of her clenched fists protruding in her lap, teeth gnawing at her bottom lip.

“I don't. I don't see it. Of course he doesn't regret you. You're a hero, Stephie. You're just like the rest of us. Why would he regret that?”

“Not Spoiler,” she says, shaking her head viciously. “Not even Batgirl. My Robin. He—I was—don't you see it?” She repeats, and Tim feels his gut swooping, whatever he was going to say sticking in his throat. Yes, he wants to say, but he can't, because he doesn't think they're on the same page. Bruce does regret it, at least a little bit—so does Tim, if he's being honest—but not in the way she thinks. They had—god, they'd been awful to her. While she was Robin and afterwards, after she came back. The hurt still feels raw in his chest when he thinks about it. The anger. But it hadn't been fair to her. His head had been so far up his own ass to be the kind of support Steph needed, and all Bruce had seen when he looked at her was Tim.

He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, heart thudding wildly with the knowledge that whatever he says, Steph will hear something different.

“I think,” Tim says carefully, mouth dry. He lets his hands fall to his sides. “I think he regrets the way he was. With you. But not you, Steph. Never you.”

When Stephanie is sad, her entire face crumples. Her bottom lip will start to tremble, eyebrows screwing up, a violent flush blooming over the bridge of her nose and across her cheekbones. Tim doesn't think he'll ever forget how she looked after her daughter was born, the rawest form of misery he's ever seen. Just looking at her when she cries makes him want to cry.

That's not what this is. Tim knows she's upset—she's wrecked, he sees it in her eyes—but they don't tear up. Her lips press together instead, chin lifting up as her entire face shutters, staring somewhere over his shoulder with a horrifying sort of acceptance, and Tim knows he messed up. “Steph—”

“That's the same thing. That's the same thing, Tim. I wish I'd never—”

She cuts herself off, and selfishly, Tim is glad for it. He doesn't want to hear her finish that sentence. I wish I never met him. I wish I never met you. He can't hear her say it.

“It's not the same,” he manages, trying to catch her eye. “It's not.”

Steph leaves. One moment she's there and the next she's gone, the door closing behind her with an awful, awful finality. Tim hunches over his knees, hands lacing at the nape of his neck, and resists the urge to scream.

-

There comes a point, Steph has begun to realize, when you've gotten your ass beat enough times that the novelty starts to wear off.

It's not a helpful thing to understand when there’s a plethora of thugs surrounding you and your only backup has been thoroughly knocked the fuck out. She doesn't know what they managed to stick Red Hood with, but they'd been back-to-back one moment, and the next, he had cracked his helmet against the concrete floor, leaving her to face off the remaining dozen or so of Sionis’ men. She’s already racked up a sprained ankle, two broken fingers—on account of her elbow spasming painfully as she blocked a hit—and a blow to the chest that still has her breathing funny.

Not ideal.

She ditches Jason to drop into a roll, coming up behind two of the men with batons. She’d managed to knock the guns out of their hands, and up till now, Jason’s been helping her keep them out of their hands. They aren't particularly skilled, but there’s so fucking many of them that it’s all Stephanie can do to block the blows raining down on her. A club clips her temple and she crashes to the ground, just barely remembering to sweep her legs out, knocking two of them off balance and giving herself a moment to blink past the blackening edges of her vision.

Only when a bullet tears through her thigh, sending her tumbling to her knees with a bitten off curse, does Stephanie accept the fact she can't keep an eye on thirteen scattered assailants at once. One of them is going for Jason and she fumbles for a Batarang, launching it at their bicep with more force than strictly necessary. Desperately, she forces herself to her feet, doing her best to ignore the piercing agony shooting through her everything , and hobbles over to Jason.

This is all her fucking fault. She’d panicked, hearing them get the cars ready to move out with crates of weaponry near bursting out the trunks. They'd switched up their routine at the last second, leaving Steph with about twice as many men to deal with than expected. She was supposed to have waited.

Someone launches at her, a meaty hand wrapping around her throat, and Stephanie gasps, kicking out with everything in her until something connects. He hisses as she drives her knee into his gut, following up with an elbow to his nose that sends him stumbling back, howling in pain. Air rushes back into her lungs, burning with the force of it, but she's not given any reprieve before the butt of a gun smashes into her ribs.

She can hear the crack.

Stephanie shouts, vision blurring from the pain, and all of a sudden, the eight men still standing become sixteen, and fear floods through her.

“Hey,” she whispers. “‘M sorry, Hood.”

“Spoiler, status.”

Right. She’d forgotten about that. Before she can answer, someone whistles sharply, and the men advancing on her pause. “Leave them,” someone snaps. “Place is rigged to blow, anyway. Three minutes, get moving.”

“Spoiler.”

“Not good,” Stephanie mumbles. She wedges a hand underneath Jason’s back, but any movement to pull him over her shoulder sends her doubling over in pain. Her ribs feel like they're clawing their way out of her skin. “He shouldn't be here,” she chokes. “He came to help me.”

“Spoiler, where are you?” Tim, this time. He sounds frantic, and through the ringing in her ears, Stephanie hears Barbara barking orders at them to converge on her location.

With every last bit of strength in her body, Stephanie yanks Jason after her, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood to keep from crying out. “Building’s gonna blow,” she manages. “Three minutes. I didn't—I'm trying.”

“You can make it, Spoiler,” Bruce commands, and it is a command. He says it like he knows it's true, and Stephanie has always loved that about Batman. If he says it, it'll happen. That's just how it goes.

“Don't think so, B. I'll get him out. I'll get Jase out.”

“Enough. You will get out of there. Batgirl is on her way. Just hold on.”

It speaks to how scared he is that he doesn't get on her ass about names. It speaks to how scared she is that he can't give her an ETA.

They reach the perimeter of the room and Stephanie coughs, the mental timer in her head ticking down the seconds. The only door she sees opens up into a long, dimly lit hallway, and any hope of finding the way out of this shithole is extinguished.

Jason isn't fire-proof. His armor is durable, but Stephanie doubts it could hold up against a freaking explosion. Her cape, on the other hand, is made for it. With fumbling hands, she tears it off of herself, hood and all, to drape it over Jason like a tablecloth. The big bastard’s feet stick out the ends, and Stephanie wheezes a laugh, folding them so he's laying on his back, legs criss-cross applesauce. It looks ridiculous, and if Stephanie’s heart wasn't trying to climb out of her throat, she might've taken a picture.

Once he's all covered, Steph flops over him as best she can, shimmying under the cape herself. Her bottom half sticks out the side, and she doesn't have the strength to make herself comfortable, cheek pressed into the hard line of his shoulder, but at least she can say she tried.

She isn't surviving this. Blearily, she wonders if Bruce will grieve. If he’ll see her mangled body and remember what she looked like back in the hospital. He might be grateful to her for protecting his son—or hate her for needing his help in the first place. Steph squeezes her eyes shut and refuses to let herself cry.

Ten seconds. At least she's with a friend, this time around.

-

“—text you when she wakes.”

“Steph?”

“—this morning. I'm not lying, I had cereal. Ask Alfie.”

“—can't hear you, Dami, save your insults for when—”

“Sleep, my dear girl.”

-

“I know you're awake, dummy.”

Cass is already moving off the chair when Steph opens her eyes, kissing her forehead once she sees Steph watching her. She's achingly careful as she clambers into bed beside her, wrapping herself around Steph's arm. Her chin digs into her shoulder—not that Steph would ever tell her.

“Cassie,” she croaks, wincing at the hoarseness of her voice. “‘Sup, beautiful?”

“Shh,” Cass scolds. “I'm mad at you. Everyone is. Very mad, you should be sorry.”

Steph snorts, eyeing the way her best friend is cheerfully clinging to her. “Really feeling it,” she sighs, pressing her face against Cass’ hair. “Love you.”

Cass hums against her throat, sweeping fingers over Steph's stomach, careful not to put too much pressure against her wounds. “Cracked ribs,” she starts. “Three. Two broken fingers, one concussion—”

“And a partridge in a pear tree.”

“—and a bullet, sprained ankle, and elbow impingement. Second degree burns all down your legs.”

“Had worse,” Steph says mulishly. Honestly, the elbow impingement hurts the most. Nothing is worse than the sheer mortification of her own stupidity. “Can I leave?”

“Funny. Not getting away from us.”

That much, Steph can believe. She'd nearly gotten Jason exploded again, all because she had rushed into things before she was ready. The lecture, Stephanie knows, will be historically abysmal this time around. She doesn't say anything, biting her lip to keep from pleading with Cass. Everything hurts. She just wants to go home.

“Is Jay—is he okay?” Steph whispers. Cass lifts her head to meet her eyes, the look on her face unreadable, and Stephanie's stomach drops.

“Paralysis,” she says finally. “Temporary, from whatever they got him with. He was awake the whole time. He can talk, but he can't move well. Tim says it should wear off in a few more hours. He's okay.”

Steph exhales, the tension bleeding from her muscles. “Okay. Okay, sick. That's good. I was—I thought—”

“You thought better him than you,” Cass says evenly. Stephanie’s breath catches in her throat, and she can't bring herself to look at the other girl, instead staring at the cave ceiling above her.

“It's not like that,” she mutters. “I thought I was a goner either way. No point risking his life, too.”

Cass doesn't refute that, but it's clear she sees right through her. “You scared us,” she chides. “I'll go find Timmy. Bruce finally got him in bed, but he’ll be angry if he's not here.”

“Is Alfred around?”

“With Jason. Bruce now or later?”

“Is never an option?” Steph asks weakly. Cass doesn't dignify that with a response.

Once she disappears up the stairs, it's just Steph—well, her and the array of medical equipment that's been keeping her alive till now. God, she hates this shit. The beeping heart monitor makes her feel sick, stomach rolling with nausea and the reminder of the last time she had heard herself dying, and before that—

“Steph!”

Tim’s hair is longer, tucked behind his ears as he skids down the stairs, and he's wearing Bruce’s hoodie, not the Robin suit. Steph lets out a breath, letting the images of hospital gowns and maternity wards and her daughter fade away. She smiles, watching Damian stomp after him, and reaches out a hand. The kid refuses to look at her as he ducks his head, allowing a half-second hair ruffle. “You are an idiot,” he hisses. “What were you possibly —”

“Jesus, Damian. She just woke up.”

Tim shoves him lightly and Damian shuts up, glowering at the floor. The look on Tim’s face isn't as beseeching, but while Damian’s worry makes itself known through sneers and explosive words, Tim’s is like this. Pinched brows, chewed up lips. “Hey,” he says quietly, finding Steph’s hand to hold. “How are you feeling?”

“Come on, Boy Wonder,” Steph teases, voice hoarse. “You know me.”

Yeah, Tim should say, rolling his eyes. Unfortunately.

He doesn't.

“Don't do that, Steph. It’s just us.”

“I fucked up, Tim. Is that what you want me to say?”

She's so tired. The weight of Bruce’s upcoming visit hangs over her like a shroud, pinning her in place. Whatever anesthetic she’d been on is wearing off, and it feels like there’s a fire licking up beneath her legs, inside her chest. She wants to go back to sleep. She wants to go back three weeks, three months, three years. Before she was Robin. Before Spoiler. She should've just slit her stupid dad’s throat and been done with it all.

Tim makes a wounded noise, finally slumping down to sit in the chair at her bedside. Damian perches on the arm. “Don't be stupid,” he sniffs, but even that has less vitriol than she's sure he intended. “He only means that you can be honest if you're hurting. It’s ridiculous to lie. We see the evidence, Brown. You look like a walking bruise.”

Stephanie snorts, but she can't help the smile that quirks her lips. “I'm sorry, kiddo. I didn't mean to worry you. Any of you.”

Damian only grumbles a little about not being worried, which Steph thinks is a monumental step in their relationship. He glances at Tim out of the corner of his eye, then over his shoulder, like he thinks they're being watched. “Father will not agree, but…but I think taking on those men was admirable. You were sorely outnumbered, yet you did not hesitate.”

All of a sudden, there’s a growing lump in Steph’s throat, and she blinks furiously. He’s not—he’s just a kid , but knowing that one person doesn't see her as a fuck up—

“Thank you,” she croaks. “Thanks, Dami.”

“Bruce will agree,” Tim says firmly, shooting Damian a look. “Of course he will. Without you, they would’ve had time to get away before I caught them, and then Mask’s men would’ve been even more armed to the teeth than they already are. Pretty sure there were some rocket launchers in there. You stopped missiles, Stephie, come on.”

This time, the laugh that bursts from her is grossly wet, petering out into giggles as Damian scoffs, muttering about how Sionis is dumb enough to blow himself up, so really Steph had done them all a disservice. Tim points a camera at her and Steph flashes a thumbs up. Proof of life, he says. For Kara, Helena, and the Titans. For Kon, she sends an enthusiastic thumbs down, the little bitch. Just as Tim is happily telling her about Bernard stress baking blueberry muffins all night, Alfred appears in the doorway, bearing a tray of grilled cheese and tomato soup.

He shoos Tim and Damian away, murmuring something about socks and Mario Kart, of all things, before making his way over to her bed, smiling so tenderly at her that Steph almost looks away. “Stephanie,” he greets. “It's very good to see you awake, my dear. You gave us all quite the scare.”

“Sorry,” Steph says weakly, but he's already shaking his head, helping her sit up and lowering the tray to her lap. Ginger molasses cookies. Steph knows for a fact that there hasn't been any left for weeks. Her chest feels tight as she mumbles a quiet thank you, swallowing past her nerves. “You didn't have to—”

“Nonsense. Bernard is not the only one who stress bakes, I'm afraid.”

Oh god, she's going to cry. She's for real going to cry. Stephanie makes a garbled sound and stuffs her face with grilled cheese, valiantly pretending that she can't feel Alfred's hand smoothing over her hair and tucking the blanket in around her legs.

“Your next dose of painkillers is due in an hour,” Alfred says gently. “We don't want to overdo it. Shall I send Master Bruce down?”

“Yeah,” Steph manages, surprising herself. “Yeah, go ahead. Thanks again, Alf, it—it means a lot. Everything.”

This time, when Alfred gives her a smile, it looks remarkably sad. She can't remember ever seeing him smile at her like that. “Of course, Miss Stephanie. You matter to so many people. I am grateful to be one of them.”

And Steph—Steph can't really find it in her to argue. She doesn't want to. She's been so, so angry, but in the face of Alfred's affection, it bleeds out of her entirely, and it's all she can do to stay together. “I'm sick of being angry, Alf,” she whispers. “I don't want to fight him all the time. I thought we were past it, but it's—it's my fault, now. He's been good to me, and all I can think about is…before. I want to leave it behind, but I don't know how.”

Gently, Alfred lowers himself into the chair next to her, grasping her good hand in his, weathered and rough and warm. “It's not your responsibility, Miss Stephanie. It never will be. Master Bruce—both of us. We've made so many mistakes with you, and you didn't deserve any of it. You are under no obligation to forgive nor forget, but no matter how you feel, I will continue to try and mend what I have broken. I know Master Bruce feels the same.”

“He doesn't try,” Steph says bitterly. “He thinks I'm no good.”

“He worries,” Alfred corrects. “For you especially. When you get hurt…” he trails off, brows furrowing, and shakes his head. “It's quite hard on him. He's scared he'll have to relive that night.”

Why doesn't he tell me that?

Steph knows the answer, even if Alfred might disagree. Part of it is on her. She's prickly and stubborn on bad days, and on the good ones, neither of them want to fuck it up by having a talk, god forbid. Bruce has never claimed to be good at this stuff, anyway. She can't expect him to know what to say. If he ever did, she's not sure she would have listened.

“Okay,” she says finally. “Okay. I believe you. I really do. I—I really like you, Alfie,” Steph mumbles, feeling a little pathetic. I was scared you hated me. She can't bear to say it, not to his face.

“My dear girl,” Alfred smiles. “I really like you too.”

For a moment, he just sits with her, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles as she shakes, hand clasped over her mouth. It's freaking humiliating, but Steph doesn't think she'd trade this for anything. Her grilled cheese gets cold, and Alfred graciously takes the tray with him to warm up, letting her nibble on her cookies.

When the food returns, it's Bruce holding the tray. He knocks pointlessly against the wall, stopping at the bottom of the stairs until Stephanie nods. She manages a wobbly smile, holding up a fist.

He bumps it.

“Stephanie,” he greets. “How do you feel?”

“Damian said I look like a walking bruise,” Steoh recites. “Something like that.”

Bruce grimaces, but his eyes are twinkling, and Steph doesn't bother searching for the hidden disappointment that she's used to. Whatever he wants to say, he can say it. “This shit is so good,” she mutters to herself, dipping her sandwich in the tomato soup. “New recipe?”

It's a joke, but Bruce nods sagely.

“Alfred made it with freshly shredded cheese,” He informs her. “Poor man was panicking, I think. Wondering what your favorite cheese was. I told him you probably didn't give a rat's ass.”

Steph barks a laugh, the smile lingering on her face. “Freshly shredded cheese,” she whistles. “Pulling out all the stops, just for lil’ old me.”

“Always, Steph.”

Yikes. There's that seriousness. Steph grunts, feeling distinctly out of her depth as Bruce watches her eat, eyes flitting over her broken body. Finally, she bites back a groan and meets his eyes.

“Just say it, B. Whatever it is. You don't have to wait until I'm healed to lay into me,” she says wryly. “Hit me.”

Bruce blinks. “Pardon?”

“I know I messed up,” Steph hedges, fiddling with the hem of her blanket. “I know. I'm—I really messed up. Jason almost—I should've—”

“Stephanie,” Bruce interrupts hurriedly, looking awfully haggard. “That's not what I came here for. You're not in trouble for anything. You…it was dangerous, what you did,” he acknowledges, chin dipping. “But that's what we do. We take risks. And it's not just Jason's safety I was concerned about. You had me worried, Stephanie.”

“So everyone keeps saying,” she snorts. “Is that really it? You're not—disappointed?”

“Never “ Bruce says quickly. “Never. I'm not—I haven't been good at showing you. But you make me so proud, Stephanie. You don't let anything stop you. Not even me.”

Steph bites her cheek and ducks her head, staring at her lap. Not even me. “You tried a lot,” she says hollowly. “Sometimes it feels like you keep trying. Like you'll never stop until I stop.”

For a minute, it's quiet. Stephanie chances a look up, but Bruce is staring at his hands, a muscle in his jaw jumping. She freezes, wondering if this is when he'll start his speech of irritation and regret, but as she watches him, he seems to visibly steel himself to meet her gaze. “Stephanie,” he says firmly. It's the most Batman he's sounded all night. “I was not good to you. Haven't been good. I…there's no excuses for the way I treated you, and I will forever regret the way I handled us.”

Stephanie can't breathe. She nods once, jerkily, and squeezes her fists shut tight, knuckles whitening—

Bruce moves. Gingerly, he sits on the edge of her bed, one hand lifting to brush away a lock of hair from her face. “You were a good Robin,” he says softly. “I'm sorry it's taken me so long to tell you. You were good, Steph, and you could've been great. It's my fault that—that it ended how it did.”

“Don't say that,” Steph chokes out, shuddering against his hand on her shoulder. “Don't lie, Bruce. I can take it. Just don't lie.”

“I'm not lying. You're a spitfire, Stephanie. I wouldn't have it any other way. You remind me of—”

“Jason?”

Bruce smiles at her, eyes crinkling. “Of me,” he corrects. “When I was younger, all I ever wanted was to prove myself. It scares me, seeing that in you. It's not because you're a bad fighter, it's because I know you're good. You have such a big heart and that's dangerous. You gave me a heart attack tonight,” he adds, wincing. “If Cass was any farther out—I don't want to think about it. But you didn't hesitate. I'm so proud of you. I never want you to doubt that again.”

“Even though I got Jason hurt?” Steph asks, voice cracking. “He could've—”

“Jason made his own decision to come help you,” Bruce says firmly. “We make that choice every single day. To risk ourselves for others. Our friends and allies, our family.”

Steph shakes her head, but she feels more like a pouting child than anything else. “I'm not family,” she mumbles.”

Bruce shrugs, but his grip tightens minutely. “Neither is Barbara,” he reminds her. “You don't have to be. You matter just as much.”

“God, Boss.” Steph drags a hand down her face, giving herself a half-second to compose her features before shooting him an irritated look. “You're ruining my vibe. I'm the lone ranger, you know. I work alone. All that jazz.”

“Absolutely,” Bruce agrees, amused. “I'll remind Cassandra. And Damian, and Tim, and Duke, and Barbara, and Jason, and Dick. Your hero friends, too. It might take a while.”

“You're an asshole,” Steph sniffs. “I'll tell Alfred.”

Bruce smiles. His thumb swipes over her cheekbone, and Steph leans into his hand for a fraction of a second. She's indulging. Whatever. She's too tired to get embarrassed, and Bruce cuts her some slack, murmuring something about sending the others back down before he collects her tray and leaves. Stephanie sinks back into the cushions, lip trembling freely now that she's alone again. Get it together, Brown. If the others see her like this, she might actually have to finish that stupid bomb's job.

The socks and Mario Kart make an appearance when Tim, Cass, Damian, and Duke make the trek downstairs. Duke is half carrying, half dragging Jason down the stairs behind him, moaning and groaning about his stupid muscles. “That's what I said last night,” Steph says sagely. For a moment, everyone blinks at her.

“Dude,” Duke says finally. “That's fucked up.”

Tim and Cass start giggling in unison—creepy bastards—and Jason outright laughs, thumping Duke on the back. “Stop hitting me!” Duke hisses, to no avail.

They set up camp around Steph's bed, pushing two extra beds on either side of her for the boys to sprawl over. Tim fiddles with the projector until it's loaded up on the far wall as Cass wrangles Steph into fuzzy socks and Damian systematically goes through the horde of snacks he had brought from downstairs. Inexplicably, the kid seems to know what Steph will choose before she chooses it, and she can't help but strong-arm him into a hug, ignoring his indignant yells.

“Dick is driving down,” Tim informs her, nudging her arm. “He'll bring Babs on his way. She was here overnight, but Alfie sent her home to get some sleep just before you woke up.”

“You guys are two freaks cut from the same cloth,” Steph shudders. Predictably, Tim sticks his tongue out at her.

With Cass curled around her side, Tim pressed against her shoulder, and Damian’s elbow digging into her hip, Steph feels so full she thinks she might just burst.

You matter, Alfred's voice echoes in her mind. To so many people.