Work Text:
She stares at the three little pink lines and waits for something to happen. For the world to shift. For everyone just outside the door of the crummy little pharmacy’s bathroom to be hit with the reality of the situation. Hell, for her to feel something, anything, other than a bare inkling of shock, a whole lot of lack of surprise and a vague sense of dread.
Pregnant. She’s pregnant. She’s seventeen, absolutely not ready for this, and pregnant.
It feels like some kind of bad reality show, but there’s no swell of emotional music. The world doesn’t suddenly shatter in a bunch of dramatic scenes and interviews. She thinks maybe she would have liked it better if it had.
No, instead, she just gets the sympathetic face of the pharmacist – no detective skills required for the man to work out what’s happening here – and the cold splatter of snow outside, sliding down her hair and drenching her shirt. It’s an overall very underwhelming experience.
Well, shit.
-------------
She stumbles through Wayne’s Manor’s front door and into what she hopes is either Tim or Jason’s arms with all the grace of a pigeon crashing against a window. So sue her, she needs a hug.
Turns out to be neither of them. No, of course not, her luck isn’t that good. Instead, it has to be Bruce.
They take a second to stare at each other, horrified, Bruce’s face that careful blank that just screams ‘surprised’. As usual, she feels her mouth run ahead of her before her brain can give the veto, the ‘Hell no, think about your decisions, girl.’ filter she so desperately needs when interacting with the Bruceman.
“Please don’t adopt my baby.” She blurts out, staring up at him.
If Bruce had been a careful sort of blank before, now he just straight-up freezes, like the big, great, assholish robot he is. Assessment. Emotions identified: surprise, shock. Protocol unclear. System reboot required. He’d looked more put together that time she’d punched him in the face.
(She’s proud of that. He’d more than deserved it.)
“Excuse me, what?” He chokes out; arm still awkwardly half-raised behind her back in a sad imitation of everything she’d dreamed of as a child- when she still spent her time gazing up at the night sky, eyes reflecting the constellations above, desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of him. In that time before she learned to fly.
And with a childhood like that, who is she to raise a child? She has no role model, no idea what to do. This kid deserves better than a single fucked-up teenage mom from the worst part of town.
She flees before he can do much more than register what she said.
------------
Tim finds her, not ten minutes later.
This time she gets her wish.
The boy is stupidly supportive of her decision to keep the baby, then put it up for adoption as soon as it’s born.
He’s stupidly supportive as a whole, and Steph loves him and his dumb family so much.
------------
They warn you about the so called ‘morning’ sickness and the cravings. They don’t warn you about the all-day sickness, the exhaustion, the way your legs and feet start swelling. They don’t warn you about the hormones and the stress, the back-pain, the way your pubic bone will have to shift over time to make room for when the baby makes its grand bid for freedom. The way exercising can become intolerable. No they tell you that you will glow, because motherhood is wonderful and all a woman can dream of.
She doesn’t feel much like she’s glowing when she’s worshipping the porcelain god for the seventh time that day. Unless the way the light is reflecting off the sweat rolling down her too-pale face counts? Maybe the next time one of them gets fear-gassed, she can tell them ‘Oh, but sweetie, you’re positively glowing!’, see how they like it.
Feel that sweet motherhood shine.
They don’t warn you either about the judgements, the whispers. The way mostly everyone, whether she actually knows them or not, suddenly has Opinions about What’s Best. The myriad of doctor’s appointments and classes to take, if only you can afford them, and get to them without encountering more people with Opinions. Aggressive opinions, apparently requiring harassment outside of a public clinic, the fuckers. Like her body and what she intends to do with it is any of their business.
She stares at their faces, memorizing them. Thinks about how if Spoiler ever saw them in danger in a dark alleyway, they could go fuck themselves before hoping for a rescue.
Before laughing bitterly because, no, of course not, she’s not that kind of person. She wishes she was. At least then, memorizing their sneering, disdainful faces would serve some other purpose than just fuelling another round of her nightmares.
But Stephanie Brown’s one strong motherfucker and not one for keeping her opinions to herself.
By the time Tim, sporting a furious sort of tightening around the eyes, manages to drag her away from their gob-smacked expressions and to her appointment, she’s fairly certain she’s put the fear of Everything-but-God in them.
------------
Once he works out what’s happening, Bruce is weirdly present for all of it.
At first, mostly by buying her things he thinks she needs. Showering her in money, until she stalks up to his office and starts a screaming match that ends with him holding up her hair while she pukes on his shoes.
He pats her awkwardly on the back while she cries, and she thinks that maybe some bridges are finally starting to mend.
-------------
The next morning, her Asshole ex-boyfriend calls her to apologize.
If she’s back to puking on Bruce shoes, this time she’ll blame it on the hormones.
He takes it with surprising grace.
--------------
Barbara and Bruce team up for a whole evening. When they emerge from their brainstorming session, they assure her that they found a suitable family for the baby, the best doctor possible, a solution for her GED, and that they've basically have it all thought that and would she please look at it and see if she wants to change anything?
When she asks about Spoiler, about the mantle of Batgirl, if they think less of her for what happened, Barbara smiles at Steph, and says "I'm proud of you. I couldn't ask for a better successor."
She doesn't blame this one on her hormones.
-------------
Damian takes being puked on with less grace than his father.
“Disgusting.” He hisses, staring at his ruined pants with something akin to horror.
“Dami-” She warns, feeling another bout about to spill out of her mouth. He jumps back like a startled cat.
He helps her to the bathroom and disappears. She rests her head against the cool porcelain again, wishing for it all to just stop. When she hears the door to the bathroom slide open, it’s Tim silently handing her some ginger and a wet cloth. He’s got the stunned expression she’d come to associate with his few good encounters with Damian.
The next morning, she finds a beautiful sketch of her as Robin and some ginger tea on her night stand.
Her Asshole ex calls again to apologize for the way he treated her during all of their relationship.
Damian and his dad are more alike that they’re willing to admit.
She doesn’t yell at him that she can take care of herself, like she did with Bruce, though. Instead she just hugs the kid really tight, until he clears his throat uncomfortably and claims wanting to avoid more vomit to get away.
--------------
“Dick Grayson.” She groans with delight, munching on the weird salty cereal/pancakes mix he’s – maybe cooked isn’t the right word, here, Alfred would have had an aneurism. Made, she’ll go with made instead – made for her, at 4 in the morning. He swallows his own mouthful and hums. “If I were keeping this child, you’d definitely be chosen as its godfather. No question.”
There’s a choked noise to her left. When she raises her head to check that the infamous Nightwing isn’t going out on pregnant cereal mix, she startles.
“Oh fuck, are you crying?”
“Shut up. I’m not.” Dick says, wiping at his face with his sleeve. “I’m not. You just surprised me.”
She gets up to hug him.
“Don’t cry.” She says. “If you cry I’m going to cry too.”
He’s definitely crying.
“Fuck, I love you. I’m so glad you’re alive.” He says, hugging back super tight.
“I love you too.”
There’s really no telling how long they stay like that. It’s not until the door creaks open that they move.
“What the hell is going on here?” Jason asks, startled. “Why are you both crying?” He comes closer, a worried frown on his face and catches sight of their food. “And why, for the love of god, are you both eating this shit?”
“Shut up Jason, we’re bonding.”
“Yeah, shut up Jason, we’re bonding.”
“Why do I even try with the lot of you?”
-------------
The only one to question her decision is Selina.
“Are you sure that it’s what you want to do, kitten?”
But not even in a mean way. She just looks weary. Concerned.
“I’m sure.”, Steph nods.
Selina nods back, and that’s that.
------------
Steph’s napping on Bruce’s large and too comfortable couch, the one that’s in The Study. The one she’s sure is there purely so that he has somewhere to bleed on that isn’t a medical cot in the cave, and that’s not as far away from it as his own bed, when Cass comes back from Hong Kong.
As always with Cass, no words are needed. She looks at Steph, a smile growing, radiant, on her lips.
Steph scoots over, to give Cass enough space to lie down and rest her head on her lap.
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
-------------
“-Yeah, but see, that doesn’t make any sense.” She says, making little shadow puppets on the ceiling with her hands as Jason tries to read another paragraph of his favorite book to her, despite her interruptions and commentary. “How would Mr Darcy-”
“Stephanie.” Jason says, too calmly for it to be any kind of good. “If you insult Mr Darcy again, I will kick your ass on the training mats, don’t think I won’t. Pregnant or not pregnant.”
“Yes, Brown.” Damian snickers. He’s sketching on a tablet, sprawled on his stomach on the couch next to them. “Do take care not to insult Todd’s fictional paramour, would you?”
“Paramour? What am I, a nineteenth century maiden?”
“Would you prefer for me to answer that based on your appearance or taste in literature?” Tim asks sweetly. He’s working away on something on his computer, or maybe just playing Minecraft, it’s always hard to tell with him.
“Okay. Too far. First of all, fuck you. Pride and Prejudice is a masterpiece of a book. Second, there’s nothing wrong with liking things primarily aimed at women and to think there is just shows how conditioned society has you. You’re setting a bad example for Damian.-” He obnoxiously pats Damian on the head to emphasize his point. Said child suddenly seems more concerned by his current inability to gouge the Red Hood’s bowels out with a coffee spoon than by his taste in novels. “-And third, what’s today? Your weekly Roast Jason Night?”
Dick hums in thought, patting Steph’s hair some more. Definitely godfather material. He shakes his head, but he’s got a wicked gleam in his eyes.
“No, I think that’s Wednesdays. Isn’t it, Tim?”
Tim gives a nod. Jason sends them a betrayed look, trying to do that to the three of them at once. It just makes him look cross-eyed.
“Definitely.”
“Hn.” Grunts Bruce, in assent, just far enough away from them all, safe enough on his treadmill not to have to suffer the direct consequences of his actions. Jason’s mouth opens a little, gobsmacked. He rallies quickly enough, though, smirk now full of gleeful competitiveness.
“Nice touch, choosing Wednesdays to keep it in the spirit of the original-”
They tense.
“-Do you guys also organize special events in April? Bring a cake on the 27th of each month?”
“Dami. Now.”
All three brothers lunge, perfectly synchronized in their attack. Jason being pinned to the couch with a pained squawk under the combined efforts of a smug Damian and a cackling Dick makes Steph really long for a camera.
Oh, well. While it wouldn’t be anywhere close in quality,s he would make do with the feed from the ones already installed in the Manor.
-----------
“Duke! My man, my love, my brother from another father. Please use your lovely powers for good and tell me if I am going to puke in the next ten minutes.”
“So that you can aim at Bruce again?”
“Maybe?”
“No. I love you too, but I am not condoning this.”
“See, I bet this is why you’re adopted and I’m not. You’re sensible, like him.”
“No. This is just called common decency. You’re not adopted because you still have your mom. Also, Steph?”
“Yeah?”
He gives her a bucket.
Ten minutes later, she gives him a hug.
----------
Because this is her life, and she’s officially, publicly, part of Bruce’s family now, some jerk tries to kidnap her and the baby at the hospital.
Because this is her life, she gives birth to the munchkin while there’s an alien invasion going on over in Metropolis.
Because this is her life, there are complications, and she’s taken for an emergency C-section while her family is out there, helping the Superfam battle Lobo’s merry band of idiots.
She wishes she were battling Lobo’s merry band of idiots.
Steph’s barely coherent, dead-tired, and delirious with pain, but she isn’t a vigilante for nothing.
“I hope you’ve got a backup plan.” She informs him once it’s clear that 1) he’s not a nurse and 2) He’s making the mistake of his life.
“Don’t worry your pretty little head, sweetheart.” The guy croons, so very clearly proud of his grand idea. “I’m sure your sugar daddy will pay the big bucks and you can go back to your nice little happy ending.”
And Steph is so done with the whole experience.
“Happy? You think hope is some kind of sunshine and roses kind of deal?” She laughs derisively. “No. It’s about being beaten down over and over and over again. It’s about being so damned tired of it, so very tempted to lay there and forget and yet still deciding to get up and tear jackasses like you a new asshole. I didn’t fight for so goddamned long to just give up now. Don’t mistake someone being hopeful for being gullible, Sweetheart, because I promise that’s not a mistake you’ll be able to make twice.”
She takes a deep breath and swings her IV pole, bashing his gut in.
“And guess what, asshole? Even if it was, what the fuck is so wrong with happiness that you jerkwards always look down on it? Oh, booh-ooh I suffered, now no one gets to be happy. Grow a pair, honey, you’re not the only one who’s had a shit life. Complaining is fine, ruining other people’s is not.”
By the time she drops the pole, she’s breathing hard, bend over in pain and the guy’s on the ground not moving.
She slides down the wall and bursts into tears.
--------
Steph is back to lying in her hospital bed and on the good meds, courtesy of her sweetheart, amazing, nurse, by the time Red Robin barges into her room, frantic, breathing hard, followed barely a minute later by an equally breathless though casually strolling Red Hood.
She giggles breathlessly at their entrance. Fakers.
“Tim,” She announces seriously once he’s close enough. “I’ve given birth to a very bloody jellyfish. It was freaky. Fix it.”
Tim takes a minute to stare at her in his patented gobsmacked expression. Yeah, maybe she’s asking for a bit much here, there’s no fixing the jellyfish, really. But he’d promised he’d help with everything and it’s not like he can pretend blood grosses him out. Jason snorts.
“Pretty sure your spawn was normal baby-wrinkled the last time I saw it.”
She smiles at Jason before answering because one, she likes him now, and two, Dead People ought to be nice to each other.
“No, not that one. That one looks like a little old grandpa.” Honestly, they’ve seen it longer than she has. They’re not the ones that are high on pain meds, either, so they should know this. “The other one. The one that popped out in the shower, just before Buttface over there attacked us.”
And they both pale so dramatically and their look of alarm is so similar that if Steph ever had any doubts they were brothers, they’re gone now. (She had. Lots of them, when she heard about the stabbing and the beatings.) They exchange a glance. Tim stays near her, pushing her hair away from her sweat-soaked forehead all the while whispering reassurances that everything is going to be alright, and that feels so nice she doesn’t even mind or notice the way Jason darts to the bathroom before he starts yelling.
“WHAT THE?”
Best guess? He’s found the jellyfish.
Though maybe it’s the way the shower looks like someone’s been murdered in it.
Nah, he’s killed people before, that can’t be it.
Then there’s Bruce, rushing in the room in full Bat costume, looking around for the danger. Tim keeps his arms wrapped around her, but jerks his head towards the tiny bathroom and lo and behold, Bruce goes.
Today’s just full of miracles.
She wants to reassure Tim, because he’s so pale you’d think he was to one that had spent his day passing blood through his genitals. Before she can, though, everyone’s back in her room.
“Blood-clot.” Grunts Bruce at his two sons. “Large, but not abnormal. She’s fine.”
They slump down.
“How do you know so much about this?”
Bruce sends them all a flat look conveying ‘How don’t you?’, and Steph loves him just a little more for that.
They still have some way to go, though.