Chapter Text
Picture an egg.
A chicken egg, to be precise.
Got the egg? It’s a very nice egg.
Inside that egg are two yolks. How neat, right? Not necessarily common, but not uncommon, either.
Here is an important thing to note, though: the egg is also fertilized. It has two embryos inside.
Normally, in this sort of situation, one embryo out-competes the other for any odd reason: there isn’t enough space within the shell for both to grow, there aren’t enough resources for both to survive. Or, sometimes, both embryos die.
The point being, it is very rare for two chicks to hatch from a double-yolked egg.
But not impossible.
There are a lot of downsides to being mind-melded across dimensions.
For one, it’s like taking the concept of a backseat driver and multiplying it by a hundred, but in this case, the backseat driver could potentially take forceful control of the body that is doing questionable things and start steering it in an entirely different direction on a whim.
However, it would be more accurate to say that there weren’t any backseat drivers at all.
Instead, there are two entirely equal drivers, with equal access to all the super-important tools needed to drive the body. Which might have caused a bit of confusing chaos and some heated rock-paper-scissors battles regarding who got to be in charge on any given day, but—oh joy!—there were also two bodies. So that solves that problem.
One was called Stephanie Brown, daughter of a dick who named himself Cluemaster, who lived in a world where aliens were superheroes and a billionaire stalked the night of one specific city in a bat-suit.
The other was called Peter Parker, son of Richard and Mary Parker, both of which died when he was young. He lived in a world where aliens invaded and a billionaire wore a hotrod red, gold-titanium alloy super-suit and got involved in far too many conflicts all over the galaxy.
The thing about identical twins is that they look very similar as children.
Which is obvious: they are identical, after all.
But, as people grow older—living different lifestyles, eating different foods, experiencing different levels of stress, having different vices—even identical twins will start to look different.
It’s just life.
In their youth, the twin soul that shared both bodies lived mostly in a free-floating peace without much of a divide. As a result, there was very little “difference” in the personalities of Stephanie Brown and Peter Parker, because they each experienced the same things. They were a little bit dorky, unathletic, with a specific brand of sarcastic humor. Each identical half of their soul spent a little bit of time with Steph and a little bit of time with Peter, all while mental, cross-dimensional conversations flowed between them.
They were—fundamentally—the same.
Then one body watched their uncle die, at the same time the other watched their father kill a man, and discovered he was Cluemaster.
And thus: there was a divide created. There was a difference.
Because while each knew of the events the other went through—while they both lost an uncle and a father that day—it would never be the same as experiencing it themself. Of watching blood pour from wounds, of watching a father turn into something he shouldn’t be: dead or evil.
So their twin soul fractured, just a little, as Peter Parker developed powers and a need to protect the rest of the world from losing their uncles, and Stephanie Brown developed a need for revenge.
Picture a house. It has a door, it’s wooden, and it’s winter. There is snow on the ground, a chill in the air. The door easily slides shut and blocks out the cold.
But in the summer, when the humidity is high and the wood absorbs moisture—not because it wants to, or because it’s greedy, but because it is a door that has no choice in the matter—the door might swell and stick.
The door still fits in the doorway. It can still do its job and is an instrumental part of the house, but it isn’t the same anymore. It fits awkwardly in a place that should be home, because it absorbed something that wasn’t there before: not because it wanted to, but because there was no other option.
So really, there was no choice in half of the soul ‘becoming’ Peter while the other half ‘became’ Steph at the age of thirteen. It just was.
Too similar to be siblings, too different to be the same…
Perhaps they were a coin. One side was meaningless without the other: the same being, but different.
And as many downsides as there are for being one fragmented-ish soul controlling two bodies across dimensions, there are also a few very important benefits… especially when it comes to being a vigilante.
(Because really: how could one expect Steph to not begin their own illegal crime-solving spree once Peter started getting into his bullshit as Spider-Man? It also worked as the perfect pathway toward revenge.)
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Being able to use their multiversal counterpart to cheat on tests they didn’t have time to study for (over books they didn't read), since being a teenage vigilante is an utter bitch in regards to silly things like sleep schedules and school.
Supposedly, no one knew where his safehouses were. Supposedly.
That was supposed to be part of the tentatively brokered peace agreement that technically hadn’t been spoken about out loud, but was understood nonetheless! Jason would pretend like he didn’t know about all of the entrances into the Batcave and how to hack into the Batcomputer and everyone’s identity and all the other tidbits of useful blackmail information that jam-pack-crammed inside his mind, and, in turn, everyone else left him—for the most part—alone.
Of course, there would always be the occasional annoying drop-in during a patrol or a totally coincidental run-in while in civies, but for the most part, Bruce and the brood had at least had the wherewithal and sense of mind to not show up at his house.
Safehouse, that is.
Definitely not a home.
Jason didn’t need those anymore, after all.
Whatever. Point being—when he was very rudely interrupted in the middle of making breakfast by three hasty knocks on his door, Jason naively figured it was one of two things.
The police, or not the police.
He was still right, in the end, about it being the not-police, even though he probably should have had three categories instead of two. (Bats, police, and everyone else.) He knows for sure it is not the police, even before he sees an inch of skin or uniform, when, instead of his door being flung open by a battering ram, it slowly glides open.
Some fucker just picked his lock!
The knife Jason had been using to spread jam over his toast very quickly turned into a weapon.
The countertop pressing against his back, Jason readied himself for anything: a rogue, a crime boss, some punk who thought themself a thief—he may have a lot of enemies, but this was Gotham, so anything goes—or anyone else under the sun who might have a vendetta against him.
Except, the person that poked their head inside—and nearly lost an eye, if not for the way their head darted back with an unnatural jerk right before the knife buried itself into the frame of his door—was none of those things.
She was a teenager, for one, which, while that doesn’t exactly exempt someone from hating him, was at least a point in her favor of not being an arch-enemy. Plus, most of the teenagers who were likely to hate him and pick the lock of his front door would at least wear a mask while doing so, which she has foregone. Even a petty thief would wear a ski-mask, or at least wear gloves. But her bare hands were hanging at her sides—not reaching for a weapon, either.
Quickly, Jason catalogued what he could about her: blonde, average height, unknown build considering she was swimming in an oversized, bright red jacket that went down to her knees. Careful eyes. Too careful, really. Nothing about her screamed I’m about to kill you!! but that didn’t really mean much, especially when a guy in a neon green three-piece suit dotted with question marks could be considered a high-profile criminal in this damn city.
The oddest thing about her—aside from her jarringly quick reflexes—was the fact that she seemed
surprised
to find a butter knife stuck in his door frame, as though she hadn’t just dodged it. But, after a second of looking at it, understanding relaxed the confused frown on her face, and she daringly stepped even further into the apartment.
It wasn’t much to look at. But she didn’t even look to begin with—not for traps, or blackmail, or hidden weapons. Her attention was focused solely on
him,
and she waved after an awkward beat of silence, still lingering by the doorway.
“Hey.” The greeting was late and stilted, as though she wasn’t really focusing on him, and Jason be offended at the whole lack-of-respect if he wasn’t still bristling at the fact that someone had the audacity to lockpick his door, break into his house, dodge his attempted murder, and then not do anything in return.
“Question,” She asked, and now her eyes darted toward his book case, although they returned to him too fast to have read any of the titles. “Real quick. You’re good at literature, right?”
And— what?
Reaching for his utensil drawer, Jason prepared himself to grab another knife and start flinging, security deposit be damned.
Her eyes went a little wide, seeing his fingers curl around the handle of a drawer, and she quickly held up both of her hands, showing them to be empty (as if he didn’t already know that), save for the bat-patented lockpick in her right hand.
“Wait! Wait, one sec, sorry—I’m not thinking this through at all. I’m, uh, Steph. Spoiler? Anyway. Can I ask you questions about Wuthering Heights? It won’t be quick, but I have a lot of time, and I promise to, uh—glitterbomb Bruce’s suit when he’s not looking? As repayment?”
“What the fuck.” Jason managed, opening the drawer and pulling out a steak knife—just in case. And also for his own sanity. But he didn’t throw it or start charging at her, so she— Steph— must have decided that was a good sign, since she continued on.
“Yeah, me too, but please? It’s—it’s urgent. Life or death, man, and I’m too busy to deal with death right now.”
Running a hand through his hair, Jason took a moment to genuinely debate what the fuck his life had turned into, before figuring there was a not-small possibility that Steph—and really, how had another kid ended up in Bruce’s brood?—was currently being threatened by someone with some literature schtick, and figured if she already knew B’s identity—and his—that there really wasn’t anything to lose.
Aside from his peace of mind, but that was long gone anyway.
When Steph finally ran out of questions, she leaned back against Jason’s most uncomfortable, lumpy chair— yeah, he told her to sit on the bad one, sue him, she broke into his house— and let out a long sigh. As he carefully observed her, her face flashed through expressions as though she was having a conversation in the privacy of her own mind. They were too fast for him to remember, aside from the final triumphant grin, which she oh-so-generously shared with him.
Jason made sure to keep his face still.
(Not that that deterred her.)
She’d taken off her jacket at some point, the bright red monstrosity now draped over her knees, revealing muscle-corded arms and a half-healed burn mark on her elbow. Other, smaller scars—long healed—littered her arms, pale white and at times intersecting. Her fingers twitched, where they were holding fistfuls of her jacket, and that was odd, too.
Why ask him so many detailed questions if she wasn’t going to write anything down? Even if her memory was good, it couldn’t be that good.
Jason was very detailed, after all. He loved Wuthering Heights.
Finally, Steph spoke. “Thanks, dude. I totally owe you one.”
Raising an eyebrow, Jason tilted his head in the direction of the now-closed door, and then the butter knife on his coffee table.
“You could fix my door.”
“Hey!” Steph protested, “You threw the knife!”
“And you broke into my house! And dodged!”
“Because if I hadn’t dodged then that would make everything so much better,” Steph sarcastically drawled, “Then you would just have to clean up my body, the bloodstains on the floor, and find a way to hide the teensy fact that you murdered me from Bruce.”
Scoffing, Jason shrugged. “I could do it.”
“Oh really?” Steph’s nose scrunched up a beat later, and murmured, like an afterthought, “Yeah, yeah, don’t push it. Whatever.” Turning back to him, she pursed her lips and then began to rifle through the pockets of her jacket.
It took every bit of Jason’s self-control to not bristle at her hands disappearing from his view. She didn’t need to know what made him nervous.
Still focused on her search—for what, who knows—Steph absent-mindedly added, “I doubt you actually want me to come back to fix your door, but I can if you want. Just let me know. I’ll leave the number to my burner.”
At last finding what she was looking for, Steph let out a triumphant sound and pulled out a creased handful of glossy, printed photos.
After a moment of hesitation, Jason took them from her. He hesitated for even longer before actually looking at them and— huh.
Casually, as if she hadn’t just handed him pictures of Bruce’s casefile on him, filled with careful annotations about how to keep the peace, a timeline of appropriate actions (apparently dinner invitations and birthday celebrations required a wars worth of planning), and the list of all known safehouses, Steph stood up and stretched.
“Well, I better go. And uh…” She trailed off, eyes darting between the pictures, held in a white-knuckle grip, even as he was careful not to crease them any more, and the door, “If you don’t mind…”
“I won’t tell Bruce.”
Her face split into a smile. “Sweet. Seeya, Jason.”
He never introduced himself. She'd obviously snooped inside the Batcave, and of course she had taken pictures of his casefile, but the very idea that someone knew him... that someone he didn't know knew him...
Well. Frankly, Jason hated that. Even if the she'd asked good questions about Wuthering Heights.
Later that night, Jason may or may not have spent a long time analyzing every inch of the photos.
There were five of them: four of his file, and one of Bruce's already-glitterbombed suit, which has him debating on whether to interpret the action as payment or as him getting conned out of his end of a bargin, considering she was always going to glitterbomb the damn suit, no matter what he said.
When he flips the photograph over, there was a short message, and a phone number.
Thanks for the help! Hope this helps whatever awkward standoff you and B have going on. Do whatever you want with this info-but you didn't hear it from me!!!!!!!! (PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE I HACKED INTO THE COMPUTUER TO DO THIS IM NOT SUPPOSED TO BE USING IT PLEASE!!! It's not my fault B's security system is ass.)
Considering Bruce's security system was far from ass, Jason doesn't really know what to do with that information, so he very pointedly does not memorize the phone number and moves on.
He could fix his own damn door.
And he was totally going to tell Bruce what the latest addition of his brood did. Maybe over dinner. According to B's battle plans, he was supposed to be asked in a week-and no, the carefully penned annotation of, "Expect a decline, ask again later. Make sure he knows he's welcome," had nothing to do with the fact that he was debating on saying yes.
(Jason did not end up telling Bruce. For no reason other than the fact that Steph wasn't at dinner, and it wouldn't be as enjoyable to tell Bruce without look of betrayal. Definitely not because he thought her blatent disregard of the Batcave rules ("Do Not Mess With The Batcomputer") was funny, and definitely not because he admired the balls it took to show up to the Red Hood's house and ask him questions about Wuthering Heights. Nope. Definitely not.)