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Chapter Text

It's not Steph's fault. It really, really isn't her fault this time.

“Shit,” she breathes, pressing furiously at the mask falling off her freaking face. Look, she knows she was supposed to restock on glue, and she knows that being a petty bitch is unbecoming of a vigilante, or whatever, but Tim was being a petty bitch first. To reiterate: so not her fault.

She should've just stuck with the original. That shit was golden, a full-face covering that meant Steph didn't even have to worry about if her bangs looked greasy or not, but no, she just had to have a fresh start. Lot of good that's done her.

For a half-second, Steph imagines asking for pickup. Um, hey Alfred, oh I'm great, thanks for asking. Funny story, the entirety of seventh avenue will see my face if I move an inch from this precise spot. For the record, it's Tim's fault.

As if.

Steph shoves the stupid thing in her pocket, kicking the brick wall at her back before scaling the rustiest, bloodiest, most pigeon shit-stained fire escape she's ever seen, and then she kicks the roof, too. Just for good measure.

“The hell did this roof do to you?”

Oh, fuck no. Steph, like a genius, ignores the mechanized voice from behind her and swings her legs off the edge of the roof. Her face tilts away from him, but she's not stupid. If he really wants to steal a look, there's not much she can do against a crime lord and his way over-the-top array of guns.

“Hold on. You aren't going to jump, right? Come on, Blondie, step away.”

“Go away. I'm not supposed to talk to freaks with weapons.”

The freak with weapons sits down beside her, and Steph immediately slaps her palms over her mouth, blinking at him as he gives her a distinctly unimpressed look that she can feel through the helmet.

“You look like an idiot. I already know who you are, Brown.”

“Oh, perfect,” Stephanie snaps. Her hands drop. She kicks the building, but all this kicking has accomplished is making her foot hurt like a bitch. “Just what I need. Batman will never get off my back about this, asshole.”

“It wasn't you, if that helps. If you're not gonna jump, get outta here. No Bats in the Alley.”

“We aren't in the Alley,” Stephanie points out. “We're a whole street away. And I'm not a Bat.”

“Robins are included,” Hood grits out.

“Not that either,” she mumbles. “Obviously you don't know enough.”

“Dude, I really don't give a fuck. Scram.”

“I was here first,” Steph says hotly, and before she can think better, something like don't shove the murderous crime lord, she shoves the murderous crime lord. Between breaths, Red Hood has a gun pressed into her forehead, head tilted.

Stephanie doesn't flinch. She doesn't flinch, but for a moment, she hears Black Mask's laugh as he presses the cool muzzle against her skin. It doesn't last long, the rancid stench of Gotham's streets pulling her back, where Hood is already tucking the gun back into his belt. Stephanie tracks the motion, feeling winded. “I was here first,” she repeats, needlessly proud of the way her voice doesn't shake.

“I was here first,” Red Hood echoes, high-pitched and mocking as he gets to his feet. “I need a fucking drink. If I see you again, I shoot.”

“Congratulations,” Steph says nastily, because clearly she's got some sort of death wish. Red Hood pauses, his back turned to her, but Steph isn't looking. She's staring over Gotham's skyline, the part of town they're unfortunate enough to inhabit full of squat, run-down buildings, half of which run heroin operations out of the basement.

“The big bad Red Hood, serial killer extraordinaire—oh, wait, there's about twenty other psychotic mass murderers in this shithole. You're not the first asshole who's threatened me with a gun, and you wouldn't be the first to shoot me, either. You wouldn't even be the first to kill me. I'm not a Bat, not a Robin, and I'm not in your stupid territory. Has anyone ever told you you're a dick?”

He doesn't move, so Steph aggressively gives his stupidly muscular back the finger, and then she chucks a smoke pellet at the opposite building, something in her chest unwinding as it bursts against uneven brick.

Hood laughs. It's pretty freaking disturbing through the modulator, but it doesn't sound like he's trying to be menacing, or anything. He's just laughing. Like she's being funny.

“Once or twice,” he replies, and Steph has to remind herself of what she even said, she's so caught up in her anger. “Sure, Not-A-Bat-Not-A-Robin. Here.” Still amused, he tosses something to her, already shooting off his grapple before Steph even catches it out of the air.

It's mask glue. “Why do you even have this?” Steph shouts. “You have a helmet!”

“I saw the finger, kid!” Hood replies. She groans loudly as he goes, but there's a smile ticking up her lips anyway.

“What a jerk,” she mutters, pressing her mask over the bridge of her nose. She'd felt weirdly naked without it, like a kid playing dress-up. She'd felt like Stephanie Brown, and these days, Stephanie Brown is not who she wants to be.

Her comm crackles in her ear. “Jesus christ,” Dick remarks. He sounds a little out of breath. “I think I just had seven consecutive heart attacks. Minimum.”

“No kidding,” Tim says wearily.

No word from the Bat, which just means Steph is about to get an earful on ‘stop antagonizing crime lords, Stephanie,’ and ‘this is why we check our supplies before heading out, Stephanie.’

What a load of crap. It doesn't matter, anyway. She's too high-strung right now to be anything but a bitch to the others, which means the Cave is a no-go for tonight, no matter how much Dick and Alfred try to cajole her into staying over.

It's late when Stephanie makes it home, street lights illuminating the scrap of purple fabric sticking out of her bag as she meanders down the cul-de-sac.

“Mom?” Steph calls, nudging the door shut behind her. “I'm not even bruised this time, look!”

She's speaking to an empty house, she realizes, reading the note left on the fridge with a glimmer of relief. Her mom's back to talking to Steph like she's a real person, not just a presumed-dead vigilante that had haunted her for months. Oops.

‘back soon, honey. night shift again! casserole's in the fridge, don't order pizza!!!’

Ha. Sucks for her, Steph's gonna eat both.

Her phone's blowing up a bit, texts from the rest of them, but Steph watches it buzz against the counter, eyeing the way it shimmies closer and closer to the edge. It's not that she doesn't care what they think, it's just that Hood hadn't shot her. It’s not a big deal, but they'd make it into a big deal. Steph, Tim would say, aggravatingly condescending. You know you're not ready for patrol yet. And from Cass, a stubborn frown. Go home.

From Bruce—Steph's really not feeling a lecture tonight, but Red Hood did know who she is. Could get tricky.

“Hey,” Stephanie says, picking up what must be Bruce's eighteenth call. She cuts off whatever he's gearing up to say. “Hood knows my name, b-t-dubs.”

It's silent for a moment, and then Bruce heaves this big sigh. “Yes,” he says wearily. “He knows all of ours. I don't know how.”

There's a lot of jabs Steph could make, something-something greatest detective in the world, but she knows Bruce has been running himself ragged over this guy, so she holds her tongue. It's kind of scary, if she's being real honest with herself. Hood's a crime lord. There's a lot he could do with that kind of information, and she doesn't like that he's just…not.

“Stellar. So it wasn't me that sold, right? I mean, he said it wasn't, but he's also skipping around Gotham decapitating people, so I'm not sure I can take his word for it.”

“It wasn't you. He hasn't told us anything, but he was targeting me even before you came back to the scene.”

Funny way to put it. Steph likes Bruce, unfortunately, when he's not being an asshole. “Cool. Didn't get shot this time,” she says brightly, and she can practically see the flat look he's got on his face. “Hold on, my pizza's here.”

Pizza which Bruce is holding. Naturally. He gives her a small smile, disconnecting the call as she looks skyward, praying for a singular facsimile of patience, and lets him in. He shuffles inside awkwardly, mumbling apologies as his elbows knock into the wall. Bemused, Steph leads him into the kitchen. Once upon a time, she might've felt a little stupid, having Bruce-freaking-Wayne hanging around her kitchen. It's like, the size of the Manor's laundry closets. She doesn't care anymore, though, ‘cause it's theirs. Hers and her mom's. That's all it'll ever be, and Steph couldn't be happier with it.

“I wanted to see you,” Bruce says. “Outside of the masks. I know that it's…that I…it's hard,” he says finally. “Sometimes.”

Goddamnit. Steph wishes he'd be easier to hate.

“All good, Boss,” she says, giving herself a little pat-down. “You like olives?”

“I do.”

“Too bad, they aren't on here. Good ol’ pepperoni, baby.”

Tim says she has the palette of a five-year-old, but Tim says the word palette. Also, he likes anchovies.

Bruce asks her about school, about applying for college, about Tim, about Cass and Barbara, and by the time he circles back to what he's obviously come here to talk about, they're polishing off the pizza. “Red Hood,” he starts, speaking carefully. “Is dangerous. You could've gotten hurt. Badly hurt. I won't tell you how bad of an idea that was, Steph, because I know you know. Are you okay?” He asks.

Steph blinks.

“He didn't do anything,” she says, decidedly tucking away the rest of his words into a little box in the back of her mind called ‘???.’ “Not even a scrape, see?”

Politely, Bruce glances at the perfectly clean elbow she shoves in his face.

“I didn't mean injuries. It was probably scary, and I just want—”

“I wasn't scared,” Steph blurts. “I mean, I should've been. Objectively. But I wasn't thinking about it. He put a gun to my head—” Bruce inhales sharply, and belatedly, Steph realizes that they had only gotten dialogue, and only her dialogue. “But even then, I only thought of—of Sionis. I wasn't really scared about Red Hood, ‘cause he didn't even pretend like he was gonna shoot. He just kinda…waved it around a bit? Like a threat? Not a very good one, though.”

Bruce digests this. He massages the bridge of his nose, mouth pulled into a frown. “I see,” he says finally. “Alright. I appreciate you humoring me, Stephanie. If you see Hood again, please—for the sake of my blood pressure—do not engage.”

“Roger that, Bossman,” Steph says seriously, giving him a two-fingered salute.

She means it. She really does, cross her heart and everything, but a week later, when she sees Red Hood getting his ass whooped in an alleyway, what else is she supposed to do?

It's the start of patrol, so she's still light on her feet and chipper, as if the night could end with anything but broken bones or ripped up skin. Sue her, she's an optimist. Steph hums the Nationwide jingle to herself, gleefully ignoring the groans of annoyance from literally everyone else. Okay, just Tim and Dick and Barbara, ‘cause Cass doesn't get why it's so annoying and Bruce is being all Batman-y and Alfred is Alfred, but that's basically everyone.

Below her, someone shouts. The humming cuts off as Steph crouches low, listening to a barrage of grunting and colorful swearing. Just down the street is a pub, and Steph can smell the stench of alcohol emanating from the alley.

“See something, Spoiler?” Bruce asks.

“Just some drunks,” she replies. “I'll break it up.”

She's only half wrong. They're drunk, sure, but they're also carrying automatic rifles and are whaling on Red Hood, who's moving sluggishly. He looks drugged, but Steph can't imagine how that could've happened. That's for later-Steph to worry about, she decides, dropping into the alleyway. There isn't any time for quips—that's more Robin's thing, anyway—so Steph just bashes heads and kicks ass, not bothering with any of the dramatics.

Standing over Hood, listening to his labored breaths distorted through his helmet, Steph makes a decision.

She mutes her comms.

“Hey,” she says loudly, nudging his knee. “Hey.”

Red Hood grumbles unintelligibly, his head lolling to his left shoulder. It's tilted up enough to see Steph, but she crouches next to him anyway, looping an arm around his back. “You better pray your fat butt doesn't break my line,” she mutters. The grapple holds— precariously— and they make it to the roof.

That's about as far as Steph’s plans go. Hands planted on her hips, she chews on her lip, debating the merit of calling Batman. On the one hand, Red Hood is in dire need of medical help. He's got, like, thirty open wounds that Steph can see, and every time he shifts, his entire body goes rigid from pain in his ribs. On the other hand, he's a very Bad Guy, and bringing the Bats into this would probably upset everyone involved. Hm.

There's a safehouse a couple blocks away. If Steph calls an early night, she should be able to camp out and treat the worst of his injuries. Leslie's out of town, which means Alfred's the next best bet, which isn't an option—ergo, The Clinic of Steph.

“Field work!” She chirps, hefting the crime lord up. He jolts, attempting to shove her away, but Steph’s totally jacked, since Dick's been helping write up her workouts, so it's no sweat holding him still. “I'm gonna go to med school,” Steph informs him. “If I don't die in this business. For real this time,” she amends, even though it's annoying. It had felt real when her flesh was giving way to the power drill and when her heart stopped beating and when her lungs were drowning in blood so thick she couldn't breathe.

Steph exhales. “Sorry,” she says. “I'm being a downer. I meant to say that I know a lot of first aid, and since Leslie taught me, you can trust me. Not that you have a choice. Off we go!”

Hood grunts, which Steph takes as enthusiastic agreement. “Hiya,” she says, unmuting herself. “I've got a gnarly headache, I'm gonna call it a day. A night,” she amends. “Is that cool?”

Stephanie's just going to pretend she can't feel the judgement rolling off of the others in freaking waves. Tim and Cass are paired up tonight, which means they're definitely giving each other pointed looks about how Steph bumming off is just more proof she's unfit and yada yada yada. Lalala, she can't hear them—

Bruce grunts and wow does he sound a lot like Red Hood. Or is it the other way around? No safe answer, really. “Stay safe. Let us know if you need anything.”

“Roger!” Steph replies cheerfully, ignoring the screech of Hood's armored boots dragging along the rooftop behind her. He's not wearing kevlar, she realizes, but something more metallic. It's molded to his freaking abs. Steph isn't jealous, she isn't.

By the time they reach the fire escape, Steph is very much regretting her earlier optimism. “‘No sweat’ my ass,” she groans, shoving him headfirst through the window. “What are they feeding you, bricks?”

Predictably, he doesn't answer. Steph takes a minute to catch her breath from lugging along the heaviest motherfucker on the planet, watching the rise and fall of Hood's chest to make sure he doesn't kick the bucket on her. That would be beyond awkward, that would be, like. A crime. Damn, she's in over her head. His armor shocks her three times before she manages to get it off, the hidden latches suspiciously similar to Bruce’s design.

“Paranoid bastards,” she huffs, stripping him down to the compression shirt he's wearing under the armor. It's lucky that most of it held up under the attacks, but at point-blank range, a good chunk of his outfit is cracked and seeping with blood.

With Leslie’s patients, Steph used to look away on the operating table. It was like every time she saw an open wound, she would remember exactly how it felt, as if her own skin was splitting open again. It’d taken a lot of time for Leslie to help train that instinct away. A lot of Steph steadying herself against empty gurneys, breathing shallowly. Open your eyes, Stephanie, Leslie would say, fingers prodding Steph’s stomach. There’s nothing there. Breathe.

The other didn't know. They never asked, for one thing, but it’s also just not something Steph likes thinking about. She doesn't really have a say in it now, with Red Hood’s blood dripping off her hands. She stitches up the knife wound at his collarbone, already severely clotted, and methodically works her way down his torso.

Steph ends up needing all the bandages from two first-aid kits, which is frankly ridiculous. It's late by the time she finishes, packing up the unused supplies and grabbing a gatorade from the pantry.

“You're a piece of work,” she mutters. There's only one bed, and after all that, Steph's magnanimity has dwindled to zilch. She leaves him dumped on the couch, helmet-clad head angled oddly against the armrest, and shuffles to the bedroom, leaving pieces of her suit scattered down the hallway.

If Hood had woken up to kill her in a fit of rage, she was gonna be so pissed and haunt his ass ‘til kingdom come, but he doesn't. It’s the smell of eggs and bacon that lures her out of sleep. He's making breakfast, puttering around the kitchen and grumbling to himself. Flashes of bandages peek out from around his collar, hidden under the neckline of Bruce’s old crewneck that he must’ve picked up from the hall closet. Idly, Steph wonders if Red Hood knows the origins. She stands in the hallway, bewildered.

“Do you wear a domino under your helmet?” She demands. “That's ridiculous.”

He scowls, gesturing wildly with his spatula. “Shut up. What the hell is wrong with you, kid? Leaving yourself vulnerable with criminals is generally considered bad form.”

“And the alternative?” Steph snorts. She shuffles further into the room, squinting against the sunlight and watching Red Hood periodically push back the strip of white hair flopping over his eyes. “Bruce chucks you in Arkham, which you inevitably escape within a month—no, let's be realistic. A week. Now what? Obviously you have to get revenge against the idiot who put you away, which means me. Next thing you know, my head’s getting lopped off, dumped in a duffel, and drop-kicked over to Batman’s doorstep.”

Red Hood's lip twitches like he's struggling not to smile, so Steph does it for him, spreading out her hands. “So no Bruce,” she finishes. “I don't feel like having a target on my back. Also, you're really young. Are you even eighteen? I don't think you have a right to be calling me kid, dude.”

It’s taking a lot of effort to keep her laughter under wraps at his clearly teenaged voice. Hood better be appreciating it.

“I'll call you whatever the hell I want,” he says mulishly. “You ever considered becoming a crime lord? You've got the imagination for it.”

“Wouldn't want to intrude,” Steph sniffs. “You're doing just fine on your own. Are those for me?”

“No,” he says, making no move to stop her and she starts digging into the plate of scrambled eggs set conveniently by her elbow. Even with the mask, he doesn't try to hide the way he's scrutinizing her. Probably wondering what the hell Batman was thinking, letting this absolute nutcase run around in a cape and tights, but jokes on him, Steph’s got a pillowcase full of bricks on hand at all times in case Batman or Robin ever tries to stop her again.

Red Hood sighs, deeply unsatisfied with whatever he had found in his little evaluation, and pinches the bridge of his nose. Steph blinks. Crazy deja vu. Did Bruce clone himself and forget to tell the rest of them?

“Don't go looking for me, Blondie. I'm not gonna warn you again.”

He slips out the window, helmet under one arm, and Stephanie rolls her eyes at the dramatics. “A ‘thank you’ works just fine,” she mutters. Still, the food is delish, so she can't be too upset. Red Hood doesn't make a lick of sense to her. He knows their identities, but he hasn't told anyone. He could've killed her last night, but he didn't. He’s also apparently a child? Which, no judgement, ‘cause it’s not like Steph’s never considered becoming a supervillain in the name of vengeance, but still.

Out of the corner of her eye, a flash of purple catches the light. Her suit. Folded up neatly on the scratched up coffee table, a note card placed carefully on top.

thanks ig

Steph grins.

After that, there isn't a lot that Bruce or Red can do to keep her out of his way. His men begin to recognize her silhouette, depositing pretzels in her hand when they spot her catching her breath in the shadows. Once, Red Hood even helps her out against Penguin's guys, dropping in from the rafters above while Steph and Tim are getting cornered against the wall. He's far less amenable to Steph’s ribbing that time around, all one-syllable grunts and jerks of his chin.

“It's your fault,” she tells Tim, bonking him on the forehead. “He's got beef with Robin, remember?”

“I haven't done shit to him,” he says sullenly. He's so jealous that Hood likes Steph and not him, and Steph's just immature enough to lord it over him. She blatantly ignores the weirdly descriptive threats shouted her way, hopping after him over rooftops while the others hiss at her to retreat. Surprise surprise, she doesn't get shot for her troubles.

Tim trails after her occasionally, because even though they're sort of fighting, Bruce has got it in his head that they just need some time alone to work it out, hence shared patrols. Besides, Tim needs someone to listen to his rambling about whatever true crime podcast he listened to last. “My money's on the sister,” he tells her, vaulting over a balcony. “She's shifty.”

And since Steph's favorite thing to do is disagree with Tim Drake, she scoffs, loudly, like that's the most outlandish thing he could've possibly said. “The sister! Don't be stupid, Robin. She was obviously in the throes of grief, not living it up in Cabo with an insurance payout.”

“The best friend has no motive! They were fighting, sure, but it's not like she would get the money.”

“Sometimes people are just assholes,” Steph says. “Maybe she didn't want money. Maybe she just really fucking hated her and wanted to get away.”

Tim stiffens minutely, a muscle in his jaw jumping. For a moment, he doesn't say anything, and Steph wonders what she said wrong this time. He shrugs one shoulder, angling his body away from her. “Best friends don't do that,” Tim mutters

Steph stumbles. She glances at him, the way he refuses to meet her eyes, and the loud silence from the others. Anger flushes her skin.

“Maybe,” she says, her voice low. “The dead lady should've been more understanding and less of a shithead and the best friend wouldn't have fucking killed her! Maybe the best friend is trying really hard not to dig her up and kill her again!”

“You're impossible,” Tim grinds out. “Best friends don't do that!” He repeats, and suddenly, Steph is struck with how childish this all is, the two of them squabbling like toddlers, but she can't help herself.

“Then maybe we—maybe they weren't best friends!” Steph shouts. Before he can get another word in, she's scaling the building and all but crushing her comm to pieces in her haste to turn it off. Steph takes off at a dead sprint, launching herself between rooftops and flying through the air on her grapple. God, he's such a dick. Steph hates him so much and she—she misses him. It doesn't have to be like this. He's so angry with her and Steph is so, so tired of it.

She doubles over, hands on her knees as she gasps for breath, blinking furiously against the burning in her eyes. He acts like everything is about him. It's not—it's not Steph's fault.

It's not.

You didn't come home, Barbara’s voice reminds her, the hurt evident in her tone. You were alive this whole time?

She knows she hurt them. That she's untrustworthy and weak and nothing like Tim or Cass. She just wishes they knew that she was hurt, too.

Straightening, Steph scuffs her boot against the roof, peering over the edge and grimacing at the flickering Aunt Em's sign. She's in the heart of the Narrows, more than a few blocks from her patrol route. Whatever. Tim's probably relieved that he's finally on his own and doesn't have to deal with her. The look on his face when Bruce told them they'd be together—

Steph swallows. It doesn't matter.

Glass shatters somewhere off to her right, voices raising to a shout, and just as Steph is debating whether to take a look, a grunt of pain echoes down the street. She rolls her eyes, dutifully making her way over to the fight. She finds herself on the outskirts of a dingy parking lot, a blur of fists and gleaming knives already in motion. At the center of it, Red Hood sweeps his leg out, sending three men toppling. Stephanie beams, scrambling up the single flickering lamp post to watch. She can tell Hood notices her, because he looks up briefly, as if asking ‘why me.”

“Perfect score!” She crows, legs swinging. “That was a sweet right hook.”

Red Hood honest to god growls, the sound coming out scratched and crackly through his helmet. “I did not ask,” he says viciously, chest heaving as the last goon drops. “For input from the peanut gallery.”

“I'm being nice. I'm being kind to you and this is how you treat me? Come on, dude. I get the whole ‘woe is me’ shtick you've got going on—” She clutches at her heart, nearly flinging herself off her perch with how hard she flails back in mock-despair. “But you could just appreciate the compliments like a normal person.”

“It's not a shtick,” Hood grumps. “And I don't act like that.”

And then, like the gigantic, inflamed asshole he is, Red Hood sends a bullet through her cape, sending Steph tumbling off her post with a squawk. “You bitch!” She shrieks. Oh, she can just smell the self-satisfied smirk under that stupid, pillbug helmet. Steph launches herself at him, battering against his body armor with everything in her. Hood makes a little oof sound, raising his elbows to block the blows. “I stitch these things myself, you little shit!”

“Spoiler.”

There's a hand around her bicep, yanking her back, and Steph's attempts to escape are futile. Nightwing physically drags her off Red Hood, who straightens his jacket, rubbing absently at his side. Steph hopes she broke every single one of his ribs.

“Dunno what her problem is,” he says mildly, and Stephanie kicks furiously at his groin. Something must connect under whatever protection is down there, because Hood yelps and jerks back.

Finally, Stephanie hangs from Nightwing's grip, panting. She glances up at him, expecting some form of irritation, but he looks more lost than anything else, his head tilting incrementally between her and Red Hood.

“Don't engage?” He says, but it comes out like a question. Steph kicks the ground.

“He shot my cape,” she says sullenly. “I need him to die.”

Hood laughs. Nightwing sighs, but he just hoists Steph up under his arm like a sack of potatoes and takes an awkward step back, eyes fixed on the criminal. “We'll be…going, now.”

Steph raises an eyebrow. The only reason he's even here in Gotham is to deal with Red Hood, and he's just letting him walk away?

“You do that,” Hood agrees, sounding far too amused. Steph gives him the finger as Dick turns around, shooting off a grapple.

“Jesus, Steph,” he says, setting her gently on the roof. He frowns at her, but Steph knows him well enough by now to read the laughter in his tone. “I know witty banter and strangely friendly villain encounters are kind of our thing, but did you have to choose the one who specifically has it out for us?”

“Not us,” Steph harrumphs. “Just B. And Tim. And you, I think. He likes me.”

“Right.”

Dick watches her for another moment, the whites of his mask narrowed slightly, before letting out an abrupt sigh. He taps his comm, and Steph follows suit. “What's this about, Steph? Talk to me. Tim’s been worried. We all have.”

“That's the problem,” Steph snaps before she can stop herself. She throws her hands up, pulling down her face mask and blowing out a breath, watching it coalesce in the air. “Hood doesn't know me. He doesn't worry or fret or hover. He doesn't look at me like he thinks I'm going to fail. And I know—I know you guys don't mean it like that, but it's just—”

She thinks back to Bruce, sitting gingerly at her kitchen counter, the kindness in his eyes. “It's hard,” she echoes. “Sometimes I just want to get away. Not like—I'm not gonna leave, or anything,” she adds hurriedly. Dick snorts.

“I'm the last person who would blame you if you did,” he tells her. “I get you, S. I really do. Just…talk to them. Please.”

Rich coming from you, Steph doesn't say. He means well, even if he doesn't practice what he preaches. She shrugs, tuning back into Tim and Barbara's bickering. Dick sticks with her the rest of patrol, not exactly subtle in the way he's trying to take her mind off things, but unfortunately, it works. Steph cackles as his foot slips out from under him, sending him sprawling against the roof after an open-air somersault. Dick groans in pain, and when Steph grabs his hand to help him up, he yanks her down instead, dancing away from her flailing punches.

Yeah. Steph’s not leaving this anytime soon.

“You gargantuan turd,” she grumbles. “You big-eared hooligan. Expect retribution.”

Dick rubs his ears. “Hurtful,” he says primly. “Come on, kid. Race you back!”

They get back to the Manor in record time, joined halfway through by Cass, who uses Steph's shoulders as a springboard, launching herself into the garage just as Dick's fingers are brushing the air at her heels. Steph yells, tackling Batgirl to the floor. They tumble over each other, arms and legs tangling together, before finally settling at the foot of Nightwing’s Wingcycle. “Hi,” Cass giggles. “I win.”

“You cheated!” Steph exclaims, but she's smiling too hard to really sound affronted. Dick leans over them, upside down.

“You both cheated,” he corrects. “Don't think I didn't see that failed attempt to trip me up, Steph.”

He hauls them up, one on each shoulder, whistling a jaunty tune as Steph shrieks with laughter, accidentally kicking him in the gut.

“I would have beaten you, Cass,” Tim calls out, shedding his suit over by the computers. His hair sticks up stupidly. He won't meet Steph’s eyes when she's finally back on her own two feet, but when she stomps over to the lockers, he watches her go.

Whatever bullet Hood shot at her was small enough that the hole in her cape is miniscule, so Steph tucks it into her bag, resolving to get it fixed up before the sun rises. The rest of her suit gets haphazardly shoved into its locker. She stares at it for a moment, the bundle of purple that's come to mean Steph.

It's stupid. Nobody even knows Spoiler. All she does is beat up drunk assholes and escort little old ladies home.

There are footsteps behind her. Steph slams her locker shut and turns around, mouth pressed into a thin line. “What.”

Irritation clouds Tim's face for a split second, lips twisting and eyebrows furrowing, like he'd expected anything else from Steph. It's like he doesn't even know her.

He does, though. Steph can say a lot of things about Tim Drake, but he knows her.

“I listened ahead,” Tim says.

“You spoiled it for yourself?” Steph asks, bemused, and Tim gives her a look. For you, it says.

“It wasn't the best friend. It wasn't the sister, either, but that's not the point. She—the friend—was really upset. The testimony she gave, it—” his voice cracks. “Yeah. So. They were having a big fight, and—and even then, when she found out, she—”

“Tim,” Steph interjects. “God. Come here, you asshole.”

When she gets her arms around him, Tim crushes her to his chest, head dropping to her shoulder. Something in Steph breaks. He's finally got two inches on her, and he hasn't even had the chance to tease her for it because everything's been awful. “Tim,” she whispers. “You fucker. I love you, you know that?”

“Course, Stephie,” he mumbles into her skin. “I love you. So much, it—it kills me. It kills me. Don't do that again, please. I couldn't take it.”

She doesn't promise. Can't promise, not in their line of work, but she hugs him that much tighter, burying her face in his hair. It's longer than it used to be, no longer gelled up, and Steph wonders how much she's going to have to relearn about her best friend. How much he's going to have to relearn about her.

Chapter Text

Jason is at a loss. He’s done everything. He’s yelled at her, shot at her, violently threatened her with disembowelment, but despite it all, Spoiler won't leave him alone. At this point, he's almost concerned. It seriously cannot be healthy. His men won't hear a word against her—last week, Julia brought her back to base! To base! A Bat! When he’d been told, Jason was expecting the worst. Maybe an arm was chopped off, or she’d suffered third-degree burns so terrible she’d be partially paralyzed for the rest of her life. You know, something worth it!

A sprained ankle. Stephanie-fucking-Brown had been happily hanging off of Julia’s back, chattering on and on and on and on because she sprained her ankle.

Jason’s not ashamed to admit that he’d taken five. He doesn't drink, but he thinks that's what he needs right now, along with a cigarette pinched between his fingers. A tall glass of—he doesn't know, actually. Something strong. Rum? That sounds strong. He needs a huge goddamn pitcher full of it.

(The others won't let him around any alcohol where they can see it. Ever since Dawson had caught him with his helmet off, word had spread quickly that the Red Hood isn't even legal. You'd think running a criminal enterprise would give a guy some sway, but his men don't give a single shit about all that.)

Jason had decided he needed to bring this to Batman’s attention.

“Unclench your cheeks, Bat,” he says, holding his hands up. They stand on opposite sides of the roof where Jason had spray-painted ‘come at midnite i need to speak wit u from rh.’ “I just want to talk.”

Bruce’s lips are pressed into a thin line. He stays perfectly still, but Jason can tell that underneath the cowl, he's surveying the surrounding rooftops. He would have canvassed the area beforehand, too, and Jason feels a surge of smugness that he's worth the second look. Part of him wants to rip his helmet off here and now—he won't, because even if his plan with Black Mask falls through, Jason’s not sticking around. Hell, he might just fuck off to Metropolis after everything is over and done with.

“We don't negotiate with criminals,” Batman tells him, and Jason almost scoffs, because what. What about that time Ivy kidnapped him? What about when Dick had been dangling over Gotham Harbor by Black Mask’s men? He's an idiot liar who’s lying, but Jason has other priorities at the moment. For one night, he can put aside his urge to shoot the Bat, if that's what it takes.

“Whatever. Listen to me, man to man. Bruce to…me. You get the gist. I need you to do something about Spoiler.”

Batman laughs heartily, slapping his knee in delight in the face of Jason’s plea. He doesn't actually, but the slight uptick to his lip is basically the same thing. “Can't,” he replies. “Is that all?”

Jason blinks. “The fuck do you mean ‘can't?’ She's getting in my way! I'll fucking shoot her, you asshole. If you don't want her—” He fumbles for words, remembering what Stephanie had told him back at that safehouse. “Dead and decapitated. Yeah. I'll cut her stupid head off and then I'll punt it to your stupid doorstep. Do something.”

Bruce leaves. He leaves! Outraged, Jason watches him step off the roof, cape billowing behind him as he disappears into the night. That’s when he makes his peace with it. He clearly has to, because short of chaining her to her bedroom, there doesn't seem to be anything he can do about this nuisance. And it is a nuisance.

“Are you sure?” Stephanie-just-call-me-Steph asks from his countertop. Jason doesn't even know how she's here. Wordlessly, he drops his head into his crossed arms, resisting the urge to stomp his foot and throw something like a toddler. “I mean, you didn't have to let me in. I came through the door this time. I knocked! We’re practically best buds.”

“I should've stayed dead,” Jason tells himself. 

Things get a little weird after that. Steph doesn't respond, and when he looks up, she's faux-casually picking at her nails, eyes trained pointedly down in a way that betrays her slumped posture, too stiff to be natural. Jason makes sure his domino is still in place. Maybe he smells. He’d spilled noodles all over himself earlier, and he's pretty sure he still stinks of chicken, but that can't be enough to put that look on her face.

Not my problem, Jason reminds himself. And it isn't! It isn't. He turns back to his helmet, examining the faulty wiring that had caused his right-side peripheral vision to short out. Talia hadn't really included electrical engineering in her reeducation program, and Jason had turned all whack-a-mole before Barbara ever got a chance to teach him more than the basics. Jason’s been burning through his stash of helmets way too fast, but asking Talia for more would just be embarrassing. He sighs, setting it back down and folding his arms. On top of everything, his domino is itching so motherfucking bad that it's taking every ounce of willpower in him not to throw Steph out onto her ass and take the damn thing off.

While he's contemplating the ethics of displacing a home intruder, Steph clears her throat. 

“You died?”

This time, it’s Jason’s turn to freeze, his fingers tensing where they're wrapped loosely around his bicep. Steph’s voice wobbles the slightest bit, and all of a sudden, Jason feels wildly out of his depth. You wouldn't even be the first to kill me.

Oops.

“Yes,” he hedges. “What's it to you?”

What the fuck kind of stupid question was that you goddamn idiot. Stephanie doesn't say all that. She just shrugs, visibly hesitating, before giving a little shake of her head and hopping off his counter. “It's getting late, and Cassie promised to let me paint her nails toni—hey, have you ever painted your nails? Don't answer that, I'll bring some over next time anyway.”

Jason sighs. It's his problem now, he supposes. “Sit, Brown. You need to work on your excuses. Come on, hit me.”

Steph punches him. Yelping, Jason swats her away, rubbing his arm with a scowl. “I hate you so much. I'm giving you a chance, kid. Talk. If anyone would get it, it’s me.”

Chewing her lip, Steph cracks her knuckles—eighteen of them, which Jason didn't even know was possible—and glances up at him every so often like he's going to change his mind. The thing is, Jason does get it. The dying part, sure, but this part, too. The keeping it to yourself part. The dealing with it by yourself, because it’s so outlandishly awful that nobody else would understand. From what he knows, Stephanie flatlined for a couple minutes, but that sure fucking counts in his book. Someone still put her there, and if Leslie had been any slower, she wouldn't be standing here in his kitchen right now.

“Joker killed me,” he blurts. Steph freezes, lips parting in shock, and Jason barrels on before he can lose his nerve. “It really fucking sucked. There was, like, a lot of beating involved. I still—I still remember the feeling of my jaw caving in. So, you know. Equivalent exchange or whatever.”

“Is that why—I mean, ‘Red Hood?’ That’s like if I started calling myself Purple Mask. Not really, I guess, because he’s still using the name Black Mask. Nevermind, that was kind of a stupid comparison.”

Jason clenches his jaw. “Black Mask?” He echoes. He was already going to ruin that fucker’s life, but that isn't enough anymore. He’d killed Steph. He’d killed Steph. She was, what, fourteen when she died? Fifteen, maybe? Jesus christ.

“You didn't know?” Steph blinks at him. She leans her elbows onto the kitchen island, directly across from Jason, though she doesn't look up from where she's drawing circles into the granite. “I thought he would have bragged. I mean, I'm not Nightwing, but—actually, I see why he didn't. I was already fired from Robin, and Spoiler isn't exactly big fish. It was my fault, anyway. I wanted to prove to Bruce—but I didn't know anything. Mask caught me and, um. Power drills were involved. I got to Leslie and she took me to Africa, though, and I got better. Obviously.”

That is… so much. Fuck, and she escaped? Managed to get to Leslie on her own? Part of Jason wants to scream at Bruce to never put her in danger again, but from what he knows, Stephanie didn't exactly ask permission in the first place. He tries to imagine a younger version of her, but it's impossible when she's standing right in front of him, still young now. He can't even fathom anything happening to this version of Steph, much less a newly minted high schooler.

“It wasn't your fault,” Jason grits out. “It was Bruce’s. You were a kid, Blondie.”

“Don't—let’s not,” she breathes. “I can't be angry at Bruce anymore.”

There’s so much more Jason wants to say. She's so unbearably uncomfortable with herself and with what happened to her, it makes something in Jason’s chest tighten. He understands, more than she’ll ever know, but Stephanie was Robin to a Batman who didn't want her. That's never going to be something he could understand.

“Okay,” Jason sighs. “Yeah, okay. Hungry?”

Tension bleeding from her shoulders, Stephanie grins, bumping his arm when he rounds the table to rifle through the pantry. Luckily for Jason, she's always hungry, and dissolves into mindless chatter about the girls in her calculus class as he's cutting up avocado. Jason’s never had a younger sister, but if he did, he thinks it might be a lot like this. This is always how it goes with him. He told himself he wasn't going to care about Bruce, about Alfred, about Dick, and he did anyway. He told himself he didn't give a shit about Stephanie Brown, and here he goes making her a sandwich and pretending he can't see her red-rimmed eyes anyway. Next thing he knows, he's going to be skipping rocks with Tim-fucking-Drake.

“I'm still a criminal,” Jason tells her, because he thinks they both need the reminder. Steph looks him up and down, eyebrow raised like the bitchy teenager she is, and flat out ignores him. Despairingly, Jason cracks an egg over the stove.

It’s while they're eating, his helmet pushed to the side to make room, that Jason decides fuck it. It feels weird knowing who she is, knowing her face, when all she's got of him is his crooked nose and permanent scowl. Never let it be said that he thinks before he acts.

Jason takes off the domino.

Stephanie chokes on her bite, coughing violently into her elbow, and when she looks back up, her eyes are so wide that Jason wonders how they don't fall out of her damn head. “Dude,” she chokes. “Did you mean to do that?”

“I was itchy,” Jason says defensively. “What, a guy can't be comfortable in his own home anymore?”

He's nervous, for some fucking reason, eyes flitting up to Steph’s face every couple seconds. The shock seems to be fading, but Steph is staring at him hard, an unreadable look on her face. She can't know. It wouldn't make any sense, the timelines don't match up, logically Jason knows this, but—

Steph smacks the back of her hand against her forehead, making Jason jolt in surprise, and clutches at her heart like she's going to faint, and then she actually tips out of the chair.

“What the fuck, Brown!” Jason shouts, leaping forward to catch her before she can crack her head against the floor. Gobsmacked, Jason glares at Stephanie as she bursts into laughter, clutching her stomach when he dumps her the rest of the way down.

“I'm sorry,” she giggles. “You just—you really looked like you were waiting for a reaction. Do girls usually faint when they see you? I was going for Victorian ankle levels of—”

Scratch that. Little sisters are nice and Stephanie Brown is not.

“So,” she says, after she's done laughing at his expense and they've both reseated themselves at the counter. “Do I get a name? Or do I have to keep calling you a pillbug in my head.”

“No, you don't—pillbug?” Jason demands incredulously. “Fuck off.”

“See, you'll never know if I'm joking or not. It’s in your best interest to give me something else to work with, pal.”

Jason flounders. On the one hand, he really doesn't enjoy the idea of being called pillbug, but on the other, he hadn't really prepped a fake name. “Uh,” he says lamely. “Peter.”

Stephanie’s lip twitches. “Peter. Pete. Petey? Petey. It suits you.”

Ugh.

So Peter is born, and every time Steph encounters him on patrol, she yells, “P-man!” It's humiliating, especially when Nightwing hears and starts calling him Red Pood.

“Hold up, I've got a better one. Winnie the Pood! You know, ‘cause of the red getup and—”

Jason doesn't regret the bullet he'd lodged next to Dick's little dickie.

Things are mostly quiet after that. Jason wants to ruin more of Bruce's life, but it's hard when he knows that Spoiler is the one who's going to be blamed for making friends with a crime lord. In turn, Batman gets off his back, letting him do his thing so long as he doesn't leave a trail of bodies for them to find. Jason carries on with his plan to fuck with Black Mask, dropping a tip off to Batman & Co. when he thinks Sionis is frantic enough to spring Joker out.

He doesn't. Bruce catches him in the act and carts him off to Arkham instead, leaving the streets free for Jason's taking. He…hasn't really thought this far. He was supposed to make Bruce choose.

Jason wants his dad to choose him. When it comes down to it, he never really grew out of that hurting street kid, desperate for every bit of affection he could squeeze from Bruce. He's huge, nearly two-hundred pounds of muscle, but Jason feels small. Alfred used to find him curled up under the singular desk in the library, back propped up against pillows and surrounded on all sides with stacks of books walling him in. He wouldn't fit anymore. Jason doesn't think he fits anywhere anymore.

But he has his men, he supposes, trustworthy and loyal in ways that Sionis and Cobblepot could never imagine. He has Talia and Damian, even though the little brat isn't around just yet. He's got Steph. After another close call with traffickers down at the docks, Jason gives her a panic button that reaches him directly. He's not going to kid himself into thinking Steph will ever choose to contact him over the Bats, but it's for his own peace of mind. She shrieks with delight, jumping on his back like there aren't still people shooting at them. Underneath his helmet, Jason smiles.

The peace with Bruce was always going to be short lived, but Jason's still irked when Batman imposes himself on his operations. He knows the guy is touchy about his kryptonite, but what the hell does he want Jason to do? Just let the smugglers work under his nose? Jason intercepts the delivery, ordering his men to take the kryptonite back to their base while he drives the point home with a few pistol rounds.

“Red Hood,” Batman rumbles. “Where is the kryptonite.”

“Somewhere safe,” Jason snaps. It's not his, it's Jason's. He can't just swoop in after the fact and expect him to hand everything over like a mindless drone. “I don't work for you, Bat. Get out of my way.”

Naturally, he doesn't. He attempts to subdue Jason, getting a few good hits in that have him gasping for breath, but Jason's aim has only gotten better under Talia's tutelage. His bullets might not penetrate Batman's armor, but they'll sure as hell leave a mark. Bruce drives an elbow into his sternum, sending him crashing back against a dumpster. It knocks the wind right out of him, and Jason blinks back stars in his vision, just barely dodging a kick aimed at his gut. A bullet lodges itself in Batman's thigh, stalling him long enough for Jason to get back on his feet. He sways, swallowing bile. With the way his head cracked against the ground, he's sure his helmet is out of commission for good, but he can't do anything about it until he gets out of this.

"Enough," Jason wheezes. "I stopped them."

Bruce almost sounds pitying as he advances. "I can't let kryptonite fall into the wrong hands. You should know this, Hood. You don't have to fight me."

The wrong hands. God. Jason just wants him to be able to say it to his fucking face. He shakes his head, staggering back as his men converge, wielding semi-automatics to cover him. From behind the spray of bullets, Jason drags himself around the corner, pressing against his body armor to feel the nauseating, bone deep ache underneath his skin.

Later, after the others are dismissed, Jason leans his head back against brick, breathing shallowly. Without a sound, Batman lands at his side. "You're young," he observes. "Why are you doing this?"

"Daddy issues," Jason rasps.

Bruce kneels. There's nothing Jason can do to stop him from prodding at his flesh, mapping out hairline fractures and bleeding beneath his skin. When he's evidently decided that he hasn't kicked the shit out of Jason too badly just yet, he stands. "If you go too far," he warns. "I'll put you in Arkham myself. Don't let that happen."

And then he's gone. Jason hauls himself up, leaning his weight against buildings as he passes them, his head full of cotton. In his dingy bathroom, he washes his face, staring at his drooping eye bags in the mirror. Purple stretches across his ribs, bones creaking every time Jason shifts. His helmet is cracked, a spider web crawling up the temporal piece and making his earpiece fuzz with static. Even the fucking modulator is broken. At this rate, Talia's probably his only option.

Painstakingly, Jason thumbs out a message to his second in command. Out of town business. Yeah, right. He can't stomach the thought of facing Bruce again so soon, or even seeing Robin's flashy colors grappling over Gotham's buildings. That could've been him. It was, at some point. Did that mean anything? His death—nothing changed. It's as if everybody had forgotten that the second Robin ever lived and died. 

Jason doesn't go out the next night, or the night after that, and he's contemplating taking a third night off when the signal comes through.

It's as he's scrounging up something to eat, feeling dizzy at the lack of food. The pain's lessened, so he's able to move around without wanting to kill himself, which is a plus. He'd gotten reports of Nightwing hanging around the Alley, conspicuously looking for Red Hood, though nobody knows what he wants with him. After Batman's last encounter, Jason doesn't exactly think he's looking to sing his praises. He snorts to himself as he pours out the last of his cereal into a bowl, remembering the time that Dick had subsisted off of nothing but Lucky Charms when he had come down with a fever in Blüd. Jason was sworn to secrecy.

"Took that one to the grave, Dickie," he mumbles. The second he takes his first bite, his watch buzzes violently. Jason swears, spilling milk all over the counter when he jerks, but it's forgotten the second he takes a look at the watch.

Steph.

He's up before he even registers the thought, snatching his busted helmet and fumbling with his holsters. Heart pounding, Jason tracks a path to her location, stomach dropping at the sight of her blinking marker in the Narrows. She's got to be by the parking garage. Three different gangs frequent the area, varying threat levels and arms—he has no idea what he's walking into, but there's no time. He doesn't have a line to Bruce, either, so he couldn't ask for help even if he wanted to.

Jason really, really wants to.

Tearing out of the parking lot on his shitty, civilian motorcycle, Jason's eyes flit to Steph’s tracker every couple seconds, even as he runs red lights and swerves to avoid collisions. If she—her vitals aren't linked, but without a pulse, the signal will stop. He just has to be fast.

It's dead silent when he arrives, no sign of anybody around, and Jason's anxiety only rises. If he were Spoiler, he'd be here for a drug bust, so he slips in on the ground floor, warily searching behind every shadowed car and concrete pillar.

“Spoiler?” Jason calls, hesitant. Nothing. He swallows, triple-checking to make sure she's still fucking breathing, and advances to the second level, then the third.

Here, there's bodies. Only unconscious, which means it's vigilante work. “Spoiler?” He shouts, kicking the head of a groaning thug to keep him down. “Don't fucking do this, Blondie.”

Someone coughs. Jason breaks out into a sprint, skidding around the corner and dropping to a crouch beside Stephanie, nearly slipping in the blood trailing along the floor beside her. “Jesus fuck,” he grits out, heart still hammering in his chest. Her eyes are open, but they keep fluttering shut like she's struggling to stay awake, and Jason wants to scream. “Report, S.”

God, he sounds like Bruce.

“Oh, ‘s nothing,” she groans, slapping haphazardly at his leg. “Thanks for coming, Red. I'm all—all good.”

Jason drops his gun, pulling her cape away from her body and grimacing when it comes away tacky with blood. Her breathing comes shallow, puffing visibly in the cold once Jason peels the mask from her face. She looks pale, but not enough to be worrying. Jason relaxes incrementally, adjusting his stance to haul her up into his arms. “You're not funny. Do you have any idea—”

“Step away from her, Red Hood.”

Jason freezes.

“I said step away,” Nightwing demands. The crackle of his escrima is loud in the otherwise silent garage, footsteps echoing behind Jason. Steph shifts, the cloudiness of her eyes clearing as they snap to Jason's. With gritted teeth, Jason rises to his feet, hands in the air. Instead of turning around, he steps over Stephanie and drops to his knees at her other side, this time with Nightwing in his line of sight. She grunts as he slides a hand under her shoulders, drawing her up to rest against his leg. Dick's face spasms at the movement.

“I wouldn't do that, Dickie,” Jason says, slow and measured. With his free hand, he squeezes Steph's, eyes darting down to catalogue her injuries. The blood is coming from a stab wound in her stomach. It's ugly, rough edged and steadily oozing blood. Jason presses down on it, lips pursing when Steph lets out a pained gasp, but she relaxes against his thigh.

“Hood.”

With barely restrained anger, Dick presses forward. Jason’s got no doubt that Batman and Robin are on their way, if they aren't behind him already, but Steph called him. He doesn't give a fuck what they want from him.

“Are you okay?” He asks quietly, eyes never leaving Dick's. Steph nods, lips quirking into a smile. “Something funny, asshole?”

“You're so—ow—dramatic, Jay. Guess it runs in the family.”

No.

Abruptly, Jason reels back, dropping his eyes to meet hers. She's grinning at him, blood staining her teeth, and Jason feels the breath punched out of him. “How?” He croaks.

“Your pictures are all over the manor,” she huffs. “Also, Peter? That was the best you could do?”

“What are you saying to her?” Dick demands, jarring Jason out of his spiraling thoughts. His escrima are lowered, like he no longer thinks Jason's a threat, but the distrust in his voice is crystal clear. Jason opens his mouth, closes it again, and swallows. “Spoiler, status?”

“A-okay, boss,” Steph manages, giving him a weak thumbs up. “If you don't tell them,” she adds, leveling Jason with a piercing look. “I will.”

The Batmobile glides into the garage, its sleek black finish swallowing the light around it. Jason's breath catches in his throat.

“That's not fair,” he spits. “Fuck you, Steph. You can't—”

“I saw what Bruce did to you,” she interjects. “He doesn't know. You're killing yourself over this and—and I can't keep—” She lolls her head to face Nightwing, hand twitching like she wants to reach out. “Dick, trust me. Let him come with us.”

The tail end of her sentence is broken up with violent coughs, blood spurting from the wound in her belly, and Jason looks up at Dick with pleading eyes, even though he knows his brother can't see him. He doesn't know what he wants him to do. Take Steph and leave? Bring Jason to the cave with them? He doesn't know.

Somehow, Dick understands anyway.

“Extraction needed,” he says, pressing his comm as he kneels beside them. “Spoiler's going to need blood, but she'll pull through. Robin and Batgirl, I want you both to help Agent A prep for transfusion. Batman and I will bring her home. We might—” his eyes cut up to meet Jason's. “We might be bringing a guest. Dominoes on.”

“I already—” Jason begins

“Protocol,” he cuts in, clipped. Jason's teeth click together. He feels wrongfooted, like a burst of wind could topple him and he wouldn't know how to claw his way back up again. Dick isn't—Jason's been Red Hood this whole time, shooting at the whole brood of Bats, disrupting their patrols, doing what he sees fit with Gotham, but Dick’s never been like this. Burning with rage and resentment. All of a sudden, he needs Dick to know—

“I didn't hurt her,” Jason manages. “I didn't, ‘Wing. I wouldn't.”

Dick stares at him, lips pressed into a thin line.

He nods.

“Help me wrap her. If she loses any more blood, she's going to go into shock.”

With the bandages tucked in Jason's jacket, they wrap her stomach and thigh, where a bullet had grazed her. She's dizzy with a nasty knock to the head, blood sluggishly oozing from her hairline, but she manages not to spew all over him when Jason helps her up.

“Think they knocked a tooth out,” Steph pouts, tounging at her cheek.

“That's what you get for taking on fourteen men by yourself,” Dick sighs.

“Well, I got them all, didn't I?”

“You're unbelievable,” Jason mutters. He lets Dick take her weight, trailing after them as he hoists her into his arms and strides towards the Batmobile. Jason stalls, his eyes flicking wildly around, searching for an escape. He can't do this. He's not ready.

“Pete,” Steph calls, her voice wobbly. “We aren't moving until you get your ass inside. Who else is going to make sure I don't choke on my own blood in the backseat?”

Dick would, he doesn't say. Wordlessly, Jason slides in beside her, carefully pulling her legs up so they're thrown over his lap. She smiles, bright and airy. Jason could throw up.

Batman doesn't breathe a word, but his gaze doesn't stray from Jason's in the rearview mirror. He sets a course for the manor, folding his hands over his chest. Jason knows he must be holding a dozen batarangs hidden from view, but he closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath, leg bouncing up and down. “Stop that,” Steph mumbles, poking him. “Relax, Red. I know what I'm doing”

“You're blackmailing me,” Jason retorts, but there's not as much heat in his voice as he wishes. “You played me, calling me here when you knew the others were already on their way. I'm never making you food again. Rot, for all I care.”

She laughs softly, face screwing up in pain when it jostles her injury, and thunks her head back against the window. “You came for me,” she says after a moment. “I knew you would.”

Jason looks away. "If this goes south, I'm setting your stupid hair on fire," he tells her.

"Copy that, P-man."

"I hate you."