Work Text:
It was not an unfamiliar scene.
Maybe someday it would be. But that wasn't the world they lived in, and that wasn't the city they lived in, either. Gotham was a city defined by struggle, by its deep pits and dark alleys and tragedies so frequent they were impossible to keep up with, and the teenage years were known for being particularly hard anyway.
Steph made sure to make noise as she landed. The kid sitting on the roof didn't react, but that was okay. They didn't have to acknowledge her. She was here to help, and if that meant simply being a silent presence promising to stay, that was fine. She would sit here as long as she had to.
It was clear the kid had been crying. The lights from the street were bright enough that the ruddiness of their cheeks was obvious, and every so often they sniffled. Steph didn't comment. She just sat beside them, dangling her legs off the side of the building. The weightless feeling was a comfort now, so many years deep in vigilantism, but it was doubtlessly something much heavier for the child beside her.
She didn't speak for a while. Just sat with the kid as their sniffles got fewer and farther between before eventually petering out. She didn't break the silence. She didn't think she needed to, not until the kid did, but she examed them as best she could from her preiphery. They were in a worn pair of jeans and ratty sneakers and a Metropolis University sweatshirt that was a size or two too big on them. Their hair flopped in front of their face in a way that seemed more like they had given up than a real style choice, curls shadowing their eyes. Their gaze stayed planted on the street beneath them, watching as cars gathered before the stoplight and sputtered back to life when the light turned green. They seemed a little more relaxed, a little less desperate, and so Steph sat with them as they breathed in the beat of the city.
"…how did you know?"
Their voice was a little bit hoarse from the crying. It was lower than Steph expected, and sounded aged beyond the kid's years. But that wasn't uncommon for Gotham, especially not this close to the suburbs. This was Steph's territory, home of kids from homes that were just a touch too broken to split up. Home of kids who grew up too fast and adults who drowned in the bottom of their bottles and the oppressive ache of childhood pains which lingered long past their welcome.
Steph leaned back on her palms, looking at the back of the kid's head. "Practice," she said, "and a little bit of intuition."
They lapsed back into silence. Steph let it drag on for a few beats, letting their breaths flutter between them and the soundscape of the city surround them.
"I was the same way, you know," she said after a while. The kid scoffed, glancing back at Steph for a moment before focusing on the street again.
"Mom said that all you vigilantes have gotta be suicidal," the kid said. They stopped for another moment before their shoulders dropped. "I don't think so. You wouldn't have the energy to do… what you do if it was."
Steph was glad she was Batgirl tonight and not Spoiler. She was glad that the kid could see as her lips curled into a soft smirk, an expression she had seen reflected back at her from Dick too many times to count. "I used to be."
The kid didn't say anything. They kicked their foot out, letting it fall back against the building and bounce. "But you stopped."
"But I stopped," Steph confirmed. "Because things got better."
"I don't think that's in the cards for me," the kid said, quieter than their other words. As though they hoped Steph wouldn't hear them.
Steph just hummed. She didn't disagree, not right away. She had seen this too many times for that.
"When you think of hope," she said, "what do you think of?"
The kid scoffed. "Superman. Metropolis. A utopia, or maybe just a level of crazy that I haven't achieved yet."
Steph hummed. That wasn't an uncommon sentiment, and it wasn't an unfair one, either. Superman wanted to be hope. And for many people he was, but Steph's people weren't those people. So she said, "I disagree," and she let the silence stretch between them for another beat. "When I think of hope," she said, "I think of Batman and Robin."
The kid looked away from her rather decidedly. "Batman and Robin haven't been hope since the people under the masks switched."
And, well, Steph disagreed with that. There was more despair between them, certainly, but Dick and Damian— they were hope, too. But there was no point in starting a tangential argument, so she let it slide. "Then think of the old Batman and Robin. The ones who fought the Clench and won. The ones who imprisoned Bane and almost died because of it. The ones who persisted through the No Man's Land."
The kid didn't look back at her, but their shoulders loosened again. "But they're just… human," the kid said. "Like me."
"Exactly," Steph said, smiling a little bit. "Because hope is human. Hope perserveres through the worst and comes out the other side, even if it has to spit out a tooth along the way. Hope stumbles forward with dirt smudged across its cheek. Because hope isn't about things being good. Hope is about believing things could be good, and believing in yourself to make it that way."
The kid was looking at her now. She couldn't tell if it was working, not yet, but she wasn't done. She smiled.
"Hope is Robin giving his rebreather away to a citizen during a Scarecrow breakout, because he believes in his ability to protect everyone from the gas but wants to protect other people just in case anyway," Steph said. "Hope is Huntress taunting Black Mask because she believes in her ability to take a hit and dish one back long enough for backup to get to her. Hope is Batman looking at the Joker, even after everything he's done, and still trying to reach a hand out to help, because no one is truly too far gone. Hope is looking at the darkest pieces of the world, the darkest pieces of yourself, and deciding to shine a light there. And sometimes that means what you find will be dirty, but because you looked, all the dirt can finally be cleaned."
The kid huffed, and they stuffed their hands into their hoodie pocket. "You practice that in the mirror?"
Steph laughed. "Yeah," she said. "Every day for a couple years. And it felt stupid, at first. I only did it 'cause my friend made me. But you know what?" She looked down at the city again. "It worked anyway. Things did get better. I got better. And I have faith that you can too."
"Not hope?" the kid asked, a little bit dry.
"Not hope," Steph confirmed. "I believe. That way, you can have hope, even if you don't believe. Because I won't stop having faith in you."
The kid was quiet. They weren't looking at her anymore, instead looking down at the city, but the silence seemed a little bit more contemplative than it had before. Steph didn't move, didn't say anything else; she didn't want to rush the kid. She'd let them think and feel and process whatever they needed to. The rest of the world could wait.
"Okay," they said eventually. They brought their knees to their chest for a moment, breathing deep. "Okay." And then they stood, and they stared down at the city once more. For a half second, Steph worried that she would have to jump after them. But then they turned, and slowly began to walk to the rooftop entrance. Steph smiled as she watched their retreating back.
It wasn't perfect. She hadn't fixed everything. But one more kid in Gotham who had a little bit of hope was enough to carry on the legacy.