[closed] only you decided that you had to go

[controlledvariable]

Characters: Stephanie Brown and Bruce Wayne
Date: ~17th Novemeber (or around that time)
Location: The mainland, then Bruce's suite in the Metal Sector
Situation: Steph gets attacked by a pair of llothi, it does not go well for her
Warnings/Rating: Violence, llothi, blood, injuries


It's a trap.

She knows it is, as soon as the sound of crying first reaches her ears; she's been warned about the mimicry, about the creatures that lure in prey for the llothi by pretending to be kedan, or in this case, human. She knows, that's all the sound is, that she should carefully walk away, before the llothi decide to stop waiting for her to be lured in. She's not too far in, her explosive batarangs will still work at this range, but taking on two llothi after a long day of walking on the arid mainland is a little beyond her skill. It's a trap, she knows it's a trap, and she should run.

But it's a little girl crying, and there's an ache in her heart as she thinks about her own little girl (not hers, she reminds herself, but it doesn't ease the ache). What if it really is a child, and she walked away from them?

She'd never forgive herself. In the same way that she knows it's a trap, she knows that she'll never sleep again if she doesn't find out for certain that there isn't a little kid lost out here. Of course, that doesn't mean she has to walk straight into it.

Steph heads towards the small, burnt out town with caution, sticking to the reasonable cover that the crumbling buildings provide, batarangs in her right hand, staff in her left. The buildings aren't stable enough for her to consider going to the rooftops, but as she gets closer to the source of the noise she slows down, works out what direction the wind is coming from and makes her approach from that way so that at the very least they can't get her scent.

Near the centre of town there's a building with three walls and half a roof, and it's where the crying is coming from. She doesn't get close enough to check before she hears movement to her left, and she's already running as the first llothi crashes into the wall right where she'd been a few seconds ago. There will be another one, but Steph can't get a visual one it right now so she focuses on keeping away from the first, running through the streets, ducking swipes from the creature's claws.

She realizes it's herding her, trying to get her with it's left or right claw depending on which way it wants her to go. The problem is that she can't see any other option but to let it, there's not enough room for her to make a move away from the llothi. All she can do is keep her eyes open for an opportunity to get away before they reach whatever destination the thing intends.

The chance never comes; there's a narrow alley to her left up ahead, surrounded by two stable-looking walls and she knows, she knows, just like she knew this was a trap, that the second llothi is waiting at the other end. She tries to turn, grip tightening on her staff with the thought that maybe she can fight it off, but even as she dodges the first blow, a backswing of it's arm catches her across the chest, knocking her into the wall, all the air rushing out of her as her back hits concrete.

It's a dead end except for the alley, she could try to climb one of the buildings, but her grapple's in her bag and it'd probably take too long to get out. The llothi growls at her, makes another swipe, and it's all she can do to scramble out of the way and into the narrow space, hoping the lack of room to manoeuvre will hinder the llothi as much as her.

The second is waiting at the other end. Steph can't even find it in herself to be surprised. She's trapped, and they're going to tear her apart if she doesn't think fast, doesn't move fast. Luckily she's always been good at working on the fly, it's one of the advantages of being reckless. She throws her batarangs - normal ones - at the llothi behind her, aiming for the face, the throat, the mouth, where she can hopefully do damage enough to slow it down, but she doesn't have time to actually look to see if she was successful. She's busy running at the one in front of her, as it runs towards her; she lets her bag slip from her shoulders, grabs the strap in one hand and just before she's within striking distance, throws the pack hard just past the llothi's head, hoping to distract it enough as she slides past it's legs. It should be too big to turn around easily in the small space and it might buy her enough time to get away.

For a second, she thinks it's worked, as she catches a glimpse of empty space in front of her and starts to push to her feet, and then she hears a sound like concrete shattering as llothi claws swipe easily through it.

And then her back is on fire.

She doesn't look, doesn't even break in her movement once the claws are out of her skin, she just catches the bag as it drops to the ground and runs.

They've got the scent of her blood, they know she's injured, and she knows that they not going to be so easily deterred now. And she's in pain and losing blood, which is wreaking havoc on her concentration as she keeps running through the streets, knowing that she can't break from the town yet because she can't risk giving them an advantage on open ground.

She has no idea how long she spends running from them before an opportunity presents itself in the form of a barely standing building, two walls supporting a crumbling roof. Steph sees it in the distance and desperately fishes an explosive batarang from her pocket, slowing her pace just enough to make sure the llothi don't lose interest, not there's much risk of that. She depresses the centre of the batarang, runs into the building, throws it up to stick in a beam of wood, and keeps running.

The resulting explosion knocks her off her feet, but she hears falling concrete and the llothi making - sound she doesn't want to think about. She risks a brief glance as she pushes herself to her feet. The creatures are covered by the collapsed roof, not dead, she doesn't think, but at the very least it will slow them down, and at best they'll decide this prey isn't worth the trouble.

She doesn't wait around to find out, she just starts running again.

→

By the time she finds a place to rest, her breathing is coming hard and fast, her chest aching with each intake of air and she's pretty sure her skin's on fire where the claws caught her. She twists, trying to assess the damage, but when she just gets hit by a wave of pain so bad her vision swims, she realizes it's not going to happen. There's dried blood on her hands, blood soaked in her clothes and more coming with every shift of her body, her shirt sticky and clinging to her skin with blood and sweat. She knows there's no point in trying to properly dress the wound right now. But she can try; she finds a relatively hidden spot behind some crumbling walls and drops her pack. She cuts away the bloodied part of her shirt, wipes her hands as clean as she can (she can't afford to waste water) and manages to do a rough job of bandaging up the wounds, her teeth clenched against the pain. It's not perfect, but stitches are beyond her skill at that angle. It should hold for long enough to get her back to the mainland, and she even manages to pull on the light sweatshirt she brought with her, covering the extent of the damage.

After a moment, through the haze of pain and heat and exhaustion, she remembers her communication device.

It was in her back pocket. As soon as she takes a look at the device she knows it's going to be useless, it's cracked, most likely from her brief encounter with a wall.

Wonderful.

It's hard to judge how much blood she's lost, but based on how fast her heart's been pumping and how deep the wounds are, she's gonna take a guess at too much. All she can do is try to make it back to the mainland before she passes out. Steph grabs her staff from her boot, extends it, and using it as, well, a staff, starts towards Tu Vishan, using the sun as a guide.

→

Things are a little easier back in the city; it's cooler, for one, especially considering the fact it's nightfall by the time she stumbles down off the wagon that provides transport from the edge. The trip had been hazy, all she remembers is the kedan keeping as far from her as they could in the small space. She thinks one of them tried to talk to her, but she can't remember responding. There'd been no point letting them help, she could already tell that the wounds are infected, that she was starting to burn with a fever. Simply cleaning and stitching them up wouldn't help her, she needed proper medical attention.

That should mean going to a hospital, Keeliai has them, but they're for kedan and while she knows the doctors are starting to learn, she's not sure she trusts them with human physiology.

She wishes Leslie were here. But she's not, and that leaves Steph with a narrow list of candidates who can help.

A really narrow list.

Her feet start taking her towards the Metal Sector before her mind has even really made the decision. It's a slow journey, as she sticks to the shadows and stumbles her way through back streets. It's a miracle she doesn't run into any trouble.

By the time she's at the Foreigner compound, she's vaguely aware that she's getting a little delirious, thinking about the gang war and how she'd been desperate for help, then. Her hand comes up to staunch the flow of blood from a bullet wound that isn't there, and she curses under her breath, voice thready and cracked. Just a bit further, Brown.

Her fingers fumble with the latch of window, her breath coming too shallow now, but she manages to push herself up onto the ledge and through the opening. Her landing is less than graceful, her pack catching on the frame of the window and sending her stumbling to her knees. She lets the pack fall from her shoulders, curls her fingers against the cold floor and considers trying to stand up.

But she's safe now, Bruce will make sure of it, so she finally gives up her hold on consciousness.

Comments

[cowled]

There are certain truths that hold, steadfast, across time and space and universes unfathomable distances from his home turf. The first of those truths is that the Batman is always prepared.

Being Batman isn't about the suit, the car, the high-tech toys. It's about knowing how to use those elements and when. It's about planning and strategy and an infinite ability to be patient, to calculate, to parse everything down to elegant lines of logic. Bruce survives the encounters he does not because he's fast or strong (though he is, for a human) but because from the moment the encounter begins he's planning how to counteract whatever's being thrown at him from every possible or potential angle.

He can't punch through plate steel, rip aircraft carriers apart with his bare hands, conjure constructs by sheer force of will. But he knows the exact places to set charges against that plate steel, or where to pour acid to weaken the rivets. He knows the fuel capacity of that aircraft carrier, each possible landing point in its flight path, how to narrow down his options until he knows exactly where it's going to be. And he has the resources to build real-world equivalents of any construct he damn well wants.

(He's been offered a power ring before, and he'd turned it down. The things are more trouble than they're worth)

Bruce has no illusions about the dangers he could pose to others if he ever slipped over to the darker side of his duty. And if it happens (he doesn't deal in absolutes, not Batman. Never say never. It's the reason he has a room full of every imaginable colour of Kryptonite sealed deep within the Batcave) he has people he trusts to stop him.

Plans within plans. Within wheels and frameworks that are a vast cat's cradle of all the things he's striven to be perfect at for most of his life. To anticipate, to act, to never be caught unawares. Even Tu Vishan isn't exactly a surprise. Just an inconvenience.

That hyperaware sense of foresight and planning is exactly why his suite in the Metal sector is rigged with the most sensitive motion tracking equipment he could build in this place. Pressure plates in the floors. Refractive panels (decorative, if anyone was casually inspecting his dwelling) with double-pulse uninterrupted light-beams and, of course, a thin line of dust (native to the Wood sector and thus more difficult to replicate if disturbed) across all the windowsills that would make Alfred positively scowl at him.

All but one of those warning systems are linked directly to his phone. Not that piece of trash that Stark calls a phone, but the one he brought from home and has relied on since.

He's on the coastline when it goes off, digging through the charred remains of what looks to be a boathouse. If it's an intruder or thief, he's too far away to make any difference. If it's someone he knows... then they're probably perfectly aware of what they've just done.

The only person who knows where he lives and would have tripped those particular alarms (as opposed to the one on the front door) who he can't hail is Stephanie.

She was supposed to be out patrolling the mainland today. If she'd hit a snag she would have contacted him if she were able – that she made it back to Keeliai tells him two things. Her methods of communication (Stark's phone, the Bat-delegated equipment) are destroyed or have been stolen. That she made it back to his suite tells him that she's injured or urgently needs him.

He's spent enough time not being there for Stephanie. So he goes.

Close enough to the shell edge that he can reach it by boat, and he has a motorcycle hidden at the edge that cuts the travel time to Keeliai by two-thirds. He's not reckless but he is fast about it. At the high, black-edged walls of the city he abandons the bike and takes to the rooftops. By the time he sets foot on the roof of his suite it's been three hours, nine minutes and fourteen seconds since the alarm sounded off.

When he props open the skylight and sees Stephanie there on the floor his first thought is that he's too late. Again. His mind goes carefully blank and he doesn't move and he wonders how he's going to explain this to Damian-- Damian, of all people, not Cassandra or Jason or Dick or Clark, but Damian, who's only just learning to like her.

Bruce blinks and her clothes shift to Robin-red and he thinks he must still be suffering the after-effects of his own encounter with a llothi because this whole thing feels like a fever dream, twisted and broken, one more good soldier thrown away out of ugly necessity.

He forces a breath that curls hard into his lungs and stops up his chest, and then he drops silently onto the floor beside her. He doesn't spare much time for frivolities, simply stripping off his gloves as he goes to his knees beside her and reaches out to check her radial pulse – weak and fast but present, at 108 beats a minute. Breathing rate is rapid and shallow, in excess of 24 a minute. Skin is cool, pale and clammy to the touch.

There's blood on her sweatshirt, but not enough to suggest a massive injury. Or that she'd bandaged it before coming here. He brushes her hair away from her neck, presses his fingers along her cervical spine. No obvious deformities or swelling there. He doesn't like the idea of moving her, but he'd rather not do a full examination with her three-quarters prone on his floor.

He lifts her carefully, one hand under her shoulderblades (dressings and bandages, four separate location. Llothi claws) and carries her into his bedroom. His bed isn't an operating table by any means, but all of his medical resources are at his sundry warehouses, and he isn't going to pack Stephanie through the streets to the nearest one.

He sets her on the bed, tugs the cowl down (he's got his Batsuit back now) and pulls his first aid kit from his belt. Hands washed, gloves on, trauma scissors first as he cuts her shirt away. It was less than ten days ago that he was the patient in this scenario, with 'John' being the one to patch him up. Stephanie, at least, is unconscious while he works; peeling back the dressings she'd applied.

The wounds are already showing signs of infection and haven't been properly flushed out. Bruce leaves her side briefly to set water to boil and to gather towels, and then he sets to work.

→

Sometime later, he wipes his hands a final time on one of the towels and slumps into a chair at the side of the bed. Delicate medical procedures are something he generally prefers to leave to Alfred, but in his absence...

The injuries have been flushed, cleaned, treated with supplies from his utility belt, dressed and bandaged. He's set up a saline drip to keep her fluids up, laced with antibiotics. Her vitals are stable all across the board and Bruce can breathe for the first time since getting the alarm. He's been some thirty-eight hours without sleep – usually nothing for him, but in the wake of the infection he had to deal with even that amount is pushing himself too far.

So he folds his arms across his chest (he's still wearing the Batsuit, minus gloves and cowl) and falls into a light doze. If Stephanie moves, he'll be up in an instant. But for now, she's safe and he's done all he can.

[controlledvariable]

The first thing that registers as Steph slowly regains consciousness is that she's hooked up to a drip, and for a moment she thinks it's all been a dream. It was just another Black Mercy induced hallucination, maybe they hadn't gotten it all out of her system and she slipped back in when she fell aleep again. Or maybe she'd never woken up in the first place.

"Mom?" She doesn't really want to open her eyes - everything hurts, it's easier if she stays completely still - but she forces herself to anyway, and the illusion shatters as soon as she sees the ceiling of what's clearly a suite in the Metal Sector. She closes her eyes again.

Bruce.

She knows he'll still be next to her; he didn't leave her last time, he won't leave her now, and she doesn't know how she feels about that, about the fact she can - trust him? Especially not when she knows what he told Steve. (They're going to have to talk about that later, she really doesn't want to).

"Sorry," For getting hurt again, and for making him deal with it. She feels like he's been starting to trust her, rely on her, even, and this isn't the way to show him that it's not a mistake to. She hates herself a little bit for being so damn stupid.

[cowled]

He comes back into wakefulness with almost no transition. One moment he's lightly dozing (dreaming, about birds perched on weathered graves-- only the colours of their feathers were vivid) and the next he's simply awake.

There's no trace of the hours he's spent here when he speaks.

"You don't need to apologize, Stephanie." She doesn't. Not for this. And then, "You came home."

To-- to her family. Bruce doesn't exactly include himself in that defining statement, but... the sentiment stands regardless.

[controlledvariable]

She's glad for the fact she still feels groggy with pain and sleep and the faint threat of fever that she knows she'll have to deal with later, because it means she can't think too hard about how you came home makes her feel.

"Yeah, well," She opens her eyes again and pauses to push herself up a little, just so her shoulders are against the headboard and she's not completely horizontal, "If I'm gonna get eaten by something, it'll at least have eyes."

She manages a wry little smile in his direction, despite the fact that joke isn't even remotely funny, even less so when her voice is still slightly weak. She'd cough to clear her throat, but she doesn't want to do that to her back just yet.

[cowled]

"I'll keep that in mind. Be careful of the bandages. I didn't do any stitches, the wounds are going to be infected no matter what and stitchwork will--" He doesn't know why he's explaining this to Stephanie, of all people. It's entirely possible she has more medical knowledge than he does, though he's never thought to ask after the specifics.

No. Not 'never thought'. Never cared.

That makes him get up from his chair and head into the main room. His return is heralded by the sound of his fridge's icebox being rattled about, and when he's back he hands her a cup full of chips. She's not dehydrated, but the dry mouth one encounters upon waking from such circumstances is often uncomfortable.

He sets the cup in her hands, curls his own around hers just long enough to ensure she isn't going to drop it again, and then he retreats to the chair.

[controlledvariable]

That's a good assessment, because she's raising an eyebrow at him in a silent I'm aware before he even stops, but at least it keeps her wry smile in place.

It's only partially for show, but her expression drops once he's out of the room since it means she can stop putting on a brave face for a few moments. It hurts, even after everything Bruce has done to help, and she's dreading having to get through the infection; she's never been good with healing wounds, it takes so long and has her climbing the walls in frustration.

She doesn't want to think about Sionis, so she thinks about the time she broke her leg and how boring that was. At least she has friends here, and a boyfriend that won't be too busy being Robin to come visit her.

Her expression is back to neutral by the time Bruce returns, but she accepts the cup gratefully, and carefully takes out a chip to pop in her mouth. The cold goes a long way.

"Thanks, by the way," Because she realises she hasn't actually said that yet, "I hope I didn't keep you from anything important."

[cowled]

"Work can wait." Which is true enough, though he can't say for how long. They're only expected to be docked for another week and a half at the outside, but he's gathered plenty of information and data that he can spend the next month or so decoding.

Stephanie's out of danger at this point - he's confident in his work and in the drug cocktail in the drip - and although he could theoretically leave her, he... finds he doesn't want to.

Coming back from the Archivist to his friends and family around him is one of the single most poignant moments of Bruce's life. And... if he can give that to other people, even a little-- it's worth it.

It's time that Batman steps out of the darkness. Maybe in more ways than one.

[controlledvariable]

For a long moment, she just looks at him, almost like she's weighing him up, though there's a hint of a smile at the corner of her lips.

"Who are you and what have you done with Bruce Wayne?" It's a joke born from the fact she's never known Bruce to say work can wait, accompanied by a mock glare.

She's not thinking about what it means that he's willing to put a hold on - everything, to stay with her for a while. She just knows that she appreciates it, both for the company in general and that he's not mad at her for getting herself hurt. That he's not telling her this is just another piece of evidence that proves she shouldn't be a vigilante.

[cowled]

He could answer the statement with equal flippancy, but instead he chooses to just return that look levelly. Bruce knows that he hasn't always been there for the bevy of children under his wing. There have been times when he would much rather run away than see them hurt and healing. It's long been something he can barely stand.

Some instances have been worse than others. Seeing Dick after he nearly killed him while endowed with Clark's abilities-- seeing Stephanie after Black Mask. And hearing, just hearing about what Talia had done to Damian.

He's been a man that puts the mission before the people on the ground. He knows in some way he'll always be that man. But there is nothing urgent or pressing here, nothing dragging him back. So for the time being, he doesn't mind.

"You'd be better off asking about Batman," he says finally, at length. A joke.

[controlledvariable]

A few hours after she falls asleep, Steph wakes up from a vague nightmare about things chasing her through deserts. Once she gets her breathing under control, she forces herself to sit up; she's still tired, but that's going to be the normal state of affairs as long as the infection sticks around, and her body aches from having been still for so long.

She's restless, basically, and it's enough to drive her out of bed, having carefully removed the needle from her arm. The process of actually standing up takes a little longer and a fair bit of swearing, but she gets there eventually, and from there heads to the bathroom.

Her reflection in the mirror doesn't look promising, though she's sure she's looking much better than she was when Bruce found her. Splashing cool water on her face and neck helps, even if it makes her wince as it pulls on the injuries. This is going to be a frustrating, especially when she realizes that her hair is sticking uncomfortbaly to her skin, and she'd really like to tie it back. The main problem right now is that when she tries to reach up just to test if it's possible, her hands get about halfway before she's aware of how badly it's aggravating the wounds.

Right.

Steph makes her way into the living room, because Bruce said he'd be there.

"Can I ask a favour?"

[cowled]

He's sitting at the table when she enters, writing cypher in Kryptonian. Given the amount of people here that know he language, it's a shade safer than any Earth-based tongue he knows, and comes with the added benefit of being more or less indecipherable save by people he... trusts. After a fashion.

When Stephanie speaks, he pushes himself away from the table. He hasn't slept, and it no doubt shows. But he's still plenty alert and attentive, and he nods in answer to her question.

[controlledvariable]

"Is my pack nearby? I - um," Maybe she should just deal with her hair annoying her, because this suddenly feels like a really awkward thing to ask, except she's started now, so she should probably finish, "I need a hair tie. And a spare pair of hands."

Yeah, even framing that lightly sounds weird. If it was basically anyone else in the universe, she wouldn't mind, but it's Bruce and that automatically makes it awkward.

A little belatedly, she adds, "Please."

[cowled]

Bruce doesn't quite look at her like she's grown a third head, but it's close. For him. Without speaking, he rises from his chair and goes to her pack, retrieves the necessary items and returns. He gestures her into the chair he was occupying moments before.

If he can patch up her injuries, he can deal with her hair. As much as it's... a little awkward.

[controlledvariable]

"Sorry," She shifts a little awkwardly on her feet, before moving to sit down in the chair, "I don't need like, a French braid or anything. It's just kind of clingy." To her face and neck, and it isn't pleasant, but the problem can be solved with a ponytail.

Maybe she should cut it short again.

[cowled]

"Dick kept his hair long for years. I understand." Even if he could never understand why he wanted his hair that ridiculous length. Bruce preferred to keep things utilitarian, but... that's not for everyone. And he's coming to accept that.

He brushes out her hair deftly and with care, and even though she claimed she didn't want it in a braid it'll be a few days before she can shower and a ponytail will jar and become loose a lot sooner than a braid, so he does French braid it. He's good at it, despite a lack of practice with this exact medium. He's spent probably literal weeks of his life tying and undoing knots blindfolded, and he understands the basic principles of the braid.

He doesn't bother speaking while he does it, though, and when he finishes and ties it off, he steps away just as silently.

[controlledvariable]

As Bruce does her hair, Steph decides this day is officially going on her list of weirdest days ever. Possibly the weirdest, if she's being completely honest. But it's going to make the next couple of days a lot more comfortable, and it isn't - bad. He's gentle enough, and though she can't see his handiwork, it feels like he's doing it properly.

Still.

Really weird.

She lets out a breath when he steps away, then tilts her head back to look up at him, so he can see her smile. She feels a bit better already, "Thanks."

She wonders if he's ever done anything like this for Cass; she thinks she'd probably like it.

[cowled]

He lifts a hand to deflect the thank you and moves into the kitchen. "How are you feeling?"

[cowled]

True to his word, he's gone for several hours. There are cursory appearances he needs to put in, people he needs to talk to to help establish and keep his cover story (damnit, he does miss Alfred-- having him around to help cover his tracks would make this much easier) and he stops by Stephanie's apartment as well, since she can't go on living in his clothing forever.

He packs her an overnight bag and several other things she might need or use while she's recovering and heads back to his suite in the Metal sector.

He's nearly home when it catches his eye. One of the small, mobile sherbet kiosks. One of eight in this sector, on one of its routine paths. Bruce stops at a streetcorner and simply watches it for a moment, trying to decide.

And then, without truly making a conscious decision, he walks over to it and orders the first thing on the menu. Lemon sorbet, sprinkled with fresh raspberries.

He... did this once before, for Stephanie. When her leg was broken. Word got back to him how she'd been decrying the Jell-O and on a whim very much like this one, he'd brought her a waffle bowl of ice cream. First thing, again, off the menu.

He doubts she ever realized it was him. Possibly she accredited it to Tim, as he didn't exactly stick around to receive accolades for having done so.

She's asleep when he lets himself into the apartment. Good. He sets her bag and the sorbet on the nightstand and turns around to head back into the living room. He could use a few more hours himself and the couch is as good a place as any to sleep.

[controlledvariable]

Fortunately for the sorbet, and for Bruce's attempts at being a decent person, Steph is sleeping lightly enough that Bruce's brief presence in the room is enough to wake her. It's still a bit of a slow process, but about twenty minutes after he's left the room, she's awake and smiling at the little bowl of sorbet.

She'd gone to sleep once she'd finished her soup, because there'd been nothing else to do other than sit and think herself in circles about how to deal with everything that had come up in her conversations with Bruce. Well, there was also staring sadly at the shower and wishing she could manage one in her current state, but that had gotten boring really fast.

The sorbet is a welcome gift, both as a gesture and in the fact that the chill of it is a relief. After she's finished it, she contemplates going to see what Bruce is up to, but the lure of sleep wins out.

Another few hours later she's up again and feeling - tenatively better. Enough that she gets changed into some of the clean clothes Bruce brought for her, though she leaves on the shirt of his he must've put her in, because it's loose and comfortable. Then she heads into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of juice, as well as grabbing a couple of plain slices of bread just for the sake of eating something.

She doesn't know where Bruce is, but she doesn't feel the need to investigate too thoroughly. Instead, she scrounges up a blank sheet of paper and a pencil, to give her something to do as she sits down at the kitchen table, alternating between sketching random suit designs like her and Cass discussed, and drawing silly little doodles of her friends. It's easier than thinking about... everything else.

[cowled]

It's a sign of how tired-- how truly out of it he is that he doesn't wake until Stephanie is pouring the juice. From that point, the leap to consciousness is immediate, and Bruce is blinking at the ceiling as he catalogues the unfamiliar sounds of his apartment.

Well. Not so unfamiliar. Stephanie is light on her feet and quiet enough, but the way she prowls around his kitchen reminds him of hungry Robins the morning after a long stake-out. He listens to her move around-- the door on the breadbox lifts but she adds nothing to the (two?) slices she takes.

He waits a while longer, and then sits upright, scrubs a hand through his hair and pushes himself off the couch. He walks past the kitchen, where Stephanie is drawing in the margins, takes idle note of the suit she's designed, and then continues on to the bathroom. He could use a shower.

The hot water is-- good. It's good. It cuts and stings in his still-healing puncture wounds, and it's hell on the abrasions and cuts he has all over his body, not serious enough to require medical attention but an annoyance regardless. It helps with the aches and pains and general discomfort of the last few days, but it doesn't erase it, and he lingers only long enough to wash his hair and shave before he gets out, changes into a set of clothes from the bathroom's closet, and then heads back out to where Stephanie is sitting.

"If you're interested in creating a new suit, speak to Favrielle nó Eglantine. She's... aware of our line of work as well as my identity, and she might have some insights."

[controlledvariable]

By the time he's out of the shower, she's finished the juice and bread, and alongside the suit designs for herself, there's a slightly modified Blackbat suit. Steph knows Cass is still unsure about being Batgirl, so she thought she might show her a part of what her future holds. If Cass isn't ready to be Batgirl, maybe Steph can help her be something else.

There's also drawings, the main one of Batgirl and her vigilante friends in the city on top of a rooftop. She keeps coming back to it, adding something, or changing little details, like something about it is bothering her, but she can't quite put her finger on it. She's been thinking about - looking out for the younger vigilantes, the less experienced ones, but she's not sure how to go about it.

She looks up when Bruce speaks.

Wait what.

Steph goes over that statement in her head again, because she's pretty sure she heard it wrong, except upon review it still... seems like Bruce has told someone that he's Batman.

"Why?" It's the first thing she can think to ask. Why tell someone?

It doesn't occur to her that Favrielle might have just found out.

[cowled]

That's the other side effect of taking Stephanie into his confidence. She asks... significantly more questions than the others. Bruce's mouth twitches downward into a frown.

"Involuntarily."

[controlledvariable]

That makes even less sense, but she tries not to stare at Bruce like he's grown an extra head.

She also tries not to smile, which is a significantly less successful effort. It's not that she's glad he had his identity revealed - although it's clearly not the end of the world, if he's recommending that Steph talk to Favrielle, which is why she doesn't bother asking if they can trust her - but considering how hard he rides everyone else about their secret identities, it's a little satisfying to know he stuffs up too, sometimes.

Steph knows she's a jerk.

"I might talk to her, then," She might be a jerk, but she's not going to rub it in, "Batgirl's a little too... open, with such a small population."

By open she means that people see too much of her, of her face and her hair, of things that make her easy to identify. She misses how much her Spoiler suit covered.

[cowled]

What exactly have you heard about Bane, Stephanie. Bruce... watches her warily and doesn't comment on the obvious schadenfreude she's exhibiting. He has to actively wonder if he's ever going to hear the end of this or not.

Favrielle finding out was... an accident, but a necessary one. The storm hadn't put her in any true danger, not the way a mugging would have, but she was still unused to dealing with any sort of conflict. He'd do it again if needs be.

"Agreed."

His tone is sharp enough to imply that she should drop the whole 'Bruce screwed up' thing.

[controlledvariable]

Very, very little.

But the tone is enough to sober her up, her expression not quite apologetic, but slightly contrite, and she just files this away for later, in case he ever tries to get on her back about someone finding out about her identity.

Instead, she draws a Batsymbol on the paper in front of her, then looks over at Bruce, "Does it ever get any easier, lying to people?"

It never really mattered when she was lying to her friends at high school, since she wasn't that close to them, but it's so much harder with some of the people here.

Honestly, she thinks she already knows the answer, but she wanted to ask anyway.