[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]

There's a joke about Bruce Wayne and girls in his bed to be made somewhere here, but Steph decides to leave it alone, rolling her eyes at him instead.

"This might come as a shock, but I've heard they're the same person," More jokes, even if she thinks - knows - he forgets that little fact sometimes.

That said, for the first time in her life she can actually understand it a little. Steph's never really... had a divide between who she was as a vigilante and who she was a civilian, aside from occassionally playing up certain traits as one or the other (Robin was more cheerful than Spoiler). It's a little different here, not being able to talk about Gotham, having to pretend she doesn't know about superheroes, all the lies she's told about how she learnt to do the things she can.

She hates it, as much as she knows it's necessary, and she's not sure she'll ever really get used to it.

[cowled]

He makes an absent-minded noise of agreement. The observation is... incomplete. Bruce Wayne is always Batman. But sometimes Batman isn't Bruce Wayne. There've been times in his life when he's lost himself completely to the cowl, almost to the point of no return.

(He knows that point exists for him, and what could drive him there, and he hopes to god that day never comes)

"What happened?"

He can guess, reasonably. By the placement of the claws, bruises and abrasions in other places on her body, but Bruce likes his first-hand reports.

[controlledvariable]

At first all he gets in response is a harsh exhale of air; she'll answer him, the frustration is just directed at herself. She doesn't want to admit that she's worried he might admonish her for acting recklessly.

"One of those daemid things tried to lure me in by sounding like a crying kid. I couldn't ignore, just in case, but I still tried to be smart about it," She casts a glance at him, her expression wry, because obviously it didn't work, "One of them managed to get me into an alley, 'cause I had nowhere else to go at that point, and I knew the other one was waiting but I figured the narrow space might give me more of an advantage than it gave them."

She realizes she's trying to justify herself and scrunches up her nose a little bit before continuing, "I managed to slide past the waiting one, but it took a chunk out of the wall so it could turn around quicker, then took a chunk out of me. They kept chasing me until I brought a building down on top of them. And then I patched myself up as best I could and came back here, didn't really trust the kedan to know what to do with a human."

But she trusted Bruce. Steph sighs, signalling that she's done with the story unless he has question, and takes a sip from the cup, since some of the ice has melted a little.

[cowled]

Bruce is silent for a long moment, and perfectly still. She's expecting censure. But more than that-- in that moment, Bruce realizes that something has changed about their relationship. In a way they've taken a step back.

When Stephanie slapped him in the parking garage, it was... her way of telling him that she was fed up with the way he operated, that she wasn't doing this for his approval any longer, that she didn't need it or his help to stand on her own two feet. And it was true. She'd... remade herself. Yes, Barbara had helped, and Cassandra as well but that just made it easier for her.

Stephanie, he thinks as he studies her intently, would have found another way regardless. That's what she does. That's one of the things that's always made him so afraid for her. It's one of the things that makes her a Robin.

But the way she's acting now... it's as if his opinion matters to her again. Did it never cease doing so, or have the circumstances of the last few months brought it back? It's a strange thought and Bruce briefly has no idea what to do about it. How to react. How to act, period.

He's a leader. As long as he's been Batman, people have wanted to follow him. Because he can make the difficult choices when he has to. Because - to them - he never hesitates, never second-guesses himself, never wears his indecision on his sleeve. He simply decides, and acts.

A gift, Rogers called it.

It's both less than that and infinitely more.

"You did the right thing. Even if it's a trap, we can never take the chance that we might be leaving someone to die. That's why it's so effective, Stephanie. I'm proud of you."

[controlledvariable]

He's proud of her.

God, what-- what the fuck is she even supposed to do with that? It sends her as off kilter as the hug did, because it's Bruce and he so rarely says things like that, least of all to her.

Part of her hates how it makes her feel. She doesn't need him to be proud of her; she needs Barbara to be proud of her, her mom, Cass, but she's long stopped needing Bruce's approval. But there's a difference between needing and wanting, and ever since coming here, ever since she yelled at him about Sionis, ever since he included her as part of the family, she's found herself wanting it.

Not because she thinks Bruce is boss of the vigilantes, but because she actually - cares about his opinion. It's starting to feel like he can treat her as an equal instead of a fuck up, and she realizes that she doesn't want to lose that.

That still doesn't resolve her issue of having no idea how to respond to him saying he's proud of her. Maybe she can just pretend to pass out again, but that's probably childish.

"I don't need you to be, you know," Honesty feels like the best option, even if that might be the pain and infection taling, "But thanks."

[cowled]

The words sting. They probably should. Like antiseptic in a healing wound. And maybe this is a healing wound, for both of them. Something red and ripped open. Clawmarks. Bulletholes.

Bruce's shoulder aches where he reduced the dislocation, the healing clawmarks he has - almost in the same spot as Stephanie - feel like they're crawling across his back with a sharp itch.

He takes a breath, looks away from her. Lets it out. "I know." Two words, but with the weight of worlds on them alone.

[controlledvariable]

It's her turn to watch him, and she does feel a little bad when she sees his reaction, at how he responds.

They hadn't been meant to hurt, but she'd known that they would and had said them anyway, if only because she needed to say them for herself. It makes her feel a little selfish, a little guilty, and that latter one is something that's become far too familiar in the last month.

She wonders if she should apologize, but thinks that might detract from it somehow, and she's not willing to do that.

"Bruce..." She stops, closes her eyes for a moment, because she doesn't actually know where she's going with this. She wishes their relationship were simpler, but then - it wouldn't be them, "Do you even like me?"

That--

She regrets saying that as soon as it's out of her mouth, partly because she's worried the answer might be no. She's just going to stare at the cup in her hands, maybe they can pretend it never happened.

[cowled]

One thing Stephanie has always been good at is catching him off guard. She's one of the only people in the world who's ever successfully sneaked up on him. And if he'd expected her to slap him, he damn well would have blocked it.

That question is so far out of left field that all he can do is stare at her. His expression is... quietly horrified and although his usual measures to hide his emotions are well in place, this particular reaction slips through the cracks regardless.

Does he like her?

It's true, Bruce never wanted her to be a vigilante. It's true that she was too much... reminded him too much of Jason, in all the wrong ways. The ones that lead to him getting killed. But they were the right ways, too. Jason was strong and compassionate and reckless and brave and Stephanie had all that in spades and all Bruce ever saw when he looked at her was another gravemarker.

And then it had happened, only this time it was because he'd pushed someone away rather than brought them in too close, the way it had been with Jason, and she'd died and even knowing now that it wasn't real has never erased what he felt in that instant.

The reason Bruce was so cold to her when she came back, the reason he shoved her aside and away is because no matter that she'd never died, it was still real for him, it still hurt just the same.

Anger has always been the easiest emotion for him to bear and it takes every ounce of self-restraint he has not to fall back on it now. But he says nothing. He merely looks at her, hard.

[controlledvariable]

"Sorry. I'm sorry," It's all she can really say, and while she doesn't quite wince, she does sink into the bed slightly, defeated, and a little like she's wishing it would just swallow her up so she doesn't have to see him look like that.

The problem is that she meant it, even thought she realizes it was a stupid question to ask. She's never been sure how he feels about her, beyond an annoyance, and it's become even more complicated in Keeliai. It feels like he's - trying, but that doesn't necessarily mean he likes her, he could just feel obligated, like he owes her for... for Sionis, for firing her, for everything.

Steph isn't always the best at understanding, well, herself, but she's aware enough to realize that some of her difficulty with Bruce comes from the fact she doesn't have a frame of reference for this type of relationship. She knows how to have friends, she knows how to have boyfriends, she's... learning how to have a mother and even that's complicated.

There's never been any family in her life, aside from her mom, that wasn't a criminal, that didn't hurt her or try to, and she's not sure what's involved in having a family that isn't like that.

She thinks of Damian, how she's starting to see him as a little brother, even if she'd never admit it out loud. Somehow that makes it easier to focus her thoughts right now.

This isn't - impossible. It's just new, and different, but so is most of her life, and that's never stopped her before.

When she finally looks at him, she manages a smile, small and sad and apologetic, but... genuine nonetheless.

[cowled]

"Stephanie." His tone is... hard. Edged in iron and frigid ice. Because he is going to explain this to her and that's probably going to make it about the hardest conversation he's ever had to have with her, ever.

And that includes-- no.

He shuts that thought out.

"Do you know how recently I'd lost Jason when I met you for the first time?"

[controlledvariable]

Oh god.

There a million conversations she'd rather have than one about Jason, even though their last one didn't go... horribly. But that doesn't mean it's ever going to be easy, and his tone only confirms that. She almost asks if they can do this another time, when she's not injured and exhausted and still - thinking about her talk with Steve.

But she started this with her stupid question, she should accept the consequences.

"I don't--" She stops, swallows thickly, starts again, "I could work it out, but it might be easier if you just tell me."

[cowled]

And part of him knows it's cruel forcing this conversation on her when she's in this state, but that isn't going to stop him. Not at this particular moment, anyway. Though he does try to curb the anger to his tone. Recalculation and recalibration for the fact that he knows what the alpha male act does to her. His tone is measured and quiet when he speaks again, and he keeps his physical distance as much as possible without actively getting up to move away.

"Six months. And when I looked at you, Stephanie, all I saw was a young, brash, hot-headed child who was putting herself in danger. Who wanted to help so much that it was going to kill her. And then it did. It's never been about liking you, goddamnit. All I ever wanted was for you to be safe. I thought-- I thought that if I told you often enough to go home you'd listen. That if I did the opposite of what I'd done with Jason--"

He could have saved her. One life. Each one as precious as the next, the last.

[controlledvariable]

It's not all that much of a surprise, what he says, since he's not the only one who's made the comparison to Jason. But it does surprise her that he - treated her the way he did because he was trying to do the opposite of what he did with Jason. She feels guilty that he was right.

But she's also furious at him, and that's also a surprise.

She stares at him for a moment, jaw clenched, as she tries to work out what to say.

"I'm sorry, Bruce, I really am, but you don't get to bring this up years too late like it's what? An explanation? An excuse?" She curls her fingers tight around the cup and tries not to throw at him, "Where was this explanation when I needed it? Where was this when I asked if you wanted me to stop because of my father and you wouldnt answer. You must have known that all I heard when you told me to go home was that I wasn't good enough, that I was too reckless, too dangerous because my father was a criminal. All I heard was you telling me to go back to a situation where I was - nothing."

The word tastes bitter in her mouth, but she remembers how she felt back then, how being Spoiler was the first time she felt like she mattered, like she had control.

"Maybe if you'd been honest with me, maybe if I had this back then, I would've actually listened."

It's probably cruel to say, but that seems to be her theme for the day.

[cowled]

"I know. Damnit, I know."

He pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a breath. He can't... be here anymore, in this room. It's cloying. It feels too much like too many of the hospital beds he's sat beside, it smells too much like antiseptic and injury. His spine aches. So do his hands.

Almost, his body tenses for the upsurge of motion that would carry him to the door. But he quells it. He can't leave. It's too much like running away, like... giving up.

And god knows he's done giving up on Stephanie. If she wants to yell at him, let her.

[controlledvariable]

"Then what the hell do you want from me, Bruce?" She realizes, as the words come out of her mouth, that she doesn't just mean in response to this.

This is what she should've asked, instead of do you even like me? This is what she really wants to know, because while they've improved their relationship, she still isn't sure where she stands with him.

[cowled]

"I want you to outlive me." His voice doesn't break. It's a calm, utilitarian neutral. The same one he uses whenever he's too close to a situation and can't let himself succumb to whatever intangible emotion has him riled up and close to the edge.

He wants from Steph the same thing he wants for all his-- all his children.

He wants them to be safe, and happy and alive. And yes, they're trained to fight crime and they do that better than... what he allows them to think of themselves, because the moment you become complacent in your own abilities is the moment you die doing this job. But if all of them quit tomorrow he wouldn't blame them. And he'd sleep easier.