A/N: Even after I finished These Twists and Turns of Fate, I kept thinking about the story. Where would it go? What happens next? And so this was born. I hope you guys enjoy it!
Stephanie Brown slips out of bed, leaving Cass curled up in the tangled sheets, curled in a ball. Her hair is adorably mussed, falling into her face, and she sleeps peacefully, undisturbed by dreams.
Steph presses the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to get rid of the images burnt into them. There will be no more sleep tonight, she thinks, staring at the scars on her arms.
She fingers the fabric of her Spoiler costume, where she'd thrown it before collapsing into bed with Cass, both of them bruised, sweaty messes. Her first night as Spoiler since Blackest Night—her first real time as Spoiler since her "death". It shouldn't really be a surprise that the nightmares have come back, harsh and vivid and bloody.
She slips silently through the carpeted hallway of the Manor, feeling self-conscious in her shorts and tank top. The outfit shows off her scars, in a way her normal outfits hide. But patrol has been over for hours now, and the Manor is silent and still.
She pushes open the door to the kitchen, and frees, half guiltily, half fearfully, as she sees Bruce sitting at the table. He looks at her, and she sees a quick flash of something before his eyes shutter, locking away whatever reaction he'd had to seeing her.
Steph swallows, and moves into the kitchen, making sure to keep her breathing steady and to hide the fact that her hands are shaking like jelly. She shouldn't care what Bruce thinks of her, but his approval—or lack thereof—is still important to her.
It's been a week since Steph made up her mind not to run from Bruce any longer. But not running is not the same as approaching, and so this is the first time she's been alone with Bruce since… well, since she was Robin.
A familiar ache flickers in her stomach for those days, despite all the anguish that had made them so bitter at the time. Being Robin, even as Art, had meant the world. Gotham was for Bats and Birds, not for Spoilers. But Steph pushed down the feeling, and instead began to busy herself with the kettle.
"Alfred keeps the good tea behind the flour," Bruce's voice breaks through her reverie. Steph freezes, hand inches away from box of Earl Grey. "It's what he normally serves."
Steph closes her eyes. "Thanks," she says, heading over a few cupboards, to wear Alfred keeps the dry goods. Sure enough, Steph finds several boxes of expensive teas. She selects a simple green teabag, and then closes the doors.
She turns back to the kettle, and then she freezes again—her old mug is there, in Bruce's hands. The mug that Alfred had always served her tea in when she was Robin, when she was first Spoiler, even. It's a simple, harmless mug, a sturdy brown ceramic piece with a dribbled glaze of purple around the rim and the handle. But she hasn't seen it since the Black Mask—she'd assumed it was gone, if she's even thought about it, in the trash or something. But it's there, in Bruce's hands, and he's offering it to her, his face carefully blank.
"It's the same one," he says, when she doesn't make a move, too busy staring at him, clutching the tea bag tightly. "After… afterwards, I packed up your things. I put them with Jason's. I… I couldn't stand to see them. To be reminded."
Something curls in Steph's stomach, but she isn't sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing. "Thanks," she whispers, reaching out and taking it, after a long, painful moment. Bruce looks at her hands as she stretches out her hand, and she wonders if he sees the crooked angle of the fingers on her right hand, where the Black Mask smashed them with a brick, demanding to know the location of the Batcave. In the end, she'd given him one of the spares she'd known about, but she'd been loath to reveal even that, betraying the sliver of trust that Bruce had extended to her.
The mug passes into her hand, and she tries not to break down in tears. She hadn't realized it would be important—that Bruce hadn't thrown out everything she'd touched, that he'd kept it, that it had meant something to him as well as her.
The kettle whistles softly, and Steph pours herself water.
Once the tea is seeped and the bag removed, she turns to face Bruce, feeling stronger with tea in her hands.
She recalls, suddenly, a dream, a snatch of a memory
"I just wanted to help," she whispers, looking at him. "I didn't mean…"
"I know," he says, and he sits, taking her hand—why is she lying down? What a strange dream. She feels as if she is floating, and there is no sensation in the hand that Bruce holds. "I'm sorry, I should have… been more careful."
"Was it… was it just a joke?" She asks, her voice small. "Making me Robin?"
"No." Bruce says, ferociously, and Steph smiles in the dream. "You were my Robin. I failed you. I'm sorry."
"I was Robin," Steph feels herself smiling, but the dream is fading already, darkness setting in around the edges. This was a good dream… "Good," she says, before slipping into the inky black.
She sits down across from Bruce, and studies her tea. "When… when I was in the hospital," she began, her voice slow and thoughtful. "I… I hallucinated a lot. Did Leslie tell you that? I saw… I saw things. Wish fulfillment mainly—I saw myself as a girl, and I felt safe, and happy." She bit her lip. "But… I remember… there was one part of the dream that was different. It had you in it."
Bruce looks tense. "What… what happened?"
"You said I wasn't a joke," she whispers, and, to her horror, a tear falls onto her hand, wrapped so tightly around her mug that she thinks it might shatter. "You said I was Robin. I thought it was just a dream…"
"No," Bruce says, and she looks up, gaze watery. "No… I… you were my Robin. I… I should have known better, Stephanie."
Steph feels her tears flow freely, and she bends her head again, ducking away from Bruce's stare. "It wasn't a dream," she says, disbelieving. Something warm fills her stomach, and it's not the tea.
"I failed you, Stephanie," Bruce says, and she hears the guilt in his voice, the unsteadiness in his tone. "You deserved so much better. I… I can never make up for what happened; for what I did, and what I didn't do. But I am sorry for how I treated you."
Steph can't speak, her throat is tight with tears. But she smiles thinly at Bruce, and nods, just once.
It's enough.