"Is your mask in place?"
"Yes O, for the, like, bazillionth time. My mask is in place. I'm safe, I promise," Steph reassures Babs over the comms as she perches on the edge of a building. She keeps her tone light, not letting it reflect the cold dredges of anxiety that bloom in her chest as she looks down towards the street. The fear toxin rolls through the streets like a sickly green fog. She's just glad she doesn't see any civilians down there.
No. Instead there's just a bunch of idiots willing to take advantage of the chaos.
"Batgirl…" Oracle says warningly, "This is serious."
She rolls her eyes, "I promise I'm safe. My mask is attached properly. I won't engage unless I have to."
And yeah, of course she had to go and put that into the world. A scream echoes out through the street, and she springs into action as Barbara says something into her ear that she doesn't quite catch.
The woman's got a gas mask on, and she's wearing a diner uniform. Her boss probably sent her home when the toxin rolled in, instead of letting her shelter in place.
She makes a mental note to find out what diner it is and give them a piece of her mind.
"Hey, you! I don't think that purse goes with your outfit," she grins as she drops down behind them. At least the guy has the good judgement to jump and swing towards her with wide eyes. She's been itching for a fight after days of paperwork duty now, and it feels good when she grabs the mugger by the wrist and flips him over her shoulder. The blooming adrenaline in her chest is short lived, though, when he sweeps her legs out from underneath her.
She curses as she lands on her back, inhaling sharply and freezing when she feels toxin fill her lungs. She fumbles to pull her mask back into place, but the damage has already been done.
Oh no.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
This is bad. So very bad.
Babs is going to kill her.
She stumbles back to her feet before the other guy makes it back to his feet, and she knocks him out with a bo staff blow to the head. Quick, clean, efficient. No time for playing now. She zip-ties his wrists together, and checks that the woman is uninjured before she grapples to a nearby rooftop.
It's about then that the drill roars to life in her ears.
She whimpers softly. No safe house, then. No time. She's going to have to ride it out here and now. She slides down into an uncomfortable crouching position against the rooftop door, covering her ears with her hands. It does nothing to prevent the loud, dull buzz of the drill. There's a voice underneath it, frantic, but Steph can't make out what it's saying. She doesn't even know if it's real, or if it's another effect of the toxin.
Eventually, the drill gives way to…beeping?
Oh.
The heart monitor. She remembers that sound. It's rhythmic, almost relaxing, and she relaxes a little as Bruce starts to speak to her. She imagines that he's hunched over her, even though she can't see him. Stroking her hair back, even though she can't feel him.
"Stupid girl," he growls.
That's not how she remembers this conversation going.
"Why would I want you as my Robin? You've never been anything but a disappointment and a hindrance to the team. You were never cut out for this job. I just never realised how badly you'd manage to screw everything up. You were never a real Robin; you will never be a real Robin. No one will remember you as anything other than an idiot girl who thought she could be a hero."
The beeping stops. Replaced with the high-pitched drone of the machine flatlining.
Bile rises in her throat, and she swallows it down quickly. She hates being sick, and now is not the time for that. Because being sick reminds her of one of the lowest points in her life, crouching over a toilet in a gas station in the bad part of town. Doing maths to try and work out when her last period was. When she last had sex. And the last thing she needs right now is to think about that. It's basically tempting fate. She needs to redirect her thoughts. To something safer. Something the toxin can't touch.
Her childhood is probably a bad choice.
The next time she takes a deep breath in, it's a breath infused with Jim Murray's cologne, and she chokes on the scent. He's not really here, she reminds herself, even as the overwhelming smell brings back rushing memories of screaming and kicking. You're safe. You escaped. She's not sure if she's speaking out loud or if it's in her head, at this point. It's all so overwhelming. She can't think straight. There are tears streaming down her cheeks – she pulled her cowl down at some point, she realises. Arthur killed him. He can't hurt you anymore.
All of a sudden, the cologne is gone. It's replaced by a bitter smell. Stale. Sour.
Beer.
Fuck.
It's the cheap shit Arthur favoured. She remembers knocking his can over once; she was…four? Maybe five? However old she was, she was young and clumsy and too stupid to stay out of her father's way. She'd grabbed the first thing she'd seen to try and clean it up. When he came back into the room, he'd screamed at her for wasting his perfectly good beer and for ruining his favourite shirt.
She recoils when she remembers the slap he landed across her cheek, hand lifting to her face as she feels it start to sting.
He'd been so mad. And she'd felt so small. She feels small like that again, now, shivering and burying her face between her knees. Arthur keeps lecturing her. He grabs her hair and yanks her head back, but she still refuses to look at her father. He's not there, Steph. If you ignore him, he can't hurt you. He releases his grip eventually and she slumps back down, hiccupping through her sobs. Then there's another hand on her body, but it's not her father. The hand slides over her hip, settling on her waist. Everything goes silent for a beat. Two beats. Thre-
"Come on, pretty bird. It's so much more fun if you scream. Sing for me."
She flinches and swings her fist out at the empty air to her left. She knows Roman isn't there, logically. But that doesn't change what she hears. And it certainly doesn't change the feeling of his breath against her ear. With his presence, the sound of the drill returns. This time, though, her drill scars burn to life as well. She gasps and groans as she tips forward, clutching at her stomach. Warmth blooms beneath her fingers, and it takes her a moment to realise it's blood.
When she opens her eyes, her gloves are clean.
Her green gloves.
Why is she wearing the Robin costume?
And why is she in a closet?
No no no no.
"Dad! Daddy! Let me out!" she cries as she bangs her fists against the closet door, "I'm sorry. I-I'll stop working with Batman! I shouldn't have betrayed you, please let me out."
A fist bangs roughly against the other side of the door, and she scrambles back, but it doesn't open. She huddles into the corner of the closet, looking around. It's dark, so dark. And her dad's so mad at her. She doesn't even remember why she's in here. Is it because of Batman? Or is it something else? Did she stumble into one of his 'business' meetings again? When she lifts her head, she realises with a sob that the walls of the closet are closing in around her, compressing her into a smaller and smaller ball. She shuts her eyes tight, as if that will stop them.
When she opens them again, slowly and timidly, there's nothing around her but darkness.
Darkness and a bassinet.
She doesn't want to walk towards it. She wants to turn away and walk into the abyss, but without even meaning to she finds herself leaning over the bassinet, looking down at the baby. She looks like Dean. Of course she does, Steph's weak in every other respect, why wouldn't her genetics be too?
The baby starts screaming the moment she meets her eye, and Steph stumbles away. She drops back down to the ground, shutting her eyes tight and covering her ears. She can still hear the baby clear as day.
When they get to her, she's still in that position. Hunched in on herself on a rooftop.
Her ears are ringing the first time she comes to.
"Y'know, Brown. I can't imagine how you'd deal if you woke up an' found me. I mean. I can't remember the last time you and I actually had a full conversation."
Jason? That has to be who's talking. She wants to say something. Tell him she's awake. She can't. She can't move. All she can do is listen to that damn ringing. Jason's gruff voice provides a nice distraction from that, at least. She tries to turn her head towards him. The pain that flares up in her neck convinces her otherwise. Okay, just lie here and listen to Jason.
"You're gonna have one hell of a hangover when you wake up. Fear toxin hangovers, never fun. If it makes you feel any better, the cops brought the asshole in. Little shit admitted to the purse snatching, and a bunch of other stuff we didn't even have him on. Good job."
She smiles. Internally, at least. She doesn't think the smile quite reaches her lips. If it does, Jason certainly doesn't notice.
"Well. Anyway. Dickie told me to…keep you company. He thought maybe you'd like me to read to you? Stupid fuckin' idea, in my opinion. But anything to pass the time, I guess." A page rustles, the chair creaks as Jason shifts, he clears his throat, and then he's reading.
"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife..."
Fucking Pride & Prejudice. She thinks she'd rather silence.
Still. His voice replaces the ringing as she drifts back into unconsciousness.
She feels like she's been munching of cotton balls. It's not a pleasant sensation.
Someone's sitting with her again, but they're not speaking. It might be Cass, she thinks to herself. But if it's Cass, that means Steph's been out long enough for her to get back from Hong Kong. She really doesn't want to think about that.
She opens her mouth slowly, working her jaw, "Cassie?" she slurs, still unable to open her eyes. She feels a shift in the seat beside her, and then there's a pressure over her hand, but she can't really feel it. Can't discern shape or texture or warmth.
"I'm here, Stephanie," Bruce says lowly, "Cassandra is on her way home. She'll be here soon," he promises. She groans softly. She didn't want them to bother her. Cass has enough on her plate without having to sit vigil at her bedside because she's an idiot who let herself lose her mask. She tries to gurgle out her protest, but her words fail her. Stupid words.
"Don't try to talk. It's okay. I don't know what you experienced, but it wasn't real."
That really doesn't make her feel much better, to be honest. She knows it wasn't real. But the fear and anxiety were. That's the problem with fear toxin. You can tell yourself all you want that it's not real, but your body reacts as if it is. She opens her mouth again to tell him, but the cotton wool feeling it back.
Bruce doesn't talk again, just sits with her. That's fine. She's tired anyway.
Alfred's chicken soup fills her nose when she wakes up next. God, it's a good smell. She thinks that if she'd grown up in the Manor being sick would have sucked a whole lot less.
There are other things that would have made growing up in the Manor preferable to growing up with Arthur.
"Hey Stephie," Dick greets as he sits down, the bowl clanging against the bedside table as he does. She grimaces at the loud sound next to her head, whining and turning her head away from him, "B told me you said a couple words before. I thought maybe Alf's famous soup could help your throat a bit. Can you sit up?"
She shakes her head, and he sighs as he leans over her. He pulls her up into a sitting position – his touch is dull and fuzzy, like Bruce's. It's like her skin is completely numb. She really hates this. She hopes it's not a permanent side effect of the toxin.
She makes a small sound as the soup hits her tongue. It's warm. Pleasant. The smell surrounds her as she sips slowly, lashes fluttering without the strength to actually open them. It does make her throat feel a bit better, loathe as she is to admit it. She knows Dick's probably smiling down at her. Can hear it in his voice when he speaks again, "Fear Toxin takes a lot out of a person. I get it if you're a bit grumpy," he chuckles.
She kinda begrudges the descriptor of grumpy, but her mouth's too full of delicious, fragrant soup to protest.
Once she's done with the soup, the bowl disappears. Dick's footsteps travel away from her first, and then after a minute they're back, "I…I don't know what you saw, Steph. But if I was…involved in any of it? I want to say I'm so sorry. For how I treated you while I was Batman. I shouldn't have acted as if you weren't good enough. You're an amazing Batgirl, Stephie. I shouldn't have let you think otherwise."
She smiles softly as she drifts back off.
She's a good Batgirl.
The numbness is gone.
She knows this, because there's a 15-year-old boy lying on top of her. And she can really feel it.
Damian is pressed in against her side, and a form that feels like Titus is curled up on her legs. She wants to tell them that they're too heavy, because she can feel pins and needles starting to seep into her limbs, but she doesn't know the last time Damian hugged her. Doesn't know the last time he willingly hugged anyone. So she stays quiet. She doesn't dare to move.
"Tt. I know you're awake, Brown."
Her lip quirks up a little, and she wraps her heavy arms around him, "Hey kiddo," she mumbles softly, ruffling his hair. He squirms but hugs her back, and god damn if that doesn't just make her heart melt. Dick's done good work with this kid, cause she knows for a fact that if she'd tried this four years ago she would have been stabbed by now.
"You were stupid to let yourself get hit," he murmurs into her shoulder. It's his way of showing he cares, really, so she just smiles and kisses the side of his head.
"I know, I know. I won't let it happen again, Boy Wonder," she hummed, feeling the exhaustion start to creep back in.
"I'm glad you're okay," he murmurs, just before she falls asleep. She smiles softly at that.
Finally. Finally. This time when she wakes up, she opens her eyes blearily.
"Hey."
She turns her head to the side and smiles weakly at Tim, "Was wondering when you'd come around to visit. Was starting to think you'd forgotten about li'l old me."
He laughs. He has such a nice laugh. She misses when hearing that laugh used to be something she got to hear every day. These days she's lucky to even see Timmy more than twice a month for the biweekly Bat-meetings.
"I've been analysing the sample from your blood. Sorry. This toxin you got dosed with…it was a new strand. Strong. Really strong. I had to formulate an antidote for you. And then I passed out for, like, 12 hours," he leans over to take her hand as he talks, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles gently, "I'm really glad you're okay, Steph."
She hums, looking up into his eyes. They're so blue. When was the last time she saw him without a mask on?
"I'm…pretty happy about it myself, yeah," she jokes lightly, reaching up and brushing her curls out of her face, "I fucking hate fear toxin, man."
She made him laugh again! It lights up something bright and warm in her chest, and he shakes his head as he leans over to kiss her forehead gently, "You and me both. You should get some rest."
She shakes her head and slowly sits up, bed sheets pulling around her waist (and oh. That's interesting. She's in a bedroom. She'd assumed they were keeping her down in the medbay), "Tim. I feel like I've been sleeping for a week.
He pulls a face at that comment, and her eyebrows shoot up.
"Tim. Tim. How long have I been asleep?!"