Happy Mother's Day!
I never thought it would be me
Held so high, fell so far
Mother may I lay my head down
I'm a falling star
-Vanessa Carlton, "Superhero"
Now.
After he hung up with Dick, Tim rang the house bell, and shortly a dark-skinned man answered the door, sporting a somewhat surprised but pleasant enough smile.
"Hi, Sam. Sorry to bother you so late. …Is Barbara home?"
Sam nodded and called over his shoulder.
"Hon, it's for you."
A red-haired woman wearing a silken robe and nightgown emerged from the kitchen at the summon, looking equally bemused at first but switched to concern upon seeing the visitor.
"Hey, Tim. What's up? Is everything all right?"
Tim shuffled his feet in the entryway, eyes sliding towards the other present company, who took the hint without offense.
"Bat stuff, I'm assuming? No problem, I'll leave you two to talk."
He politely excused himself, and Barbara approached to look the lad over more closely.
"Come in, let's go to the living room. …What happened to your chin?"
"Huh? Oh, I got punched in the face." Tim rubbed at his bruised jaw absently. He'd taken worse hits before, but it still stung pretty hard. Girl had a mean jab for someone her size, he'll give her that.
Noting the alarm in her eyes, he hastily clarified: "It's not what you think. Steph's the one who hit me."
Unfortunately this didn't do much to assuage her anxiousness. Barbara shook her head, clearly even more confused by such an obscure declaration out of the blue.
"Why don't we put some ice on that first, and then you can tell me what happened."
A few minutes of fussing later, Tim had a comforting cool pack wrapped in wet towel pressed to his cheek to help keep the swelling and soreness down. This used to be a normal nightly routine for them, although it was usually Alfred who insisted on treating every one of his minor injuries (despite defiant and indignant protests of "I'm fine. Jeeze, will you quit worrying?").
Barbara sat across from him on the sofa as she poured some tea and handed him the heated mug, which he graciously accepted with his other open hand. She took a sip from her own cup before inquiring quietly:
"So. Care to tell me what this is all about?"
Tim paused, peering deep into the porcelain well at its embossed roots. Stirring, swirling leaves and herb stalks. Stalling. Watching the drifting debris slowly settle to the bottom, before setting the beverage down without drinking any.
"It's her. Stephanie. …She's the Spoiler."
"I see."
"…You don't sound too surprised."
Barbara placed her own warm water vessel down, delicately turning it a few degrees on the coaster.
"I had my suspicions. She wouldn't be the first to get into this business because of her father. …Albeit for entirely different reasons."
She glanced towards a dignified portrait hanging on the wall, portraying a kind, elderly countenance belonging to the previous Commissioner (who was currently enjoying his retirement to the fullest by taking up gardening). Commanding reverent space over the fireplace, more miscellaneous family photographs lining the mantle. Tim traced her sightline, moistening his tongue.
"Say, your dad wouldn't happen to keep any smokes around here, would he?"
"I thought you quit."
"So did I."
She shot him a firm denial. "Even if we had any – and believe me I know where he typically tries to hide them – I wouldn't give any to you."
"I know. Just figured I'd ask."
He was deflecting, purposefully delaying discussion, she could tell. That habit of beating around the bush was something all the private clubhouse boys shared in common. She wondered if it was Bruce's influence. Trying to get them to expose – if not verbally express – their real emotions was like extracting teeth, and as much as she cared and coaxed and coddled, mothering after them was an exhausting task sometimes. It often took persistent pestering – and a ton of patience – in order to get anywhere. Thus she adamantly attempted to steer the conversation back to its original source.
"Tim, we're getting off track." The best way to deal with reticent dodging and/or oral gymnastics, she found, was to just bluntly call the target on it. Discretion wasn't the better part of valor in this case.
Tim swallowed, keeping vision trained on his drained visage's reflection in the glass coffee table in front of them.
"A part of me probably knew all along, I just… didn't want to believe it." He sank his forehead into his free palm. "Of all people in the world… Why did it have to be her?"
"I did try to warn her. Multiple times. She won't listen to the police."
"She won't listen to me either. I told her, about me being…"
Barbara fixed him with a rapt, expectant gaze.
"And? How'd she take it?"
"Not well, obviously."
"…Did you tell her everything?"
"Hell no."
Sympathy converted to stern seriousness.
"Tim, you can't keep avoiding this forever. Sooner or later she's eventually gonna learn how dangerous the streets are – especially for a rookie without formal training – and you don't want it to be through the hard way. It's not healthy to keep things bottled up either. …Believe me, that fear eats away at you. I told Sam as soon as things started getting serious between us. Trust me, if you want this to still work out between you, to make it last, you have to be open with your partner. Honesty is key to being in a relationship."
Tim suppressed a mild scoff, casting an ironic look in her direction. "Dick said the same thing."
Her lips twitched, tautening a tad at the corners.
"Well. He's not wrong."
"Oh, he says 'hi' by the way."
Barbara sighed, rolling her eyes a bit. "Still treating you as the messenger, huh? Figures. Sorry for always making you mediate."
"It's all right, I get it. Are you two ever going to reconcile though?"
"That largely depends on him at this point. I made my peace a long time ago. Whether he wants to forgive me or not now is up to him." Her expression softened. "…How's he doing anyway?"
Tim shrugged. "Same as always. Doing what he does best."
"Being a selfish, egotistical jerk who can't commit to anything to save his life?"
"…Sure, let's go with that. I was gonna say 'running away from all his problems', but your way works too."
"What about you? How long do you plan to keep running?"
Tim clenched his fist.
"What else can I do? I mean, what the hell am I even supposed to say to her, Babs?"
"Try the truth, maybe."
"Oh yeah, like that'll go over well. So basically you want me to admit that I used to be even crazier than I am now – that I killed a man? That I almost killed Batman?"
"That you had a bad thing happen to you, and you don't want something similar befalling her. Joker may have made you go down a dark path once, but you're better now."
Tim's eyes skewed askance.
"I'm not so sure about that last part." He clutched the coldness tighter, cubic angles digging acutely into his flesh. "When we fought, I… I could feel myself slipping back. Couldn't control myself. Couldn't even tell the difference between her or some random criminal. It was like I completely lost hold on reality, on any sense of reason. Forgot my own strength even. I nearly seriously hurt her, Babs." He hung his head on confession, whispering fearfully. "Maybe… Maybe I really do belong in Arkham."
"Don't say that, Tim."
"Why not? It's what you all thought back then, wasn't it?" There was a crack as frigid crystals crunched under his grip, crushing in anger and resentment. "Back when you had to keep me locked in my room for hours with a freakin' straightjacket just so I wouldn't harm anyone."
"That wasn't you. You were still under effects of the Joker toxin. It's not your fault."
"How can you be absolutely certain?"
The awkward silence that followed confirmed his suspicion.
"…That's what I thought."
"Tim, you know I know how you feel. After the Scarecrow incident, every time I had a relapse it was like the world stopped making sense. Everything felt so surreal. Unreal. It's terrifying as hell, any little thing could set me off. I almost accidentally shot at my partner once."
"…Except I can't just clock out for a few days and feel totally fine afterwards, now can I?"
He stared sullenly at his still, lone likeness on the mirrored countertop again, spite spiking against his will.
"Tim…"
She started as he stood up suddenly and slammed his hand against the surface, causing containers' contents to spill onto the carpet.
"Quit trying to compare us, Barb. You have no idea what it's like, living in a constant state of fear – of everything and everyone – including yourself. You don't know half the crap I've been through just to convince myself that I wouldn't be better off dead, that I shouldn't just end it all by killing myself. You don't have to deal with him in your head 24/7. Don't have to struggle to keep your sanity – reality – in check on a daily basis. You got your friggin' perfect happy ending: a flashy, fancy badge and trophy husband. So stop complaining and-" he choked on bitterness, "pretending to act like you understand. Like you even care. As if you actually give a shit about what happens to me when all you were interested in was those two. That's what you really wanted, wasn't it? For me to be out of the way so you could get in both those guys' goddamn pants."
Barbara balled her knuckles, biting her quivering lip. She knew the abrupt blow-up was just him lashing out – venting pent-up negativity – but the cutting comments still stabbed at her heart and gut, pushing her close to the verge of crying. Over the edge of her own emotions.
"Tim, you know that's not true."
"Isn't it?" he spat acidly. "I was never really part of the 'family picture', it was all just one giant game to you. Admit it, I bet you're ashamed to even be associated with me now, Mrs. Big-Shot Commissioner Gordon."
His voice was rising in rage, almost shouting at lungs' upper limits.
"Please, try to calm down…"
"Don't tell me what to do. You're not my fucking mom."
"…You really think I didn't care? That I got off scott-free? Tim, I still have nightmares about Arkham. Not a day goes by where I don't feel guilty. Every day, I think about what I might've done differently. How I should've been there. Should've been more alert, more attentive to you. Kept you safe. Hell, if anything, I felt like I was always the odd one out. Like I constantly had to prove myself, show I was good enough to run with the big boys. You don't know how tough it was to get those two to trust me, to look at me, notice my own accomplishments. Treat me like an equal. How long it took me to earn their respect. And as soon as I felt like I was finally being accepted – acknowledged – appreciated – I dropped the ball. Couldn't protect even one person precious to me. Wounded the ones closest, made an enormously dumb mistake I can't take back, that resulted in an even huger mess."
She took a deep breath, tears welling behind the rupturing dam.
"I know you always idolized Bruce and Dick more than me, but that doesn't mean I didn't still want to be considered part of the gang too, you know? To make a good impression, be a cool big sis or whatever. To teach someone else, another newbie for once. It was my responsibility to set a better example, yet I screwed it all up. Sometimes I can't help but feel like – if I hadn't entered your lives, broken up all those chummy male 'bromance' bonds by coming between them, disrupted the duo's dynamics by trying to force my way into your secret little brigade circle – then maybe none of this would've happened. You'd still be a team without me. You can hate me all you want, I deserve it. For failing to watch over you, for destroying what was left – of everything we worked so hard for. For being a 'distraction' to the so-called 'mission'."
She buried her face in her hands, bursting into stifled sobs. Tim scaled back in stunned remorse, dialing down his temper as he declined onto resting again, opting for a spot on the couch next to her rather than the armchair opposite. Tentatively, he put an arm around her shoulder as he drew her into a shuddering, half-embrace. He let her lean her temple against his chest, weeping openly onto his shirt.
"Look, Babs, I didn't mean what I said, to make you feel this bad. I don't blame you for what happened. Forgive me, I was just taking frustration out on you. I don't hate you. …I really looked up to you too, you know. I still do. You were – are important to me. So please stop crying."
She sniffed and swiped a sleeve across her lashes, smearing mascara as she forged a fraction of a smile.
"That's sweet, but you should really reserve saying that kind of thing to your girlfriend, you know. People might get the wrong idea."
She was only teasing, but he turned a faint tinge of pink and looked away, coughing. She could hardly contain amusement at such a cute reaction. Kid was still so innocently transparent.
"I want to. Tell her how I feel – explain to her about everything. I thought about it so many times. I'm just… scared I'm gonna end up losing her either way, Barb."
He scrubbed a hand through his hair, which had grown out in recent years. Despite his apparent purity, she idly noted he really had matured into a fine, handsome young man – almost the spitting image of Dick when they were dating. It made her nostalgic, and for a brief moment – regretful for letting that one go, slip by without trying to chase after. Lost her own former love by letting him walk away.
Tim definitely wasn't Dick though (or Bruce for that matter), from the shy way he still endeavored to show compassion to everyone, demonstrating his good will and generosity through more gentle, modest means. (Sam was similar; hushed and humble, but a dedicated crusader for peace and justice in his own right.) It ached that he had so little self-confidence, that regardless of pardon, it was partly because of her he didn't believe in himself anymore, lost all hope and passion – love for his own life. Self-esteem shattered beyond repair, faith faltering when none of it was his fault.
While worlds different from Dick now in the diffidence department, he was devoted to the same core values – even after all that he'd been through, including a much harsher upbringing. (She could still recall the burning desire and excitement to join them that day he arrived in the cave, dreaming of being a hero despite – or perhaps because of – his sinful past.) The boy deserved so much better. …They both did. Stephanie would be the crazy one not to see what a catch she had, how kind and strong he really was underneath the façade.
"You never know, she might surprise you."
She patted his hand consolingly, and his hue deepened to a crimson shade as he became increasingly aware of how close their contact was. Shifting to the border of the cushion to put some distance between them, he fumbled as he reached for the forgotten frozen pad, now partially melted at this point.
Yep, definitely still a virgin.
She snorted a smothered giggle, and he puzzled at her unexpected laughter.
"What's so funny?
"Nothing," she chuckled. "It's just… We really did make a good team once, didn't we? I mean, we were a real team, right? Weren't we? The two of us weren't just tag-alongs or replacements."
It was Tim's turn to clumsily reassure.
"Yeah. Of course we were a team."
Drawing knees up to the divan, she hugged them to her breast as she let her bare legs dangle off the side. (Again, she observed a nervous blush as he narrowly averted his eyes in embarrassment.)
"…No matter what any of us did, it was never enough though, was it?"
"No. No it wasn't."
She exhaled, the release of pressure profound and prolonged. "For him, there only ever was the mission. In the end, that's all he really cared about. …I realize that now."
Tim regarded his toes. "Guess we all had to learn at some point. At least you were lucky enough not to end up with scars to show for it."
Unlike before, there was genuine sincerity behind the statement. He still caught himself and apologized anyway for any lingering sarcasm.
"That came out kinda wrong, I'm sorry. For yelling at you before, and-" he looked at the stain on the floor, "for ruining your rug. I'll clean it up."
"It's all right, don't bother. Leave it." She inhaled. "Just… Let it be. We were thinking of remodeling soon anyway. Add some skylights, maybe move a larger desk and some bookshelves into here, convert the room into a study. I do kinda miss my job at the library."
"If you need help with the furniture, I wouldn't mind lending a hand. Just give me a buzz, I'll be there."
Barbara beamed as she extended a limb to lightly ruffle Tim's hair, like she and Dick used to often do to his annoyance (but secretly she could tell he was pleased whenever he managed to impress them, receive congratulations for a job well done). …After Arkham, he wouldn't allow himself to be touched like that by anyone for a long time, but he stayed still as she stroked his bangs soothingly.
"Thanks. You're a real good kid, you know that?"
He flushed again, but didn't contest.
"It's no problem. What are friends for? Besides, I know Sam's not exactly the 'heavy-lifting' type."
"Hey now, that hurts my pride as a man. That is my lovely wife you're speaking to, you know. …Although I'm sure she could wipe the floor with me if she wanted to."
The two turned in startled unison to see Sam standing in the entryway. Tim immediately propelled back and cleared his throat, panicked for a number of reasons.
"Ah… My timing sucks, doesn't it? Did I happen to come in at a bad moment?" Fortunately, the tone of the older man's voice was more humoring than threatened. "Sorry to interrupt, but I think there's something the two of you should see."
He pointed towards the window, and Barbara stood up as Tim curiously followed. Pulling back the curtain, both paled upon seeing a familiar symbol lighting up the night sky.
"What the hell…?"
Sam hovered hesitantly behind them.
"I take it you didn't authorize this?"
Barbara shook her head.
"The signal's not been in use since Dad retired. This goes completely against protocol."
Tim meanwhile, was gaping with wide horror as recognition gradually dawned.
"…That stupid idiot!"
His hands shook in sinking comprehension, cold compress slipping from slackened grasp. The plastic bag's terrycloth cover unraveled as it hit the ground, scattering pieces of its makeshift contents everywhere.
"No, no, this can't be happening. I have to stop her before it's too late."
He took a trembling step back- then took off, dashing for the front door.
"Tim, wait! Sam, hurry and stop him!"
He was gone before either of them could fully react though, slamming the exit behind him. Barbara was about to pursue when she heard the phone ring – no doubt from someone on the force since her radio was back at the station (today was supposed to be her day off after all). She picked up the portable from the stand and pushed to talk.
"Gordon."
"Oi, Commish, what gives? I thought we were done with this Bat freak business."
There was only one officer who spoke that way, breaching the book's code of conduct to address a superior in such a derogatory manner.
"Tell everyone to keep away from the roof of the department, Detective Bullock. I repeat: Inform all units to stand down. Do not go on the roof."
"Look, I may have deferred to your dad out of respect, but I ain't takin' orders from some little girl when it comes to this Bat baloney nonsense. If that stinkin' sack o' guano so much as sets foot anywhere near the station…"
"Just trust me on this, Harvey. Don't try to interfere, and don't let anyone else get involved either. Please, this is important. I need you to do me this one favor."
"…All right. But I'm only doing this 'cuz of your old man. I give it 10 minutes before I bust up there and put out the damn light for good, Bat or no Bat."
"Thank you."
As she terminated the line, Sam supportively rested his hands on her own slumped shoulders. She rotated and gave him a swift peck, petting his cheek.
"I gotta go, babe."
"I understand."
She raced to her closet to get dressed as fast as she could. Hopefully she had bought enough time at least – for what precisely, she wasn't sure. But this – she thought as she grabbed her coat and a couple other items before rushing out – was something that needed to play out its course. …For better or for worse.
And if I ever could have faked it, oh it would show
And if I ever could have made it, would I be gold?
I never wanted to be what they even wanted me to be
Now this story ends untainted, without me...
In Batman Beyond #13, it's revealed Barbara experiences severe relapses every few years from the Scarecrow toxin she was hit with in "Over the Edge". To combat the terrors, she has to take a treatment that causes her to sleep for a few days, during which she at least wouldn't suffer through the nightmares. (Basically everyone in the DCAU ended up permanently damaged in some way - if not physically then psychologically.)
...On a completely unrelated note, this has nothing to do with Batman but on the subject of "mothers", I am still shooketh after that SU reveal. Send help.