#because with Steph alive and very bitter. That it going to come across much differently

[teleportationmagic]

Reverse Batgirls AU.

Stephanie Brown starts out young and angry, wanting to put her father in prison. That doesn't change - but what does, is the name she picks up to do it. After all, Batman is... untouchable, he's justice he's power - what more can she want as a vigilante?

A whole lot, as it turns out. But still, she wears the name with pride, patrolling with Robin (Damian!) and Cassandra, making friends with the latter. Signal's farther afield, away in Bludhaven - still, he drops by now and again to play games of rooftop tag.

Cassandra has been doing work as a vigilante in all but name for a few years now. She ping pongs around - saving enough lives to have earned herself a reputation. A reputation strong enough to have made its way into circles that knew her father. These are the people who pick her name for her, seeing her father's legacy - Orphan is not a name she chooses. But after she settles in Gotham, after Bruce comes to her one day, telling her the meaning - she cannot bring herself to call it false.

Damian still ends up leaving for bigger things. A position is open, and Bruce doesn't think it needs filling - but Stephanie has lost one teacher, and for all that Cassandra is good at violence she is not very good at teaching it. He takes her under his wing, and eventually passes down a mantle.

Steph has her own mantle to pass down. "I don't know that I can tell you who you are - who your family is. But still - I don't think me or Bruce or Damian or anyone considers you an Orphan, not anymore. Batgirl isn't - she's not as good as Orphan is. But I wanted to give her to you anyways."

Cassandra takes the purple suit with a gentle sort of consideration. It's not the suit she wears, three weeks later - but the Bat is there, golden against the dark black. Bruce smiles when she steps out of the Batcave, shrouded in darkness except for the sign of her ideals, their ideals. Robin and Batgirl and Batman fly again, capes trailing through the darkness.

Steph gets to be Robin for a while - gets to carve out her own reputation. Her and Damian fight, and the reconcile, and fight again. It takes her a little bit longer to figure out why he's so angry, takes him a little longer to realize why she wants it so bad.

It helps, that Stephanie is two years older than Cassandra, but still its difficult for them to fight together. She still perceives her own presence as superfluous, and Cassandra still thinks it is her job to take bullets so no one else has to. They have a chat, under a dark alcove when Stephanie is bandaging her wounds, about pain, and the taking thereof. About balance. About how Robin was a superhero too.

Cassandra leaves Gotham, on occasion - she partners with Signal, Katana, and Black Lightning. She meets her mother there, for the first time. She won't know it, not until later, but they clash, fists against metal. This is the first time she dies, and she comes back to life with the worried eyes of her teammates.

She still gets shot. There's no gang war, but there is Roman Sionis with greedy hands and eyes, and five days followed by two clicks, two bangs. The hospital tells her she's lucky to still be standing. The word luck curls on her tongue, like something bitter.

Cassandra still tears through the city looking for her. But when she finds her, when she recovers, something settles into Stephane's skin - something bitter and angry. Cassandra can see it, even when she pretends at lightness, the jealousy and rage. Stephanie knows she sees it. This does not make things better.

Bruce takes the injury... badly. His hold tightens on all four of them. Damian and Steph take it with no small amount of anger - Bruce is not allowed in the Brown family home and Damian leaves for the Titans, again. Cassandra follows Duke to Bludhaven, pulling on his operations to set up her own. The end result is Duke's home being slowly invaded by a girl who becomes his sister.

This does not help Bruce - with no one to keep him steady, he spirals, paranoia whispering into one ear and rage into another. Tim still comes out of the woodwork, with memories of the way a dark haired kid twisted out of the hold of a particularly pushy partyguest (followed by a silent swordfight through a different hallway) inspiring a half-decades worth of trying to scratch an itch, before coming across the perfect answer.

Cassandra still leaves for answers. Bit by bit, it becomes unignorable - Shiva is her mother, undoubtedly. She limps back to Duke's home to share it between shaking sobs, and stories about all the dead men she left in the snow. He tells her in return about his father - biological and not. And he's angry on her behalf, she can see that - but still, there is warmth for her here. There is always warmth for her here. Even when she leaves burn marks on the ceiling and takes up the bathroom for hours at a time, even on those rare days where he seems so tired and she cannot do anything right - still, she has a place here. Their twin gold and black suits become fixtures of the Bludhaven skylines.

It's across the dinner table that Steph realizes she might be able to get back into the game. Her father is loud, boisterous, after leaving prison. He doesn't think she can do anything about it.

She can.

After the first time, its tempting to try a second, third. Rolling into bars with a licence that gives her a few more years, chatting up men who have lips too loose. Other times, she calls up wives, asks about schedules for a date nights or when their kids will need daycare, mapping out plans and places. In the beginning she sent these files to the GCPD, for all the good they'd do. Later, she gives them to Damian, a stack of neatly arranged notes and observations that he pours through with all the seriousness of a monk. There's something important in the first time she calls up Cass and asks her to follow up on a lead. She comes by her home later, with a hello and a fruit tart.

When she asks her what she calls herself in the field, Stephanie shrugs. She keeps a lot of different names - her own amongst them.

"The GCPD asked." Cassandra had said, one cold night. "You - you do the same thing now. That we did before. Differently, not like Robin, but still like one of us." There's a heavy pause that lingers for a moment, dull and heaving. "You should have a name."

And it might be silly, might be stupid, but Steph's been doing this long enough and seen enough plans fall apart because of the way that small details, when brought into the light, can bring a whole structure tumbling down. Spoiler is born, with a purple mask over dark fabric. It's a ceremonial thing, she'll admit, but it's the principal of the matter yanno?

Part 2 (ft. Babs) coming later. This is very much long enough.

Ages:

Duke: He starts vigilanting at 16, but as he hits his 19-20s he wants to put a little bit more distance between himself and Bruce - wants to prove himself as an individual who can bring to bear his own stregnths. His mother recovers, but his dad never really does - there's a heavy sense of grief, associating with him. They love his father, together, but while his mother does her own mourning he can't help but think it's premature. He's 20 when Batgirl comes around, and 23 when he agrees, tentatively, to work with Bruce on the outsiders.

Damian: Starts at 12, and is 16 once Batgirl starts. He's much more secure in his place, ironically, but Batman and Robin is a much lonlier job than it is in a sideways reality. Duke brings some light to the job, but once he starts trying to make his own way, things grow... quiet. And while the Titans are together for the purpose of combining their shared competencies for the sake of missions, Garth, he cannot deny that his time with them eases something in him that he didn't know was aching. After he turns 18 - after it seems all his time with Robin was actually Bruce's, after years of chafing under a heavy-handing authority he's not certain he still respects, he finally decides to create something new. Nightwing is born, from a Kryptonian legend, and he leaves Robin behind to become this new thing.

Steph starts Batgirl at twelve, and is Robin halfway through fourteen. She keeps it for two years, before it falls apart at 16. Spoiler is born a year later, when she's seventeen and looks nonthreatening, but can be the exact opposite.

Cass: Starts doing vigilante work... very young. By the time she's caught up with the Bats, she's ten and experienced, and its only a few more months before Steph joins them. She takes up Batgirl at twelve, and keeps it all the way through to twenty-one, when it finally comes time to pass it down again, to evolve into something new.

[the-darklings]

earth is warmer when you laugh [6];

pairing: connor x reader

chapter summary: “You’re not my Connor.”

word count: 3.2k+

a/n: Boy do I feel like I’ve come a long way. I published Part 1 about two months ago, but life has changed so much since then. I turned another year older, my family purchased our forever home, and I have all of you wonderful readers with me now. I love you all so much! You honestly have no idea how much your support has helped me through some tough times. This chapter is dedicated to the wonderful @ilikecheesecakeforbreakfast who created some incredible fanart (and composed a song) for the previous chapter and this story in general. Also to @gilly-jilly for being amazing and writing their own version of the “reunion”. Hope mine doesn’t disappoint. Enjoy! 

first | second | third | fourth | fifth | ao3

— — —

“You’ve reached Steph! You know what to do after the beep!”

You hesitated for a long moment, a heavy weight sitting on your chest, “S-Steph? Please... I need you. I-I need my friend. Please Steph, please...”

You tried to say more but before you could, a loud beep cut you off, freezing the words in your mouth. The phone between your fingers felt so heavy, you allowed it to slide from your numb hand and onto the floor noisily.

Steph had teased you about it. Using an old, outdated phone when communication was so easy nowadays. You wondered what she would say now —if she still saw you using it—wondered if she would tease you again or if she would be angry like she was the last time you saw her.

“How much does it hurt (Name)?” the memory of her furious face, and bitter words pierced you. “How much does it hurt? Not enough, never enough. It will never be enough.”

You curled into yourself, pressing your forehead harshly against your knees. Your apartment felt cold, hollow almost, but you couldn't find the strength to stand and move. Couldn't even find the will to go and wash your hands.

It felt too final. Like if you washed whatever traces of Connor that still lingered on your skin, your friend would truly be lost forever.

Friend, friend, friend.

Steph, Connor.

Some hateful voice deep inside of you almost sang with glee.

You’re very good at losing those, aren’t you?

— — — —

“Are you well Miss (Name)?”

Those words were spoken in the usual, unchanging monotone, but the subtle weight behind them made you freeze. Your tired, weary gaze looked towards Bob who was sitting behind the reception desk, face the customary blank canvas as he stared at you unblinkingly. His LED was still and unmoving, and there was nothing on his face that would suggest he was affected by your appearance, but you still couldn't force any words out.

You were so used to telling people you were fine, and good, thank you for asking so much better now. But this was different. There was no judgement, or anger, or pity in Bob’s eyes, just a subtle sort of slant in his silent regard. Your grip on the counter tightened and for a long moment, you couldn't think at all.

The station was quiet this early in the morning, and you noticed the night-shift officers still prowling the peaceful hallways. Truthfully, you could tell Bob everything if you wanted to. No one would be able to hear you, and it would be so much easier to pour your heart out to a kind, unjudging face.

“I’m fine, thank you,” you muttered weakly instead, the words sliding down your throat like acid; harsh and stinging.  

Bob stared blankly at you, his head slightly tilted to one side. The gesture stung so deeply, you immediately looked away. Because even though it was so very different in execution, it reminded you too much of Connor.

Blue blood.

Dead eyes.

Dead eyes.

“How much does it hurt (Name)?”

“Not enough,” you whispered, and felt the punishing truth of those words settle in your heart.

“Miss (Name), if I may, I have over a hundred comfort principles installed in my program,” Bob spoke suddenly, breaking your reverie with his bland words. “You may use them any time you need.”

A smile—weak and off-kilter—tugged your lips upwards, and you rubbed the heel of your palm over your sore eyes for a moment. You felt the sting of friction and ignored it, taking a moment to look at Bob’s face as he examined you in return.

“Thank you, Bob,” you finally replied weakly, even though his words made you want to cry. Except, of course, you didn’t think you were capable of shedding any more tears after yesterday. “I will keep your offer in mind.”

The android did not reply, simply inclining his head marginally in your direction as if accepting your words. Your bleak smile quivered for a moment but you caught yourself before your emotions overwhelmed you again, and moved away from the desk with hurry.

You gave the android a cursory wave, not trusting your voice to provide an adequate farewell. Gripping your bag harshly between your fingers, you walked hastily further into the station, ignoring few startled looks that were sent your way by fellow officers.

They knew, or have already heard about what happened last night.

You didn’t want them to look at you, to judge you for mourning a friend. You wanted to hide away somewhere where you knew you would be safe from prying eyes.

The thought hit you so suddenly you stopped dead in your tracks.

There was only one such place.

— — — —

One, two, three...pause...one, two, three…

The click of the empty gun hit your ears twice before you finally lowered it in frustration. The paper target before you looked torn and ruined as you harshly tugged the headphones off your head. The holes were littered all over the large space, most missing important targets like heart or head.

(“You’re a good shot, for a human—”)

“Stop,” you hissed angrily, practically ripping the empty clip out, your fingers shaking. A heavy, poignant weight sat in your heart as you breathed deeply, biting your lip in mute despair. That invisible weight scratched its way across your very soul, biting and tearing; practically burning you from inside out. You had known this pain once before—only once—and you weren't sure if you could bear to feel it again.

Not again, not so soon.

Lifting your hand again, you turned your wrist marginally to one side, gritting your teeth together in concentration.

You were strong.

You were a highly trained individual who had a job to do.

Pain, like all things, would come to pass eventually. You knew that.

And you had your life to get on with.

Bang.

The shot hit with terrible accuracy, piercing right through the middle of the target. You stared at the bulls-eye with a mix of anger and sadness in your heart. It was like you could feel Connor beside you; a soothing, calm presence that had stood by your side when he showed you the correct technique in the first place.

“It’s good to see you applying my suggestions to your technique (Name),” his smooth voice remarked from behind you and you exhaled slowly, closing your eyes as your arm lowered. “If you like, I could show you a few more tactics when we have free time.”

“Why would you be so cruel?” you whispered, squeezing your eyes shut tightly.

“(Name)?”

You shook your head, “It’s never enough. I know that. No matter how much it hurts, it’s not enough. But not you, please not you too.”

You felt a weight settle against your shoulder; steady and cautious, so very gentle too, as if there was some unspoken fear of hurting you. “(Name)?”  

You jerked away from the cooler touch, your eyes flying open at the insistent, cautious tone. Turning around in trepidation, you felt your breath halt in your lungs, squeezing tighter and tighter as you stared at Connor’s face.

He was the same as you remembered him—a distant, divine star that made you envious of the night sky for having him.

The familiar dip of his chin, the curve of his mouth and the richness of his eyes as they looked at you unfathomably with something. Perhaps worry, perhaps relief, or perhaps you were simply hallucinating what you so fiercely desired to see.

“You’re not real,” you breathed falteringly, your words rigid and throat dry. “You’re not real. I saw you d-die. You died. I held you—I—”

A firm hand landed on your shoulder again—his hand; real, solid, alive—and you almost felt the bones in your shoulder cave in, and your skin blister as his brows drew together. It was a tight, confused line that made his expression appear more severe, near unforgiving if it wasn’t for the gentleness of his touch.

“(Name), your vitals are worryingly high,” he spoke formally, steadying you as you tried to jerk away. “If you do not regulate your breathing in the next 30 seconds, you will experience a panic attack. Breathe, (Name), breathe,” he added, a little softer but still with enough command in his voice that you couldn't help but obey.

Your lungs ached but mouthful by mouthful, you forced more air into them. The pressure building against your temple eased, and you didn’t realise how close you and Connor were standing till your shaking fingers reached forward to brush against his forearm hesitantly.

“I must apologise, I sought you and Lieutenant out the moment I arrived,” Connor explained, voice quiet and smooth as if terrified of scaring you away. “I thought that it would be better if I explained the situation myself. My replacement was dispatched the moment—”

Your arms wrapped around him so fiercely, you felt Connor lean back slightly from the impact of your bodies colliding.

And it was the sensation. The feeling of the solid, warm mass of him, the scratch of his jacket against your cheek that woke you up, made you bleed with the realisation that—

“You’re alive.”

Connor was still for a long moment, a stiffness to his entire frame that would have made the contact between you awkward under different circumstances. But your arms were around him in an unbreakable grip as you pressed yourself so tightly against him, it almost hurt. “I do believe another apology is in order (Name). I did not realise that the demise of my predecessor would cause you such distress.”

Breathing deeply through your parted lips, you almost jumped when you felt a hand settle tentatively on your lower back. Awkward, unsure.

“You’re alive,” you murmured vacantly again, your hands still trembling.

Connor shifted ever so slightly, “(Name), you know better than that. I am not, in fact, alive. I’m simply—”

“Alive,” you cut in, harshly, shakily. “You’re here, and you’re alive.”

The hand on your lower back tensed against your skin briefly before you felt him shift again, his words brushing against the top of your head as he leaned down.

“Yes, (Name), I’m here. I’m here.”

— — — —

“So...how does it work?”

A busy cafe was probably not the best place for this type of conversation, but it was the closest you could find near the station. It supposedly served some pretty good coffee too.

You hadn’t realised that it was almost lunchtime until Connor led you out from the target range, scanning your identity card against the electronic reader. It was impossible to not glance at him every few seconds. Impossible not to feel the exhilaration each time you saw him, and it hit you again that he was truly and wholly alive.

Real.

Connor, in turn, was quiet, almost perturbed as he gazed thoughtfully out of the window. His indicator was a peaceful blue but there was an underlying tension on his face when he finally turned to you.

“What happened with the deviant yesterday was both unexpected and unpleasant,” he began stiffly, hands clasped together, and you felt uncomfortable with the stringent way he addressed you. Like a stranger. “When a Connor model is destroyed, CyberLife dispatches a new one to take its place. I understand that it must be an unpleasant thought for you, but I hope that it will not hinder our work together.”

You swallowed feebly, breaking your gaze as you glanced outside, and towards the busy street, “So you’re not my Connor,” you voiced softly, resignedly, the happiness in your chest fading just a little.

A replacement, and nothing more.

Replaced like one might replace a broken toy.

He was not the Connor who showed you his coin tricks, Connor who spent long nights sorting through endless case files with you, the one who made you laugh on daily basis and saved your life.

Not your friend.  

Just a—

“I didn’t forget you,” he said, his words catching your attention as your gaze turned back to him. “When my predecessor was destroyed, it uploaded its memory. For me...it feels like I’ve simply been asleep, but everything we’ve been through together still happened (Name). I did not, however, foresee you caring so much that it would have a negative impact on your wellbeing.”

“Of course I care,” you snapped grimly, your breath hitching. “You—You’re my friend Connor. Of course, I care.”

Connor’s expression smoothed; the furrow of his brows easing and it was almost comical to see gentleness bleed back into his expression as he shifted unsurely, looking almost taken aback by your words.

A flare of amber against his temple, and he frowned slightly. “Oh. I see,” was his soft, hushed reply. “Had I known you regarded our relation as such, I would have updated my social protocols to reflect it. Last entry is marked as ‘partners’ I believe.”

A weak, relieved laugh escaped your parted lips, and it felt good to feel that amber of joy nested against your heart again. “You really haven’t changed, huh? You’re still you. Still Connor.”

He was looking at you again. Looking with that subtle, probing look that stripped you of your armour, stripped you of any defensive shield you could throw up. It was so unnerving to feel yourself being emptied piece by piece.

For a being that kept insisting he was not human, Connor was surprisingly good at decoding them.

“You’re unwell.”

Blinking, you forced a strangled laugh, patting your cheek lightly, “Wow, tell me what you really think Connor. I didn’t exactly sleep well last night,” you informed him with a worn smile.

But he didn’t smile, didn’t so much as blink as he peered at you severely. “I did not mean physically unwell, although your blood sugar levels are below the advisable threshold. I mean that you are unwell...inside...and I’m afraid I do not know how to proceed since I know nothing of such matters. But as your friend, I have an obligation to try and help.”  

“A good friend makes you feel like they see right into you, and even though they find all the bad bits, they still love you for you. Just like us!”

Steph.

There was warmth inside you that brimmed the longer you looked at Connor’s inquisitive eyes.

“Don’t ever change Connor,” you said finally with a genuine twitch of your lips, and Connor’s head lowered in confusion from the ambiguity of your words. “I know it’s probably your programming making you say this or whatever, but...just never change, okay?”

“Change...is against my programming (Name).”

A long beat of quiet followed his words as you regarded each other tersely.

“Wait, I just realised,” you spoke up suddenly, breaking the peaceful quiet as you leaned towards him suddenly. Connor froze, blinking from the quickness of the motion but did not otherwise react. “If there’s more of you out there...does that mean CyberLife just has a room full of Connors stashed away somewhere?”

“While I have not seen this type of space myself,” Connor replied evenly. “I can only assume that something of similar effect is in place, yes.”

There was a stretch of silence between you again, the lively cafe setting filling the stillness in-between as you tried to find the best way to phrase your next question.

“Does that make you sad? I know you say you’re a machine that feels nothing but—”

Connor’s eyes narrowed; first, in confusion, then realisation as his lips moved into a taut line. “Why would that make me sad (Name)? I hold no attachment to my bodies. I am merely a tool to be used as CyberLife deems fit.”

You smiled painfully at him. “Because it breaks my heart when I think about my friend being used like that.”

Connor pushed back sharply, and you jumped at the forceful way his back met the seat behind him. For a brief, terrifying second there was such bright red burning through his indicator you felt your eyes widen in shock, but it was gone in a blink. The wild burn in his eyes settled like a sea after a storm, and then he was at ease again. Calm.

“Con?”

Worry seeped into the careful way you said his name, and his answering impassiveness was almost unsettling.

“We should return to the station (Name), Lieutenant is unlikely to be pleased if we’re late,” he stated calmly, rising from the booth first. He reached forward, offering his arm, “Shall we?”

You rose from your seat without taking his hand, your gaze searching as you gazed up at him with concern. Connor’s head dipped slenderly, and you vaguely wondered if he realised how graceful he sometimes was for a cold, unfeeling machine. He moved first, turning away as he stepped towards the door, and your hand jerked forward on instinct.

Don’t let him walk away from you.

Your fingers gripped the back of his jacket rigidly, stopping him dead in his tracks. He didn’t turn around, and you were happy to stare at the back of his head when you spoke demurely, “I’m really glad you’re back Connor.”

You held on for another few seconds before you let go, your fingers hesitant as you ignored the rigid slope of his shoulders.

You brushed past him hurriedly, and didn’t let him see your crestfallen expression when he followed behind you silently.      

— — — —

There was a crowd around your desk.

Stumbling to a halt, you felt Connor’s arm brush against yours as he stopped beside you as well. Officers milled around the space, all talking loudly and pointing as your eyes sought out the familiar, weathered face of Hank.

The older man looked ready to tear off heads. He stormed around, snapping at anyone who tried broaching questions.

Naturally, that was the exact moment he spotted you. His expression looked murderous as he stalked towards you briskly. Shooting Connor a withering look as he came to a stop before you, he looked over your appearance once before glaring at Connor again.  

That told you everything you needed to know about how well their little reunion went.

“Where the fuck have ya’ been?”

“Uh, lunch,” you replied shortly, trying to look over his shoulder. “What is going on?”

There were footsteps behind you, and you almost cringed at the voice that registered in your ears, “You two idiots just had to get into trouble, didn’t you?”

“Gavin,” you greeted with fake cheer. “To what do I owe this pleasure? Here to fulfil your daily asshole rota?”

The man scoffed, giving you a lazy sneer, “I have no issues with you, sweetheart, besides your poor taste in company,” he said, casting a harsh glare Connor’s way who was like an unmoving statue beside you. He glared at the android darkly for a moment before glancing at you again. “You look like shit by the way.”

“Bite me, egomaniac.”

“Enough!” Hank snapped, glancing between you three. “Come along. And I hope you have some answers for me, kid.”

You obediently followed Hank as he led you towards your desk. Noticing your approach, other officers cleared a path for you before Hank stopped in front of the desk you shared with Connor.

“This was addressed to you,” Hank said, glancing at the object on your desk.

You moved towards the box and Connor was beside you immediately, expression hard as you both looked inside at the same time.

Sitting inside, bundled in a white towel was a severed android hand, soaking the fluffy material in bright blue blood.

Next to it, pinned by a familiar, sleek black arrow was a note:

FOLLOW THE TRAIL

———  

an: “it’s been 84 years..” thank you so much for reading guys! sorry this wasn’t a giant 6k+ you probably expected lol but when I outlined the story (fully outlined for those of you who may not know!) this ended up being a transition chapter since we have another original case next time! Hope you guys are excited! I also hope you guys enjoyed the reunion ( ͡ᵔ ͜ʖ ͡ᵔ )  

As always, I love you all more than anything (apart from Connor but heyyy..) and thank you so much for your continued support. It means the world!!

LOVELY PEOPLE I ❤️:

@katherineschild @dpslover4life-blog @ceylon-morphe286 @in-a-cupboard-under-some-stairs @ayamecrevan @snooper1 @emmygreen817 @kats2art @fandompotato24-7 @flyingfiremelon @dej-okay @saiiven @kdmpthenerd @arcana-eskallion @unknown-jpg @anseo11 @allheart36 @nomorepumpkin @melissalovesmusicyay @prancing-through-the-rain @tyraneya @tea-with-loki @londonlovinglinguist @meanwhilesmiley @marss-anonymous @significant-annoyancee @shipping-land-hlp @lunar-r-bryce @zarekii-chan @zeddlocket @bookworrm1999 @anxiousklutz @wonders-of-the-multiverse @paradox-brody-chase @fandoms4everyone @trustmeimawhalebiologist @deviantconnorarmy @sweetdayme4427 @positivity227  @trashofthelowestkind @madammarkiplier @super-flamin-hot-cheetos @a-song-of-obsession-and-insanity @generallyuglyduckling  @dixie-chick @lady-songstress @binxi1031 @krazykendraisnotinsane @drastically-here @winter-orchid @guardianoftheunderratedthings @the-ordinarylady @my-dark-happy-place @awfully-tired @nightismyname @stainedbubbles @satansladydoor @arkium @squeakthemonkey @losersunitetonight @chocolattaee @assonanceambiance @levina-h @underagetigerdrinker @mynahx3 @chairokuno @pickelope @pota-kun @shadows-echoes @turnmeupside @beesinmyenvelopes @negans-angel-acerk800 @moonbri @almostelegantfire @valiantelk @zarekii-chan @urban-eagle @thecrazybluefangirl @thedetectiveinthephonebooth @violetdream13 @fangirlbitch02 @ragidi @gentledreaming @21putnamp @mynameisgabrielle @glitch-girl318 @elaneth-elf-friend @moosythemoose @omnastar365 @leeeggggsssssss @badassbeckettswan @ultra-violet-starlite @morganster0730 @connorfixinghistie @ conwhore800  @ sebatmanstan @ frodoswaggins  @ team-wang-puppy @ royalbluehues @ eccentrically-expressive @ omelys-space @ a-typical-antisocial-fangirl @ belleknows  @ nissistylinson @random-stupid-stuffs @feminist-violinist @ask-prototype-twins @calumstuffs @onceuponagleepottermindlock @xthefuckerysquaredx @swordsandserpents @aya-fay @itsjustahuman @sariasardonica @i-do-wat-i-want @br33zy-creations @hlesssamanta @oliolioxiclean @shadows-echoes @rk800isprettydangattractive @honeybeelily @wiltedcupidboi @simplysaying @jamieanimemachine @superanonymousreader @mr-robot-x @sherlockspie @stalecarb @teigra @drmsqnc @layinglonely @gayoats @sweet-fate @certainsoultaco @wolfmothar @avispate @nanameni @samantha-loves-anime @bithepowerofgay @whomthehellisbucky @haurchii @starrypecas @beautifulsilvermarch @rose-01 @mldivers @sujuvixxo @belleknows

[comebackolivia]

I have some feelings on how Stephanie and Jason get treated in canon and wanted to explore that, so here. Have some character exploration of my two favs. 

Posted on my AO3 as chapter 5 of F*ck This Family. 

Jason stumbled out of his bedroom, reeking of alcohol and stale cigarette smoke, still dressed in the hoodie he’d been wearing the night before, but it was on backwards and his boots were on the wrong feet. He was pale, his eyes were bloodshot, and overall, he looked like death warmed over as he trudged into his kitchen, gaze trained on the coffeemaker.

He startled, then grimaced when he noticed her sitting on his countertop munching away on a pop-tart.

It took him a bit, but after he’d poured himself a mug of black as pitch coffee and downed half of it, he managed to croak out some words.

“The temptation will be to judge me. Don’t.”

Stephanie smirked, amused. “I got a very interesting text message this morning.” He shot her a glare that was very unimpressive on his hangover from hell complexion, so she continued, undeterred. “Roy asked me to drop by this morning to check that you were still alive and hadn’t choked on your own vomit. Apparently, you drunk dialed him a few times last night, and since he’s all the way across the country, he couldn’t come and check on you himself. How do you feel?”

“How does it fucking look like I feel?” he snapped, and Stephanie’s smirk morphed into a frown. Jason was a lot of things, but he wasn’t usually mean. Not to her at least. He didn’t get roaring drunk either, which meant he’d probably been given a good reason to go out and get wasted.

She’d bet good money it was a fight with someone in the family.

“Who was it?” she asked, more seriously. “Bruce?”

Jason scowled and turned away to rummage through his fridge. After a moment, he corrected, “Dick.”

Stephanie hummed sympathetically. “What happened?”

“He said something stupid and I got pissed off. Then we screamed a lot.”

She grimaced, glad she’d missed that. From what she’d seen lately, Dick had been stretching himself thin and was feeling the pressure. Prolonged stress made him crabby and shortened his temper, which was always more explosive than people believed of him. It wouldn’t have taken much for him to snap at his brother, and Jason never took that kind of thing well.

“Wanna talk about it?” Steph offered after a moment of silence.

Jason laid some strips of bacon on a hot pan and turned his attention to scrambling some eggs. “He’s a fucking dick. What else is there to say?”

Stephanie pursed her lips. As much as he joked around about it, the second Robin didn’t tend to drink in excess. Not with their lifestyles and not with his personal history. He’d told her once that his father had been a mean drunk. She knew what that was like, and knew it likely meant avoiding getting drunk altogether for Jason, at least until shit hit the fan.

“Whatever he said, he’s wrong,” she piped up, making Jason’s shoulders stiffen where he stood at the stove with his back to her. She probably shouldn’t have said anything. It wasn’t her business and Jason and Dick didn’t need her butting in, but she knew what it was like, to never be fully part of this family—to be considered the problem child—the easy target when the others were passing around blame.

From the beginning she’d had to fight her way out of the shadow of Jason Todd. She’d been compared to him left and right, told she was too much like him and it would get her killed one day. She was constantly looked down on as not good enough, too wild, untrainable. Whatever. How much worse was it for Jason who was the standard of badness she’d been judged against?

It was bullshit and she’d raged against it more than once. Because now that she knew him, she could see that she and Jason were nothing alike. Sure, they had similar backgrounds, their personalities meshed well together, and they made a great team in boardgames, but they operated completely differently. Jason was a planner, always had his eye on the prize, a big picture thinker. But, he wasn’t tied to it. He could shift or adapt if he needed to, and the second he felt that the victim was more important than the big picture, he’d throw the big picture right out the window. She respected the hell out of that, because what was the point of it all if they weren’t helping the victims? The individuals. The people who deserved justice, but couldn’t be heard amidst the bureaucracy, corruption, and bullshit. She might not always like his methods, she’d never approve of him killing, but she respected his motivation. She felt that same drive.

But that’s where the similarities ended. They had the same compassion, but where Jason was a planner, Stephanie wore her heart on her sleeve and followed wherever it took her. Jason only appeared impulsive. Stephanie actually was. Over time though, she’d been able to turn it into a strength. Impulsiveness transitioned to adaptability and that was a major asset to have in the field.

The fact that she still took crap for it drove her nuts. The fact that she was still constantly compared to Jason drove her even more nuts.

It wasn’t fair to either of them. They operated differently, had different strengths that helped them be effective in the field. What the others did and said diminished them. It ignored their strengths and compounded their weaknesses. And it was total and utter bullshit. Neither of them got enough credit. They were both good at what they did, and they were good in different ways. The fact that the rest of the family, some of the smartest people on the planet, couldn’t see that? Well, it pissed her the hell off.

So whatever Dick had said, even if it had been coming from a place of stress and exhaustion, she knew it was wrong. Jason needed to know that too.

“You ever get sick of it?” he asked after a moment, voice scratchy and shoulders hunched. He still hadn’t turned away from the stove.

“Of what?”

“Being the family punching bags,” he retorted. “The ones they lash out at when they’re feeling pissy. Bruce does it all the fucking time. Dick too. He won’t with Tim, Damian, or Cass, but you and me are fair game. Every time.”

Her gaze darkened. She knew exactly what he was talking about. She’d experienced it countless times. Bruce was stressed so he’d ream her out for something she did in the field. Something small and insignificant that hadn’t affected anything whatsoever, but still wasn’t what Bruce would have done so clearly it was stupid, impulsive, childish, whatever. Barbara had a tendency to do it as well—snap at her whenever she was stressed. Chew her out for something that had nothing to do with anything. She didn’t get a lot of it from Dick, but she had been snapped at by him plenty of times. And yeah, they didn’t tend to handle their stress in functional, healthy ways, and she’d seen Damian and Tim get snapped at plenty of times. But it wasn’t the same. It was never quite so acidic with them.

“Yes,” she answered plainly because it was true. She often found herself wondering what the hell she was even doing with them when it was so clear she would never fit the way they wanted her too. She almost hadn’t come back after Black Mask, and sometimes she questioned why she had at all. She had her reasons of course, but in her weaker moments she wondered if it was worth it.

At her reply, Jason finally turned from the stove to face her. His face was still pale, and she thought that maybe his red eyes were a little waterier than they’d been when he first walked in. Her stomach clenched in sympathy.

“You ever consider saying ‘fuck ‘em’ and walking away from it all?”

It was like he was reading her mind. “Yes,” she admitted.

Jason frowned and turned back to the stove. Steph watched, suddenly feeling tired as he loaded a plate with bacon, scrambled eggs and toast. She was surprised when he handed the plate to her and fixed another one for herself.

They ate in silence.

“I don’t want to let them be right about me,” she spoke up once they were almost finished.

“They’re not,” Jason answered immediately. “Spite’s a hell of a motivator though, so keep proving them wrong.”

Stephanie smirked, feeling the heaviness that had settled in the room finally lift a little. “I am a kickass vigilante fueled by bitterness and spite,” she declared wryly.

Jason snorted into his coffee, then raised the mug. “Here, here.”

“Seriously though, you okay?” she asked after another smaller stretch of silence. There was a little more color in his face after eating breakfast. Greasy breakfast foods weren’t her go to hangover cure, but it seemed to do a decent job of dragging Jason back from the brink of hangover death.

“Yeah. It’s only a matter of time before Dick tracks me down or finds my new number and apologizes. It’ll take longer for me to accept the apology though. I’ll probably hold off until he starts bringing me food and shit.”

“Nice,” Stephanie replied, bobbing her head in approval. Then she paused and asked, “When did you get a new number?”

“I haven’t yet, but I vaguely remember chucking my phone of the roof of a building last night, so I’ll have to do that at some point.”

Stephanie snorted. She couldn’t help it. The mental image of grumpy, drunk Jason throwing a phone off a Gotham roof was hilarious. He was so overly dramatic.

“What the hell were you doing on top of a building wasted? That’s a health and safety no-no, you know,” she retorted with a teasing smirk. “What were you doing, serenading the pigeons?”

“Performing Hamlet with the gargoyles if you must know.”

“Oh god,” she exclaimed, cracking up at just the thought of drunk off his ass Jason dramatically declaring “To be or not to be” to a gargoyle audience. “You have no idea how much I’d give to have seen that.”

“Yeah, well it was a one time performance so you snooze you lose, Blondie.”

“Yeah, well your hoodie is on backwards,” she retorted, snickering at his surprised look as he realized it was actually on backwards.

“The fuck?” he wondered quietly, pulling at the hood that had been settled at his neck. How he missed this while eating was beyond Steph.

“And your boots are on the wrong feet.”

Jason looked down and groaned loudly, much to Stephanie’s delight. “Fucking hell. I knew something felt off.”

“You also stink. Like horrendously. What’d you do? Bathe in vodka and cigarette ash?”

“Shut up. I fed you and this is the thanks I get?”

“Yeah, you fed me, but does it really count if there weren’t waffles?”

“Yes, it absolutely counts.”

“Whatever. Go shower. I’ll find something for us to watch on Netflix.”

“Ugh, fine,” Jason said, standing up and heading towards the bathroom. “But it better not be one of those sad wildlife documentaries where the baby animals die.”

“That was one time!” she called back. “I didn’t know they were going to die!”

Still, as she settled into the couch, she googled the next episode of Planet Earth to make sure there’d be no surprises. All the while, a warmth spread through her chest because Jason was letting her keep him company. They might sometimes be the punching bags for the rest of the family, but it was nice to know that she had his back and he had hers. They could handle the others.