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It's around two in the morning on a Thursday does Bruce's private phone ring obnoxiously against his bedside table.
It's only ever used for family and friends with none cape-related conversations, so Bruce doesn't want to miss any of these rare calls — which unfortunately means it's turned up to the highest volume whenever possible. Someone has kindly made the ringtone a sped up version of Queen's We Will Rock You and Bruce can feel the beat drumming into his frontal lobe.
He jumps up immediately, reaching out and snatching the phone with startling precision while not even completely awake until he finally realises he's holding his phone tightly in his hands. Damian, who had wandered into his bed at around midnight, probably from a nightmare he didn't want to talk about, wakes up with a start, nearly punching Bruce in the face on instinct if Bruce hasn't blocked him.
He holds Damian's tiny fist and lowers it softly, amused at the little frown on his son's face as he blearily looks around the room for some sort of intruder. When he finds none, he glares back at Bruce, and then the screaming phone in his hands.
Looking down, Bruce is suddenly very awake and staring at it as well, because across the screen is the name Stephanie followed by a silly picture of her and Bruce — where she's smiling wildly and Bruce looks like he'd sooner throw himself off a building than smile back. Stephanie rarely calls him on this phone. She rarely calls him at all.
He gently pushes Damian back down into bed, running a hand through his hair and hoping it lulls the boy back to sleep as he presses answer, quickly pressing the phone against his ear, "Stephanie?"
"Uh hello?" A deep and definitely not-Stephanie's voice replies, followed by some sort of giggling and music in the background, "Is this Steph's dad? Bruce?"
Bruce stiffens, unable to stop the dozens of worst case scenarios that run through his mind at such a strange question and Damian narrows his eyes at the way his father's hands tighten dangerously around the phone. Has she been kidnapped? Held for ransom? Arrested? Found dead at the bottom of Gotham Pier? "Who is this? Where's Stephanie?"
"She's okay! She — uhm, I'm Kyle, a friend of Stephs? From school? We kind of went out today and she's like — super wasted! We were going to put her in a cab but she refused to tell us her address and when I asked who to call she kept saying 'call Bruce' and so I went through her contacts and — hello? Hello?"
Bruce is already up and out of bed, scrambling to his wardrobe to pull out a sweatshirt to go with his sweatpants, "Text me the address, I'll be there in 20."
He ends the call before Kyle can say anything else, and almost trips over Titus to quickly press a kiss into Damian's bed hair.
"You go back to sleep, I'm going to go pick up Stephanie." He murmurs when Damian groans and turns his head into Bruce's warm pillow, "If you need something go wake up Duke, okay? I'll be back before you know it."
"I'm not a child, father." Damian grumbles, but he leans into Bruce's hand for a rare moment of comfort, soft with sleep and warmth, looking at him through half open eyes to whisper somewhat accusingly, "Bruce."
Bruce blinks. Damian's never called him by his name before, "Yes?"
Damian rolls his eyes, "No father, I mean you are going as Bruce Wayne. Not Batman. Don't act ridiculous in front of Brown's friends, she can take care of herself..."
The end of his sentence is almost completely incomprehensible given Damian slips back into sleep, mumbling into Bruce's palm, but Bruce understands the sentiment and presses his nose against Damian's hair once more, smiling. He whispers another goodnight into the soft wisps and then makes a run for the door, only stopping to give Titus a wave and allow him onto the bed, just this once.
Bruce shuts the door behind him, fleetingly getting a sight of Damian and Titus curled around one another on Bruce's side of the bed, before he books it to the garage. The address of a familiar nightclub lighting up the corridors.
He stops briefly at Duke's room, and debates whether or not he wants to risk waking up the boy just to check on him and let him know he's going out quickly. Patrol ended a while ago, and Duke would be getting up for school very soon.
Bruce won't be gone long, but he's always paranoid to leave the house without some sort of plan. Duke, thankfully, sleeps like the dead, and after a long day of patrolling as Signal — the teenager is snoring away peacefully when Bruce ever so slightly opens the door to peek his head in.
Bruce knows Duke doesn't wake up often in the night. And if he does need something, he'll almost never wake Bruce for it, so he should be fine. He watches the boy for a few more seconds, before quickly racing back down in the direction of his cars.
He takes the Bugatti — which at the time seemed like the best idea to get there fast — and breaks at least three traffic violations caused by his sudden paranoia induced images of Stephanie sprawled half drunk and alone on the streets of Gotham. But the streets are eerily empty and he'd stopped at every red light, no matter how restless he was.
During the painfully long journey which couldn't have taken more than half an hour, Bruce is left with nothing but thoughts. He isn't exactly sure when Stephanie Brown became an important aspect of his life.
Maybe it was years ago, chasing a ridiculously small blur of purple up and down Crime Alley. It was hard to miss her, so spiteful and angry at the world. There was something familiar, in her accent and the fire in her swing when she saw Batman for the first time.
Or perhaps it was much later, when the purple was briefly replaced with red and yellow and green, golden blonde hair flying all around the place when the hood fell away. Though, Bruce knows these were the worst of their times spent together, for all that they did learn about each other. He doesn't regret the fourth Robin — he doesn't regret any of his Robins — but he often finds himself wondering what it might have been like if Batman was better. Less angry, less cruel and less scared to let her wander more than three feet from him.
He wonders what it might have been like if he had trusted her to run out of his sight and come back alive. She was hurting but she was brave and witty and so bright and —
And it would kill her, one day.
Bruce had refused to be the one to let it happen. So he pushed and she pushed back until the pressure inside the metaphorical canister exploded with the two of them sealed inside.
Although, perhaps Stephanie Brown didn't become concrete in his life until she left him.
She didn't go far, because for all that Bruce did wrong, he gave her people that cared about her enough that she'd always come back to them. There was Tim and Cass, and eventually Dick and begrudgingly Jason along with Duke in some sort of Gothamite-solidarity. Damian was quite fond of her too, more so than anyone could have expected, even if he'd never tell her that.
She was always within arms reach, but never any closer than that. Bruce would have to strain to even let his fingertips touch her, pulling her back to shore as tides push and pull her back and forth.
But one thing for certain was that Stephanie Brown was important to him. She'd always been important, but not in the ways that Bruce could tell her if she asked. Because really, Bruce didn't know either.
Regardless, Bruce makes it into the brightly lit street of Gotham's student nightclubs in record time. He hears the club Stephanie went to before he sees it, the heavy electronic music rumbling through the street and into the car when he turns the corner, only to be visually assaulted with bright lights and even brighter people standing outside the building. It must be some sort of event, given all the young people covered in glitter and wearing glow sticks folded into bracelets and necklaces. The night's coming to an end, as people line up for their taxis or smoke their last cigarette of the night, and a few look like they might already be nursing the worst hangovers of their lives.
It's only when he pulls up closer to the club, rolling down his window to see if he can catch sight of Stephanie, does a chorus of whoops and whistles at the sight of the car fill the street instead. Bruce wonders if he should have arrived more inconspicuously, since it'd take one person with a camera to make tomorrow's headline; Bruce Wayne infiltrates college student party like a creep? More at seven!
Though, all reservation of that is lost when he sees a little group sat by the pavement to the side of the club's entrance, huddled together around a familiar crouched figure dressed in a dark green jumpsuit. Her face is in her hands, but Bruce would know how to pick her out of the crowd by her hair alone.
He parks the car as best as he can on the opposite road before he's scrambling out of it, remembering to grab his spare coat and a bottle of water before making a beeline for the group.
"Stephanie!" He calls, ignoring the way the bouncer, who was standing near the group, eyes him suspiciously, while the rest of the clubbers jump in surprise at his frazzled appearance.
Stephanie raised her head shakily, looking at an odd shade of green that almost matches her outfit and blinking up at Bruce like she's looking directly into the sun, squinting in disbelief, "Bruce? You actually came?"
Bruce crouches down in front of her and opens the water bottle with a click, slotting it into her hand easily, "Of course I did." He sighs exasperatedly, and then a little reservedly asks, "Did you have fun?"
Stephanie doesn't answer immediately, she's too busy inhaling the water bottle Bruce had given her. When she's finished the entire bottle in about four heavy gulps, some of the pink has returned to her cheeks, "Fuck no. I'm never drinking again. I see why you don't do it."
"Holy shit," a gangly boy hisses quietly, sitting next to Stephanie on the pavement, his cheeks covered in blue glitter, "Your dad is Bruce Wayne?"
Stephanie grimaces like she's smelt something terrible, "Bruce s'not my dad. He's my boss."
"Okay!" Bruce laughs nervously, stroking her hair and draping the coat over her shivering shoulders in one quick move to distract her from saying anything else. He vaguely registers the boy as the same one over the phone — Cameron? Kris? — and gives him a tight lipped smile, while also sparing a fleeting look at the other equally as baffled people sitting around Stephanie, "Thank you for looking after Steph, I'll take her home now. Do you all have a way to get home?"
Ten minutes of awkward compliments and prolonged staring, and an intervention by the concerned bouncer who ended up asking Bruce for an autograph — the group has filtered down to the remaining few who wait for their taxis. Bruce makes sure everyone has a way to get to wherever they need to be going, because he won't be able to sleep peacefully if he'd let a bunch of barely adult students wander around Gotham at night, before he grabs hold of Stephanie's hands.
"Can you stand?" He asks softly, the corner of his mouth twitching when she groans painfully in reply, but starts to shakily stand. It's more of her leaning completely against Bruce as he half-carries-half-drags her across the street to the parked car — that's being swarmed by people posing in front of it and taking pictures.
"You brought the Bugatti?" Stephanie grumbles into his shoulder as Bruce scares away the group by clearing his throat and glaring at them, "Are you trying to make me throw up?"
"I'll drive extra slowly."
"I still might throw up. All over your really expensive leather seats that would cost three times my college tuition."
Bruce snorts, opening the passenger seat and sliding Stephanie in, holding her head down so she doesn't try to knock herself out on the car door, "I promise I won't make you pay for the leather seats if you throw up."
"Damn right you won't," she complains, almost slipping headfirst into the dashboard, "But I'll try not to throw up, just for you big guy."
"Your generosity is duly noted." Bruce replies with a roll of his eyes and a cheeky grin from Stephanie, as he closes the passenger side door.
As promised, Bruce drives very slowly, trying not to jump the car around too much when they turn corners or cover speed bumps. While Stephanie is looking less green, her head on the glass window, brows furrowed painfully.
"Don't take me home." She murmurs with her mouth pressed against the cool glass after a few minutes of exasperatingly slow driving.
Bruce wasn't planning to in the first place, not exactly comfortable with the idea of leaving a drunk Stephanie alone at her dorm, "You can spend the night in the manor. That way you can get lectured by Alfred in the morning."
Stephanie snorts, "You're not going to lecture me?"
He would, but not when she might throw up as a defence mechanism. There's no telling she'll even remember the ride home tomorrow morning, so Bruce counts his losses sparingly. He'll just punish her by making her patrol with Dick, since he's coming to visit tomorrow, and no one wants to patrol with Dick when nursing a hangover, "Do you want me to lecture you?"
Bruce means it as a joke. Stephanie and him didn't have a long track history of healthy communication, and Bruce's dozens of lectures barely amounted to anything besides distrust and arguments. But the two have come far from that, and Spoiler is a valuable member of Gotham's vigilante family, of Bruce Wayne's family — and while she's not become any better at withstanding Bruce's lectures, Bruce likes to think the two of them understand each other a little better.
Or, he thought they understood each other. He's not quite sure about that when Stephanie replies, "Sometimes."
Sometimes she wants Bruce to lecture her?
"I'm getting mixed messages here," Bruce tells her nervously, unsure if she's joking along, sparing Stephanie a concerned look as he stops at the red light. Not a single other car on the road with them, "The other day I tried to tell you to be safer with your grappling hook and you told me to shove a batarang up my ass."
Stephanie groans, sitting up to blink at him, "Do you think I've died from alcohol poisoning? I could have sworn you just said the word ass. Is this hell? Does Batman say ass in hell?"
"This isn't hell, and you're fine. Perhaps this is a consequence of underage drinking." Bruce grunts, suppressing a smirk when she rolls her eyes, only to wince in pain. He knows exactly where Stephanie printed her fake ID, and he can only hope she leaves that particular detail out when justifying herself to Alfred tomorrow morning.
Stephanie isn't convinced, and she narrows her eyes at Bruce like she's seeing him for the first time in her life, "I'm almost twenty one. I should have called Tim to pick me up instead."
Bruce hums, "You'd rather have Tim drive you while you're drunk?"
Stephanie answers by going a little green, perhaps at the mental image of what a ride home with Tim in this state would have been like, or because of the alcohol that's refusing to settle in her gut, "Ugh. Why did you come pick me up anyways?"
Bruce's amusement slips off his face, and he frowns, "You called for me, Stephanie."
"I didn't think you'd come." Stephanie tells him regretfully, and frightfully honestly, looking almost worried. It's a strange look on her, and Bruce finds he doesn't want to see it again. She's young, but looking this nervous, Bruce is stunned to be reminded just how young she is. How young all his kids are (although, Steph isn't his).
The light turns green, and Bruce pulls into the next lane with furrowed brows. This is the second time Stephanie's said this to him, but Bruce is left racking his memory for any situation that would make Stephanie think Bruce wouldn't come to her aid — both in and out of the cowl.
"Why did you think I wouldn't come?" Bruce asks once he hits a roadblock. Unless he's said something completely innocent and was misinterpreted, the man has no idea what's happening to cause this crater of uncertainty between them.
Stephanie shrugs, leaning back into her seat, but still looking at Bruce, almost hesitant to look away, "He never came when I needed him."
Bruce's frown deepens, "Who?"
"My dad."
And oh. Oh dear.
Without meaning to, Bruce lets an uncomfortable silence settle between them. Or, it's uncomfortable for him, less so for Stephanie, who begins to snore obnoxiously almost immediately after dropping that emotional bomb into the car. The engine is growling faintly, courtesy of Stephanie's unstable stomach, but at that moment, Bruce feels an irrational need to press his foot onto the gas and accelerate down the empty street. To feel the engine booming under his seat, the air cutting past his cheeks.
He vaguely realises he wants to drive off into nowhere. To escape the impending doom of these conversations that he's vastly unprepared for.
But then Stephanie mumbles something incomprehensible under her breath, before snoring again, and Bruce's heart tightens at the mere thought of running away from something so precious handed to him.
He thinks about Damian, wrapped around Titus's humongous frame, small palms hidden under a quilt that engulfs him entirely. Asleep in his father's bed without a care in the world, finally feeling safe enough in his home to slip away for a few hours of peace. About Duke, tucked into a fort of about a million pillows, the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps in the safety of his room, finally feeling at home.
Bruce looks over at Stephanie, at the way she shivers and pulls Bruce's jacket around her tighter in her sleep, somehow looking smug and mischievous when she's not even awake to make fun of Bruce for being so sappy. Something in his chest tightens, and he turns up the heating almost on instinct.
Slowly, Bruce pulls out into another street instead of following the one to the manor, circling back to a small, well-lit part of Gotham's nightlife.
He almost feels bad as he reaches over to gently shake Stephanie awake when he parks the car about ten minutes later, holding back a chuckle when her eyes fly open in alarm. Even half drunk and violently sick, Stephanie Brown is ready for a fight.
She seems far too disappointed when instead of a fight, she's left glaring at an amused Bruce Wayne, "This is not the manor."
Bruce smirks, "What gave it away?"
"Aside from the smell of piss and burgers?"
"I thought you might feel better if you ate something, sober yourself up quicker as well."
"So you decided to drive us to," She winces when she almost tumbles out of the car in her heels, avoiding becoming one the pavement because of Bruce's quick reflexes, "To…"
Stephanie squints as she looks over to the bright lights of the restaurant Bruce's parked in front of, if you can even call it that. He waits for her to recognise it, and once she does, he finds he can't look away as her face splits into an overjoyed grin. Bruce has a moment to control whatever stupid expression he's got on his face when Stephanie turns to him in a hurry, suddenly very sober, "You're kidding!"
Bruce sighs, glaring halfheartedly at the Batburger sign in front of them, "Unfortunately not. Come on, it's cold out here."
"I didn't even know you knew this place existed." She giggles, but follows diligently, if a little wobbly, behind him.
But the ground is littered and uneven, and Bruce feels as she reaches out to grab the bottom of his shirt when she almost trips on her heels. She doesn't let go afterwards, and Bruce pretends not to notice the way her hand tightens; it's too cold to be standing outside, and he leads them both wordlessly into the establishment.
When they get inside, she still hasn't let go, and Bruce ignores the weight of it completely when he gives her a dramatic grimace, "You'd be surprised how often I come here, actually."
"Now that sounds like a story." Stephanie snorts, but is immediately distracted by the menu instead, "Ooh can I get a Bat-meal? I want to see if I can get a Spoiler toy."
The cashier looks over at them in mild surprise, either because they're here at three in the morning (thank god they run 24/7) or if it's the fact that Bruce Wayne is standing here at three in the morning; Bruce doesn't return the scepticism. Instead, he looks over his shoulder with raised brows, "You want the kids' meal? Really?"
"I want the toy in the kids' meal," Stephanie corrects him haughtily, already waving him off as she wobbles over to an empty booth, though all of them are empty at this hour, "Though the nuggets aren't too bad either."
Bruce sighs and shakes his head, but something about this whole ordeal is strangely lifting, so he bites the inside of his cheek and quietly orders their food, "Two Bat-meals please."
After inhaling her food before Bruce's even halfway through his vanilla milkshake, Stephanie seems to have sobered up a little. She's looking less green, and more like she's trying to develop x-ray vision and look into Bruce's soul.
Or maybe she's still drunk, because she very suddenly and very bluntly tells him, "I used to wish you were my dad," drowning her chips into a little pot of ketchup.
Bruce pauses. He slowly drops the chicken nugget he was about to put in his mouth — since now is probably not the time to complain about how the nuggets are a little dry today.
Stephanie is not sober, evidently, because she continues to eat like her words hadn't just shattered what remaining sanity Bruce possessed, "Not anymore though, so quit looking so constipated."
"Oh." Bruce tells her, feeling crushed.
Stephanie pauses, glancing at him through her blonde lashes, and then looks away with a scoff, "Don't be like that. You're an alright dad."
An alright dad. That's better than he would give himself. Bruce holds back the urge to ask her to score alright dad on a scale from one to ten, just to make it a little easier to grasp.
"I mean, compared to my dad, you're practically the best!" She continues, completely unperturbed to Bruce's inner turmoil.
He tries not to soak in the praise of being the best dad given he's up against Cluemaster of all people. During this dilemma, Stephanie has wandered off somewhere into her own mind, twirling a chip absentmindedly into the corner of the cardboard box it had come in with a lost expression.
She speaks more to herself than Bruce when she then admits, uncharacteristically timid, "I used to dream about Batman coming to save me when I was little. I even left my window unlocked, so you could find it easier to come in. It was nice, having that fantasy, of Batman beating up my dad and locking him in a cupboard for a change."
Bruce listens intently, hands clasped tightly under the table. Stephanie doesn't want his opinion right now, she doesn't even want his comfort (or pity, as she would probably see it) — she wants Bruce to wait and listen. Bruce is anything if not patient. He's lived his whole life on the basis of patience. Whether that be meditating on mountains with monks in India or coaxing assassin children to not bring knives to the playground.
Stephanie crushes the chip in between her fingers, looking troubled, "But then I grew up. Batman wasn't coming to save me."
As most stories go, for Bruce's children. They grow up. Too fast.
"I'm sorry." Bruce tells her genuinely, honestly. It feels a little strange. The lights of the fast food restaurant are bright and artificial, and there's a weird orange stain on the ground beside Bruce's foot. Stephanie has mayonnaise smeared on the collar of her jumpsuit and Bruce is —
Stephanie scoffs, though not unkindly, "I'm sorry too. I don't even know why I called you. You could've been home sleeping."
"No," Bruce tells her vehemently, startling both of them with the sudden directness, "I mean — of course not. You should always call me when you're in trouble. I don't mind."
"I hardly think getting drunk and sad counts as trouble." Stephanie tells him, fiddling with her meal box. The toy is still wrapped in the small plastic bag inside, untouched.
"It doesn't matter, I would come regardless." Bruce tells her earnestly, and quickly, he realises that they're having a conversation about something else entirely, "You're — you're important to me, Stephanie. Don't forget that."
Stephanie freezes at that, and so does Bruce. For the first time that night, the drunken fog behind Stephanie's eyes clear up, and she peers into Bruce with her own pair of crystal sapphires. It's a test, Bruce faintly realises. Stephanie is searching for something in him, something the two of them have worked hard to rebuild time and time again.
If he blinks, sitting in front of him is a little girl. She's got a head of angry blonde hair, tied into two messy pigtails. She's missing one of her teeth, and on her face sits a small, pink crooked nose. This must be the little girl who sat up at night waiting by her window, wondering if Batman would come save her today.
Batman hadn't been there for her, and he'll regret that for the rest of his life.
But right now, Bruce Wayne is here.
Wordlessly, he opens his own box meal and pulls out the small plastic bag, fiddling with the seal. Bruce clears his throat, suddenly feeling incredibly ridiculous when he asks, "Well, aren't you going to open yours?"
Stephanie stops staring, and instead, she grins. Bright and unforgiving, eagerly pulling out her own little Bat-meal toy and ripping into it with excitement. Bruce watches her for a second, and feeling a little childish, and overwhelmed with something that feels like contentment, he rips open his own toy.
"Oh my god!" She cries, startling the only other person in the restaurant at half past three in the morning, "I got Robin!"
Bruce peers into her hands, and snorts beside himself when in her palm sits a scowling figure of Damian. The toy even comes with a little plastic sword. On any other occasion, Bruce might have found himself slightly concerned by the glorification of the weapon on a children's toy, a toy of his son no less, but at that moment, it's too funny to take seriously.
Stephanie is laughing herself silly, almost knocking over Bruce's half eaten box of nuggets as she shakes the table in her glee, "Do you think I could get away with sticking him on the fridge?"
"You're welcome to try." Bruce tells her sternly, but the smile on his face betrays him. Damian certainly won't be pleased when he wakes up to see a miniature plastic version of him stuck next to Alfred's grocery list.
Her smirk tells him that she definitely will be trying, "Well? Who did you get, Bruce?"
Bruce feels his smile soften, though it doesn't grow any dimmer. Rather it's smaller, more personal, a little closer to home.
He spares a look at Stephanie again, pleased when he sees the colour has returned to her face, her crooked nose flushed. Her eyes are creased in little crescent moons, smiling widely, and her hair is sticking all over the place. But she is happy. She is here.
Slowly, Bruce reveals the small plastic toy that is very carefully tucked into his palm, as if it were a delicate glass statue, or a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest too early.
In his hands, sits Spoiler.
Opposite him, Stephanie laughs until she's pink in the face. Bruce imagines he looks just as ridiculous.