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Steph thinks things could be going a whole lot worse for them than they currently are.
She doesn’t say it, because Tim’s doing enough complaining for both of them about being trapped a decadish in the past of a probably parallel universe that's kind of a mish of their own.
And wow—isn’t that a first. She can’t even be fully blamed for this scenario either, because Tim had been the one that was dying to look at subject-A0E9—probably magic adjacent, definitely alien in nature—she’d just…liberated it. From the plexiglass case that she’d bet money wasn’t doing anything to begin with.
Sure it might have reacted when she’d tossed it at Tim, but their jaunt back and sideways in space-time was safely a joint effort. He’d been the one to loudly wonder if the object 'colloquially’ known as the Space Stone, only moved around spatial space or if it was more of a meta physical thing.
The answer turned out to be yes.
She’s frankly very impressed with how the sentient space rock apparently decided to prove it could by doing the absolute most.
Sassy.
Steph can respect that.
“Earth to Boy-Wonder,” she says, when Tim’s cloud of teen angst starts polluting the air and drawing more attention from the respective campus coffee shop patrons than an average Gotham U student would warrant, “any luck on finding it?”
Tim hisses, honest to God hisses like the half feral cat he pretends not to be, and immediately dives back to his stolen laptop. He’s been hacking for the past day and a half into every planet-side data-base they can both think of, and it makes Steph feel a little bad for the poor kid whose actual name is attached to the I.P address.
“We’re doomed,” Tim says, day three of their retro stay.
“Still no luck,” Steph hasn’t been much help, she’s good for bouncing ideas between, but tech stuff and hacking has never been something she’s particularly gifted at, no matter how much time she spends watching Babs and Tim fire code between each other. She’s not awful, but her skills are basic and they only have one laptop between them.
“No,” Tim’s tone is downright miserable, “I found it.”
“Great,” Steph says, she doesn’t have to force the cheer into her voice, loitering and squatting got old the second day, she misses her bed and her squishmellows and Dunkin. She’s not sure how this universe functions without Dunkin, but Starbucks just doesn't fill the cheap chain store coffee niche the same way. “Let's go get it, I’m thinking I-Hop, Bruce's treat.”
Tim swivels his screen, shoving it into her face with more force than she’d usually tolerate, but this world doesn’t have Monster or Redbull or any high caffeinated soda so she thinks she can look past it. For now. “We Can’t. It’s currently in possession at the Museum of Extraterrestrial Sciences and won’t be put on display until their annual Charity Gala.”
So the article says. It also says that the event is only a week from now. Convenient.
It feels a bit daunting to see the way the uncut crystal sits, fastened on a cushion, surrounded by five others. “Why’s it in Rhode Island?”
“Apparently the Justice League was based there,” Tim says, ripping his hands and through his hair in clear frustration. “Is still based there? I don’t know. The museum uses the same infrastructure and security as the Watchtower.”
“Meaning our chances at stealing it….”Steph trails off.
She’s not sure Catwomen herself could steal directly from the JL. At least not without Batman back dooring her way in. She and Tim make a good team, but they’re not that good. At least at grand larceny.
“We’re going to have to make contact.”
“I thought you said that was a last resort that could have potential world ending consequences.” Steph tries to physically put air quotes into her words.
She’d suggested, back when they first landed smack dab in the middle of Gotham, making contact with the Bat. Or at the very least the Titan’s, but Tim had vetoed her. And yeah, maybe he had a point about letting things progress at their natural pace without outside interference, he also had a self-destructive streak a mile wide that she didn’t want to be part of.
“I don’t see how we have any other options.” Tim’s voice is pure Robin. Even and flat and logical. It makes her antsy. “The only time the stone is going to be accessible to the public is at that gala.”
“Perfect,” Steph says, “we can snag it then.”
The expression on Tim’s face does a shuttering thing. “Absolutely not.”
It’s funny. Steph can’t help but laugh a bit. She knows it’s mean spirited, but—”Tim, don’t tell me you’re seriously thinking of messing with this universe's time stream just to avoid going to some boogie rich people party.”
Tim’s silence is deafening. The clicks of his keyboard hitting with more force than necessary.
“Oh my god, you actually are.”
“A gala comes with unforeseen risks that we can not take.”
“Yeah, like making small talk with the 1% and eating bland food worth half a year's salary.”
“You’re not taking this seriously,” Tim sighs, tired.
“No you’re taking this too seriously,” she says, “Come on, a gala can’t be that bad.”
Tim snorts, “Wanna bet?”
So the plan is this;
^Sneak into the Gala—made easier by the fact that Rhode Island doesn’t believe in external video surveillance, and the internal camera system in non—archival parts of the museum is captured on an 8 bit potato.
Cyber based infrastructure is still stuck in the nebulous zone of the early 2000’s. So while looking the part and acting it wouldn't have done anything for them back in their post Tiktok age, Steph’s confident that once they’re in, they’ll be staying there.
^Use the presence of multiple high level celebrities to keep security—which amounts to a handful of various small town police departments and exactly two Green Lanterns—too preoccupied on crowd control to worry about little old them.
Sure there’s bound to be actual JL members in attendance, but they’re heavily relying on the trapping them in their civilian identities.
Which is where Steph comes in.
Praise be the confines of societal conventions.
^Steph is going to be the distraction™.
Tim’s got the easy job of securing their interdimensional train ticket back home. Which, funny, Rhode Island has the public infrastructure of a legum, meaning they have steal a car to make it the four hour trip from Gotham to the coast.
A four hour trip that Steph spends vibrating with excitement. She’s so looking forward to trolling rich people.
Technically, she only has to keep the caped attendants attention off them and busy, but realistically?
When is she ever going to get another consequence free chance to shatter egos?
She’s not, because Tim is never going to let her within sixty-feet of a society event ever again.
High profile, yes. Perfect also yes.
Steph enjoys being attention grabbing. She doesn’t think anyone would doubt that, but she kind of wants to snap a picture of the charity shop dress she picked, just incase anyone ever does.
It’s a Y2K monstrosity of a prom dress. Neon pink with black and white zebra accents. The bodice is skin tight, cinched in along the sides before flaring out into short ruffles that end above her knee.
For added effect, she’d made a matching duct tape headband while Tim had struggled to find parking. Clearly she was born just a little too late to truly enjoy the height of fashion. She’s not even the only one dressed like an early addition of J-14’s red carpet spread. There’s a lot of clashing patterns and turquoise going on.
She spots Bruce before he does her.
It’s weird. His hair is completely black. For as long as she’s known him he’s had grey at his temples and crows feet around his eyes. But yeah, he’s like twelve years younger now, so maybe she can sort of see what made him the heartthrob of the decade.
She can at least see what the media likes about him. He photographs well.
Steph makes it a point to stand in the corner of every would-be-magazine-cover shot the camera points his way. Maybe she’ll become this universe's version of the Fiji water girl.
Tim’s hand tightens around hers when he figures out where they’re drifting. He’s usually quicker, but his eyes haven’t left Dick since they walked in. He’s younger than them now. Thirteen and not almost thirty. Still Robin, not an ounce of Nightwing anywhere in him.
“Who’s she?” Steph asks, jerking her head to gesture at the blonde next to him.
“Artemis,” Tim says, low. Eyes flicking to the kid who kind of looks like Kon, but more serious. Stockier, with none of the personality that usually goes along with the super. “This world’s version at least.”
“That’s not an Amazon,” Steph says. She can’t help it. If she didn’t know any better she’d have thought this was Arrowette. Not the Outlaw.
“Inconsistencies are hallmarks of a stable dimensional rift.” Tim lets go of her, walking with purpose toward the corner where the food’s been set up. It’s all stuff Steph doesn’t think she’s ever heard them name off.
“There’s a lot of S.K’s.” She gestures down to a plate of something dessert adjacent. A variable monstrosity of modern art, all the food’s been cut perfectly into nice Minecraft bricks. Tim picks up a piece of skewered orange. Twirling it in his fingers.
Now that she’s looking, she can spot who she assumes to be this world's teen team. They’re more obvious about it than the adults. The Atlantean isn’t hiding his gills and the girl—next to who she imagines is Superboy,
—has already changed her hair color from red to strawberry in the three minute span they’re been watching.
She’s never been a member of an explicit team, the Titan’s are a Robin thing, not a Batgirl thing, and definitely not a Spoiler thing, but she can’t imagine the rules on secret identities are that lax. At least not with the general public.
“They were probably alerted to the disturbance in the force,” Tim says, over extending his hand into the chocolate fondue fountain. It’s a calculated move. One that covered not just his outer suit jacket but the white of his long sleeved undershirt, too. Giving him the perfect excuse to excuse himself.
Steph watches him go. More importantly, she watches the girl arrow watch him go.
Well. She does have a job to do.
She takes the entire charcuterie board, fancy wine glass of jam included, with her as she makes her way across the ballroom.
Oliver Queen is a bit of a diva.
Sometimes he pretends not to be. But he’s a trust fund kid at heart and can not stand not being included at all times.
He’s also a lunchables kind of guy.
Meaning his favorite food at any given time can be described as cheese and crackers. Steph makes the deliberate choice to sit across from his line of sight, on the floor, legs crossed, with her fancy wooden board of over priced Ritz across her lap.
She chews loudly, dropping grapes and getting crumbs all over the hardwood. The group of women who had been debating the merits of eating a single spoon of sea moss per day, skitter away, and she’s rewarded with a perfectly in time with her bite eye twitch, promising she has attention.
“Want some?” She asks, loud and not particularly to Oliver, but helpfully directed by a collective round of not it—that he lost.
Ha.
Like a loser.
“Good. Thanks.” His tone does not imply he’s grateful in the least. His gaze chases the back of a starlet that reminds Steph strongly of Black Canary. It’s in the straight back and sharp eyes. Wild. They must not be a thing yet.
“Did you know there's a giant blue bug right when you first get into Rhode Island,” Steph carries on, undeterred.
“Can’t say I did.”
The thing about these charity events is that there are rules to them. Steph doesn’t really know them. Not the way everyone else in Bruce's hoard does. She got a basic crash course from Alfred when she first started dating Tim, back when everyone thought there would be a possibility she’d ever waste her Saturday night at one of these things.
Oliver can’t just walk away from her. Not without making a statement. Rich are all about reading too much into each minute action. If he leaves while she’s talking to him, without an excuse, he’s effectively snubbing her. And every eye in this corner of the room is pretending not to be laser focused on watching that happen.
No one knows who Steph came with. The less she cares about looking good, the more independent wealth everyone assumes her parents have. No one wants to be the one to burn that bridge.
Nevermind the fact that Bruce is probably the only one who could ever get away with his kids acting like this. Alfred would never allow it.
“His name is Nibbles Woodaway, isn’t that the cutest thing. I kind of wish we had something like that in Gotham, but you know our Rogues,” Steph says.
“Yeah, you got the clown,” Oliver scoffs. Gotham has a host of other villains who’d appreciate the giant metal bug more. Personally, Steph had been thinking of Poison Ivy. Matching aesthetics.
“Yeah, he is pretty bad,” Steph agrees, “But I’d take a killer clown over Star City’s issues any day.”
“Now wait—”
Steph talks over him, cutting him off before he has a chance to finish the sentence. Oliver has a short temper, and a personal investment in his city looking better than Bruce’s. Pointing out their disparities was on page five of B’s very thorough plans for neutralizing Justice League internal threats. “I mean yeah we’re home to the creepy pasta capital of the world, but Star City’s main antagonist is rampant poverty. We can wear our Wayne Foundation sponsored gas masks, but nothing is saving you from that income to housing rate disparity.”
“Queen Industries makes frequent investments into our community.”
“Yeah, by paying what? 10% over minimum wage and hiring remotely in other states? I don’t know if you’ve heard, but that's only like twelve dollars an hour. This glass of jelly is worth a whole week’s pay at your company,” Steph says, tilting her glass back and taking a gulp. The taste is almost identical to Motts Apple Sauce.
“We pay competitively,” Oliver says, “And we can’t all hemorrhage money into tax deductions.”
“I wouldn’t say creating public safety nets is hemorrhaging money,” Steph says in her blondest voice, channeling her inner Elle Woods, “Wayne Tech hasn’t ever filed for chapter eleven. I know you wouldn’t expect it, but providing protective gear and paying a living wage actually funnels money back toward the company. Did you know there's a thriving Etsy niche dedicated to customizing PPE?”
Steph hands Oliver the wooden cutting board, he takes it on muscle memory and almost drops it when she lets go. “I think you’d actually be up this quarter if you started selling little diy kits. That’s how the woman who lives in the apartment above me paid off her student loans. Maybe you could even borrow a creepy pasta. Obviously we can’t give you our headliners, but Smile Dog might fit in. Or Eyeless Jack?”
Oliver’s face had gotten more red with each word that came out of Stephs mouth. Settling in an unflattering purpley color that leaves her itching to go on. She doesn’t get the chance to, because Artemis has also been watching the vein’s bulge from the side of Green Arrow's throat.
It can’t be good for his blood pressure, being so high strung. So Steph decides to spare him the ‘What Internet Cryptid Are You’ quiz she’d memorized from Buzzfeed and graciously move on with her night once the blonde start’s walking over and she’s successfully covered Tim’s tracks.
It’s harder to pick her next target, now that no one is jumping out to her as an immediate threat. She wanders along the wall coming up to a cluster of exterior Milky Way Galaxy moon rocks that look like chunks of asphalt from the parking lot.
“Are these more or less radioactive than the Cumberland Farms nacho cheese across the street?”
Some guy with a serious case of side burns had come up next to her while she’d been ‘distracted’. He looked at her like someone might look at an ant or a chewed piece of gum they almost stepped in.
“You’re right. You have to go all in with gas station food. Wizard Fingers and unpasteurized coffee milk it is.”
“Alpha or Omega,” Steph says, quickly placing herself directly in front of Lex Luthor, who’d been headed down the hallway Tim had taken backstage, where the artifacts were being stored.
She’d noticed him moving to begin with because both Clark and Hal had been not so subtly inching closer. Superboy too, but at a further distance.
“What is—” Lex says, trying to side step her. She blocks him, and it’s only the fact that he’s trying not to draw the attention of the crowd he's just ditched that saves her from being full body shoved out of the way. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Doubtful,” she says, looking around innocently for an imaginary flock of more important people. They’re in a pretty secluded place, with the majority of the guests clustering together in the middle of the dance floor and around the catering tables. “Besides, it's a simple question with a binary answer.”
“I’m not taking questions at this time,” He tries again to dismiss her. His teeth grind, adding to the uncanny valley affecting his general appearance gives him. How does anyone pretend not to know he’s a super villain.
“Coward,” Steph keeps playful, herding him a little more to the left until she’s just close enough to extend her arm and loop it over Clark’s shoulder. She doesn’t dare repeat the gesture on Luthor. She’s not sure she wouldn’t get anthrax. “I’m just asking what the people want to know. Right Daily Planet?”
Clark has his press pass on along with his clueless country boy smile. He nods earnestly, probably just happy to have an excuse to stall Luthor himself.
Hal goes down the hallway. An issue, but a manageable one. Tim can take him. Steph has money that Hal won’t even notice there’s a Bat around. His situational awareness is lacking.
“I have a theory about it, but it’s only fair to ask the source.”
“I’m not humoring childish antics.”
Luthor goes to side step them once again. And Steph lets him get a whole three feet away before she projects her voice. “Spoken like an omega.”
Instantly, Lex freezes. Steph can barely contain her laughter at the pure venom that drips from his voice when he asks, “Excuse me?”
“I know a pre-heat omega when I see one.” Steph elbows Clark for emphasis and gets another nod in agreement for her efforts. Luthor looks more pissed at Clark’s affirmative somehow. “I’m more of a beta myself, but you know there’s nothing to be ashamed about. You don’t need to internalize your omega-phobia. I hear that can manifest in really unhealthy ways. Like baby trapping.”
Luthor lets out a sound not unlike the whistle of a tea kettle.
“Have you considered nesting? Amazon sells these bed tent things that look to die for,” Steph calls after him. From the look of pure murder in his eyes, Clark’s presence is the only reason he chooses to walk away and not act on his obvious urge to a woman. She decides to press her luck, following a few paces behind him toward where the bathrooms are. It’s tempting to start talking about pheromones, but she hears screaming and the sound of something heavy hitting the tile floor. Sure, Lex is going to be billed, but she doesn’t want to be the reason the museum has to close for repairs.
Steph’s not usually someone who cares too much about where her food comes from. Logically she knows that most products she eats come from animals—the factory farming industry is a nightmare and that the only real way to eat ethically and sustainably is to support small homesteaders and independent farmers, but in practice—she likes fast food.
Seeing the lobsters in the tank, waiting to be picked out and served as their main course is just a bit too morbid for her. Which is how she decides that today, she will be liberating the little guys.
She’s carefully easing the tank out the back corridor when the wheel makes a harsh scratch over the laminate floors, stalling the daring rescue and alerting yet another sidekick to her location.
Again manageable. Steph’s chosen route has put her closer to the administration end of the museum. The fire exit leading out to where the gift shop unloads their warehouse pallets. She’s probably actually breaking the law with this, but in T-minus however many more minutes Tim needs that’s not her problem.
“You shouldn’t be back here,” the atlantean says. Steph wishes she had a name to put to his face but he’s nothing like the Aqualad that was on Dick’s Teen Titan’s roster.
“And you should?” Steph asks, pulling with her back to try and unstick the wheel. Her strength comes mostly from her core and is no match against the forty odd gallons of water. “I could use a hand you know.”
“I fail to see how that’s appropriate.”
“Look at these innocent little faces. Fish are friends, not food.” Steph reaches into the tank and grabs out the cutest Lobster within arms length. It flails, endearingly snapping its tail and spraying water all over the floor. Their shoes are a forgone casualty. Steph’s hoping he’s not wearing socks. Wet socks never made anyone happy. “You can’t tell me you want them to kill Larry.”
“Larry?” He gives her a look. Steph is intimately familiar with that look.
“Yeah. L for Larry, L for Lobster. L for Larry the Lobster. It’s the phonetic alphabet.”
Fortunately, her sanity is spared from being outwardly questioned by the sound of footsteps a few meters off. She drops Larry back in the tank and hip checks the atlantean into the glass.
“You’re incriminated now,” She says, bulldozing over the beginnings of his protests, “ Your D.N.A is all over the glass. So I’m trusting you to get these guys back to the ocean. They’re a little too big for the toilet, so you’re going to have to book it.”
His crumbling resolve is almost tangible when he grabs the handles. “Why would—”
“No time for questions,” Steph says, making shooing motions with her hands, “Go go go.”
She waits till he’s moving backward out the loading dock before booking it back toward the ballroom.
Her good deed secured.
“Diana!” Steph screams, after walking face first into the Amazon princess’s chest. She feels the fates pull her string tight, and prays they spare her poor mortal soul. “Prince! Diana Prince!”
Does Wonder Woman have a well known public identity in this time? Steph hopes so.
“Yes,” Diana doesn’t really ask. She takes a step back creating distance and raising her tone just enough to imply the question. Her dress is breathtaking. The rich navy blue contrasting with her skin tone, drawing the eye directly to how high the slit of it runs up her thigh. Steph’s a little bit in love.
Jason is going to be so jealous when she tells him about this.
“Please,” Steph screams, faux grandeur in every word, “My bisexual eyes are not worthy.”
For emphasis, she turns around and faces the wall. Diana, bless her, doesn't question the action. Maybe this is how the Greeks treat demi-gods. Maybe she’s met a lot of disasters. Either way, she only lingers a few moments before going back to whatever she’d been doing.
“If an alien dresses up like a human, is that their fursona.” Steph’s pretty sure it’s Miss Martian she’s cornered near the drinks table. That’s the only one who makes sense, shape shifting wise.
“No?” She looks up from the cups she’s been examining. They’re all not alcoholic and equally terrible to each other. Steph grabs a seltzer and a lemonade and a fruit cocktail mixer and pours them all together in an empty serving bowl that was left lying around.
“You think, cuz you don’t need fur for it to be a fursuit. I’ve seen a lot of alligators.” Megann watches. Vaguely in horror as the stuff turns an off yellow brown and Steph takes a swig. “Want some? It’s awful.”
Out of politeness, Megann takes the bowl. Out of awkwardness, she takes a sip. Steph pretends not to notice when she chugs the rest.
Steph stops mid loop around the dance floor when she comes across a group of government officials. She recognizes one as the state senator—she’s got a helpful little pin saying so—and another from the billboards they passed for governor candidates.
She stares. Waits until they feel the full weight of her eyes and stop talking between themselves, and then gives them another twenty seconds of border collie treatment, before with the utmost seriousness saying, “See you later alligator.”
And without even thinking, everyone answers—in scripted unison—back, “In a while crocodile.”
Just like the radio promised they would.
Conner is very, very quiet when he comes up to her. She’s busy drawing cute little messages on napkins with a pen she liberated from a waiter, and he’s used that to move directly into her blind spot.
Eventually, Steph can’t power through. “Need something?”
She’s not sure exactly what. She hasn’t been that interesting. On a threat level scale, but you never can be sure what sets the alarms off.
“Yeah, actually.” Conner crosses his arms. And it’s all jock and none of the punk she’s come to expect from him. Different worlds with entirely different personalities.
“Are you going to tell me what?”
“What’s an omega?”
Steph can’t help choking. “Come again?”
“What’s an omega?” He sounds super grumpy. Like he can’t decide if he’s more upset with having to repeat himself or ask her in general.
“Oh my god,” Steh says, beside herself at the opportunity she’s just been handed, “Oh my god, I’m going to blow your mind with this please tell me you have a cell phone on you.”
Steph’s not sure what the state of daily technology is, but based of the laptop they’d been using she’s pleasantly surprised when Conner hands her something that’s almost identical to an Iphone 5. Ao3 might be a few years off but LiveJournal is thriving. She makes the executive decision to set Conner up right, and chooses a 150k Destiel fic to introduce him to the genre.
“Homework.”
Steph’s hiding under a table when Dick scoots down next to her.
“What did you do,” he asks, suspicious, and failing at keeping the mirth out of his voice.
“Nothing,” Steph says, on reflex. Dick stares her down, she knows from experience that the more innocent she tries to be the guiltier she looks to him. He’s such an oldest daughter. “I’m just spreading positivity, that's all. Totally harmless, look.”
She points at where a balding man in a white suit is standing. Taped to his back is a note that says ’Looking sharp Mr.Clean!’.
She gets a bark of laughter. The suspicious look morphs into something fond. Safe to say her threat level has dropped back to an acceptable baseline.
Over the next fifteen minutes, they don’t say much. They just watch as various little notes pop up around the attendants. Dick points out the ones he sees. A pink napkin with hearts that reads ’tweed <3, a small cartoon bee proudly proclaiming ’I’m the bee’s knees’, her best imitation of serial killer lettering saying ’ask me about my collection’. She even managed to stick one on Kid Flash saying ’Team Tortoise’, while she’d gone back to the snack table for the bowl of kettle corn.
Taking the whole thing had left him so distraught, he didn’t even flinch when her hand brushed his back in a ‘commiserating pat’. The memory of it has her giggling to herself.
It’s nice, and for the first time Steph feels genuinely homesick.
“So,” Dick says, conversationally. That's never a tone that bodes particularly well for them. “How long are you guys staying for?”
Steph decides to go with the tried and true method of playing dumb. “Well I think there’s still another hour to this thing.”
There’s not a lot of room between. Their shoulders are brushing together, so she has to settle for picking the skin around her nails to hide her usual nervous tells. Lying is something they’re trained in excessively. Steph is good at it. Dick has Robin magic, though, none of them have ever stood a chance at getting away with anything.
It’s practically his super power.
“Right,” Dick nods, looking back toward the dance floor, “for the record, we’ve been instructed to monitor the situation. You know the drill, observe and report back. But I have it on good authority that B’s already made contact with your partner.”
Steph’s glad he’s not watching her. The shock on her face is unflattering. Historically, she’s alway been awful at maintaining the poker face everyone else in Gotham get’s when they move to the city.
“What gave it away?” Steph sighs. Trust Batman to have the whole thing unraveled within a week. She should have expected that if Dick knew there was a situation, he’d have all the information—authorized to or not—memorized.
“You didn’t think you were being subtle?”
“No,” Steph agrees easily. That’s the point of her being the distraction, she was supposed to be the opposite of covert. “But you can’t tell me you knew the whole time.”
Dick’s face screams self-satisfaction. “We knew the moment when you guys showed up outside the Zeta beam.”
“No way.” Steph punches his shoulder. It’s easy with him being so small and dainty looking to give into the urge to bully him. Especially with the way his hair is slicked back. She wants to ruffle it. “You’re lying to look cooler.”
Dick crosses his arms and knocks into her. The action makes the table rattle. “You caused a massive energy disturbance consistent with inter-dimensional travel.”
“Okay well why didn’t you guys do anything then?” Steph asks.
If this is a problem they’ve had before she can’t imagine why Tim and her were just allowed to wander as two potentially enhanced unknowns without an escort.
“Uh, protocol. Maintaining the timeline. Protecting the structural integrity of your rift,” Dick says, raising a finger with each of his points. He shrugs after a solid couple seconds of holding his serious face. “Besides, you guys seem harmless.”
Steph snorts, unflatteringly.
She hasn’t been called that by anyone in years. She knows the imagine her and Tim present. The way the lean muscle of their frame contrasts with the deep set circles under their eyes and resting bitch face.
Dick’s probably the one person who looks at them and sees them as kids, not as would be threats or contained soldiers. Her heart breaks a little, at the reminder that he’s always been so fundamentally caring.
“I know a lot of things that would make your life easier,” Steph says after they’ve lapse again into people watching.
Sparing Jason the pain of dying would be nice. So would rescuing Cas and Damian earlier, before they have the chance to be traumatized. If directly asked, Steph knows she wouldn’t have the resolve not to keep quiet. No matter what that would mean for herself.
If Jason never dies. Tim never becomes Robin. She knows she’d still have become Spoiler, but it feel like without her best friend, that's where her involvement with the Bats ends.
Wow.
What a lonely thought. Not having her pseudo-adopted family.
No Red Hood, though. Or League raised Robin. Or Black Bat. Just normal—as normal as anyone raised by Bruce can be—kids.
She’s about to start, when Dick cuts her off, “You used B’s protocol for distracting the JL. I’m kinda surprised it worked with the YJ, but I guess we are our mentors sometimes.”
“I could give you the bullet points,” she outright offers.
“No can do,” Dick grins. His show stopping Robin smile. Steph can see how it swept them all up to begin with, how his charisma earned him a spot as the first real sidekick. “Something tells me I have a very vested interest in the timeline staying intact. I’m looking forward to siblings.”
“Confident.”
“I’ve always wanted some,” Dick says. Steph can see that it’s true. She can’t help but wonder what went wrong when Jason first came into the picture. “And you’re fun. I’ve never seen Oliver turn that color before, and I watched him third wheel, Selina and Brucie.”
“Why would he ever?”
“Well funny you should ask, it started—-“
She finds herself drifting. Lulled by the heat against her side and the familiar sound of Dick talking adamantly about the funniest thing to ever happen. Steph’s not sure how much time passes, but she’s brought back to the present by Dick nudging her shoulder. “Everyone’s saying goodbye.”
“Oh.” Steph rubs her eyes, taking Dick hand as he helps her out and back up to her feet. “Already?”
He doesn’t let go of her hand as they start out of the now practically empty ballroom. Steph trusts him to know where they’re heading. “Your partner’s probably getting tired of waiting. I let you take a nice nap.”
Outside the windows is pitch black. She’d have to have spent the entire last hour knocked out, which would explain why her feet feel heavier with every step she takes. It has nothing at all to do with the fact that she’ll miss this version of Dick. She can’t help being a little attached, it’s not like they’re strangers.
“Hey,” Steph says, "Sorry if I caused you guys any trouble. Thank your friend for the lobsters for me.”
Dick gives her a strange look before ultimately deciding to shrug it off.
He leaves her once they’re in view of the exit, and she walks the rest of the way to where Tim is standing—slightly singed—next to the door. In one of his hands is the Space stone, in the other is a glob of glitter glue. Bruce is making a point to not look in their direction. His overall presence does everything to convey the fact that he’s acutely aware of them.
To the average person, he’s still dressed immaculately. To her Bat trained eye, Steph can see all the little inconsistencies. From the strands of hair that have fallen out of his carefully gelled in place do, to the small flecks of neon green paint chips along his breast pocket.
Part of her is dying to go up to him and get every detail of what’s bound to be the story of the year out of him. A larger part of her honestly can’t be bothered to. Tim will fill in the details once they’re both back and properly caffeinated in their own universe.
“Ready?” Tim asks.
“Definitely.” Steph takes his hand and feels the sticky stuff mush between her fingers. She nods toward Bruce and gets a barely perceivable nod in acknowledgment. Her bet is on him being the cause of this absolute sensory nightmare. “I’m exhausted. You have no idea how much work this was.”