No Dawn, No Day: Part Six

[flamingballs]

Title: No Dawn, No Day: Part Six
Fandom: DC Comics
Author: quipquipquip
Pairing: Damian Wayne/Stephanie Brown
Rating: R
Word Count: 10,000+ words
Disclaimer: All characters belong to DC comics and are used without permission. No profit was made from this work. Non-beta'd, so all sleep-related errors are mine.
Warnings: Violence, language, strong sexual content, meta content concerning the reboot.
Previous Parts: Part One * Part Two * Part Three 1/2 * Part Three 2/2 * Part Four * Part: Holy Glowing Genitals * Part: Holy Cats * Part Five
Alternate Archives: at Archive of Our Own and Fanfiction.net
Notes: "Loveless" is a mob boss mentioned in Batman #666. It was a throwaway line, so this take and development on the character is my own. Gotham City Sirens #24 was all the wrong kinds of inspiration, sigh.



"C'mon, D," she said, flexing her hands in an aggressive come-hither. "Hit me again."

Training was as much a part of their lives as roaming the streets was. In order to keep themselves sharp and agile in situations where their lives were on the line, they had to keep their bodies in tip-top condition. There were days that they waved off, days that they spent in bed or making whatever appearances Damian was required to attend, but for the most part they devoted at least two hours a day to physical maintenance. They staggered it---one day exercising, one day weight training, one day sparring, then rinse and repeat.

They had very different mindsets when it came to training. Damian saw it as just a part of life, integrated into his routines since the time he could walk, but she saw it as a constant challenge. She was always goading him into taking their spars more seriously, either by teasing him until he got annoyed with her or surprising him with a hit when he didn't expect it from her. She wasn't his equal---couldn't be, not with his size and training---but she was still good.

And she was eternally focused on getting better.

"You do realize that the goal of sparring is to avoid being hit, not invite it, don't you?" Damian asked, wrapping athletic tape around his palms.

"Details, details," she said with a dismissive flick of her wrist. "Come at me. Let's do this thing."

"If it pleases the ladies and gentlemen of the court," he twirled a hand at Alfred, their only witness. He was stretched out on their heap of clothes, actively rolling around and shedding on everything he could. "I'd like it to state on the record that Stephanie Brown asked for the ass-kicking I will shortly be administering. She---"

He was embarrassed to admit that she caught him off guard and got a solid suckerpunch in. It wasn't the first time that'd happened, either.

"Stop yammering and start fighting," she told him, cheeks flushed and grin wide.

He held his stomach, smirking despite himself.

"You fight dirty, wench."

"I was taught by the best," Steph reminded him.

"And I was taught by all of the bests. I was taught every way possible to kill a man, and thought up twelve new ways all on my own when I was drunk one night." He grinned back savagely. "I was attempting to figure out a way to kill someone with just a look. That one is still a work in progress, but I feel I'm close to getting it."

"All I'm hearing is blah-blah-blah-hurr-de-durr-I'm-better-than-anyone-'cause-I'm-Daaaaaaaamiiiiiiiian Waaaaaayne. Where's my action? I asked for action."

"As the lady demands," he said, and moved.

He was faster than anyone his size had any right to be. He'd been bred to be the strongest and swiftest, genetically perfect and ran through a wet tumbler until all his edges had been worn smooth. It took all she had in her to keep up with him, but the fact that she could even begin to go toe to toe with him was impressive. Drake hadn't been anywhere near his level when he'd been just a child; she had more than proven herself to be a capable fighter by comparison.

Steph was kept mostly on the defensive, blocking his strikes and kicks admirably, but when she saw an opening she took it---and, he was forever pleased to note, she didn't hold back. She didn't shy away from a knee to the genitals or a punch to the throat. Maybe he hadn't been the best influence on her as far as 'clean' fighting went, but the circles they ran in had no rules. What mattered was effectiveness, and precision, and creativity.

She tired out before he did, of course, so she was leaving holes in her defense before long. Those were dangerous---deadly---so he landed a hard jab to her cheek. If he didn't show her where she left openings, she wouldn't learn to cover them. And if she didn't learn to cover them---well, he refused to think about that. She fell, but she was on her feet and hissing again almost seamlessly.

And that was what made her different from the rest of them, bizarre: she had no inborn talent, no excess of skill, but she would not give up. You could hit her again and again and if she was physically able to do so, she'd get up and tell you to hit her harder next time. It was a rare trait, but one that he liked. There wasn't anything weak about her.

She kicked high---he blocked---but she hooked her leg around him and used her momentum and weight to drag him to the ground.

Steph pinned him, a thumb dug into one of the pressure points he'd taught her to recognize. It made his left hand---his dominant one, if only by a little, as well as the one he was blocking her with---tingle with numbness.

"Not bad?" She asked, breathing hard. Strands of honey-blond hair had escaped her ponytail and clung to her face and neck with sweat.

"Not bad," he agreed, and didn't make any move to push her off of him. He pressed his taped palms against the outsides of her thighs, starting at the hem of her shorts and trailing to the dimpled bend of her knee.

"If I'd known we were gonna play it like that," she said, shifting her weight in a way that made him groan. "I would've taken off my sports bra and won this fight an hour ago."

"Will you shut up and kiss me already? We're through with sparring for now, and I'm---mmph---"

Unlike him, Stephanie didn't have to be asked twice.

There had been a time not so long ago that he would have turned his nose up at this arrangement. The idea of having such a large distraction in his life---one that not only pulled him away from his daily regiments, but from his mission as well at times---had been abhorrent. Nothing could distract him, because he was a man and the Bat and therefore his own island.

But she focused him, reminded him why he did the things that he'd been called to do. She made him happy, so it felt less like a punishment.

And he was with her because he liked being with her. It could be that simple, though he rarely let anything be that simple.

He cupped her cheek and she winced, pulling away.

"Ow. That's going to bruise up." Steph gingerly touched her cheek, exploring it with her fingertips. "And we've got that gala coming up, too. How much do you want to bet that the paparazzi will jump all over this?"

He frowned. "I don't see what you're getting at."

"I look like a battered girlfriend," Steph said, getting up and inspecting her bruises new and old. "Damian Wayne: Claims His Girlfriend Was Just Clumsy."

"That isn't funny," Damian said sharply. He didn't like the thought that someone would assume that he'd hurt her---he didn't like to hurt her at all, even in necessary training exercises. "And furthermore, I would not call you my girlfriend."

He knew that was the wrong thing to say the very moment it left his mouth.

"Excuse me?"

"I would not call you my girlfriend," he repeated, because there was no turning back now. "Especially not to any of those filthy rag-writers."

"Oh," she said, and he could tell that this was going to escalate into an entirely different kind of fight. "I see. I get it. I'm not worthy of being Damian Wayne's girlfriend publicly. We can Dark Knight it up together and screw around, but boy, an older girlfriend who doesn't know a soup spoon from a beverage spoon is just not fit for the public eye. Also, what the fuck is a beverage spoon, anyway? What is wrong with you people---you don't need a spoon for beverages!"

"It's more commonly called a teaspoon, and you use it solely to stir additives into a beverage. Hence its proper name."

"Okay. That does make sense. But, you missed my point."

Damian sighed, putting both hands on her shoulders. They were tactile people, so touch was communication. A touch like that meant listen up.

"And you clearly missed mine," he said. "I would not call you my girlfriend because I find that term demeaning, not because I'm ashamed of you in some abstract way. You're not a girl. You're a woman. It also implies that the relationship is short-term, and I," he lost steam there, pausing for a beat. "I haven't found an appropriate label for us, yet."

He hoped that was answer enough for her, because it was more than he gave, usually. It was difficult for him to paint targets on where his feelings lay, outlining the shapes and depth of them. Everything in him resisted letting his desires see full light. They were too easy to prey upon when they were left where others could see them, and he was fiercely protective of anything that was uniquely his. Too often, he was the sum of his mother and father's parts.

But his feelings for her, his love, was all his. He held onto them and onto her jealously. That was why girlfriend didn't cut it; it was too shallow and banal. Anyone could have a girlfriend, but only he had her. It nettled him in the same way the word sidekick did. The implied imbalance frustrated him, because he didn't see her like that. She was a constant in his life, a now-permanent fixture. He relied on her.

"Duh, D," Steph said. She slid her arms around his waist, bruised cheek pressed to his chest. The hug was brief, but strong. "We're partners."

Her simplicity was brilliant.

*

"Wamf um muf m' moofies," Stephanie asked through a mouthful of crumbs.

Damian paused in the doorway of the kitchen, shaking his head. Whenever he woke up in the middle of the night and found the bed empty, there was an 80% chance that he'd find her in the kitchen. Her sleep patterns were irregular, and the cat always followed her out to keep her company no matter what the hour. Sometimes, Damian just went back to sleep, knowing that she'd crawl back into bed with him sooner or later. Other times, he followed her to the kitchen for an impromptu midnight snack.

"I'm going to assume that was something intelligible. I'm also going to pretend that you said it like a proper human being, with your mouth closed."

Steph scowled, swallowing and taking a sip of milk.

"I said, do you want some milk and cookies? And I'm preemptively telling you that if you say that this is why I'm fat, I'm stabbing you in your sleep."

"You say that like attempts on my life while I slept weren't one of the few traditions of my childhood. I welcome you to try," he said, taking the seat across from her. "And, you---you're not fat, you daft woman."

Even his compliments were paired with put-downs. Stephanie knew what he meant when he said things like that, thankfully. Even though he was eloquent, words failed him when it came to emotional matters. The whole 'girlfriend' mess earlier was a prime example of the highly specific version of Wayne foot-in-mouth-itis.

"Gosh, D, you're making me blush," she grinned, giving him a cookie-sweet kiss. "Next thing I know, you'll be telling me I'm acceptable in bed."

"You meet and sometimes exceed expectation."

"See, you're just brimming with sap. I don't know what to do with myself when you compliment me like this. It gets my heart going all a-flutter."

"Tt."

"So, are you going to eat some cookies with me, or are you going to be all holier than thou about my dirty plebeian snack foods?"

"I'll try one," he said loftily. "But don't expect me to like it."

He fished one out of the neat rows in the package and took a bite.

Stephanie stared at him like he'd grown a second head.

"What are you doing?"

He had the good manners to chew and swallow before answering. "Eating, what does it look like?"

"That's not how you eat an Oreo, heathen."

"Now I'm the heathen, Ms. What the Fuck is a Teaspoon Brown?"

"Yup, you're a heathen and a jerk, but I have a lot of karma to burn through, so I'm stuck with you." Steph opened the package wider, dragging it between them. "Get a glass of milk and allow me to share with you how Oreos are supposed to be eaten."

He did as bidden, and only half because he was always interested in food. He was still a growing boy, so his caloric intake---by Steph's estimation---was almost obscene.

"Guide me in the right way to eat your damned cookies," he said, after he'd poured his own glass. "I'm listening."

"So. You take your Oreo---" she held one up very solemnly. "---and twist it open, like so. Then you lick the filling out of it, because it's the best part and here in America we're all about instant gratification. After you've finished the creme, you dunk the cookie halves in milk and eat them."

"That is needlessly complicated," Damian said, chin in hand.

"Deal with it. That's the way you eat Oreos, and any other way is wrong. Wrong."

He plucked a cookie out, twisting it like she had. It tasted...well. It wasn't bad.

She was watching him intently, waiting for his response. And since she was clearly very emotionally invested in the cookies, he couldn't disappoint.

"Not bad," he said, and reached for another.

"It's crazy," she said, twisting another cookie open and licking the creme. "I craved Oreos constantly when I was pregnant. I couldn't stand 'em for over a year after I had my baby. I'd never thought I'd get tired of Oreos, but I totally did."

"I have heard of worse cravings. That's at least somewhat palatable." He mimicked her movements, twisting and licking and dunking, even though it made him feel slightly ridiculous. In his opinion, the cookies weren't nearly as good as the ones that Pennyworth had made, but they were fair for store-bought.

"I've heard that some women crave stuff like clay and charcoal, so yeah. Lucky, lucky me."

"Though, the method of eating these is unnecessarily time-consuming."

"I had a lot of time on my hands when I was knocked up. And I mean, a lot. I couldn't go to school, my boyfriend was a masked vigilante who wouldn't give me his real name, and my mom took as many shifts as possible to bring in some extra money. I watched a lot of movies and ate a lot of Oreos."

"That's when you started watching Disney movies obsessively, wasn't it?"

"Nah, I grew up on Disney. But you're right---I watched them until I didn't want to eat another cookie or see another talking lion as long as I lived."

"And yet," Damian gestured between them and the package of cookies. "Here you are."

She shrugged, smiling faintly. "Time heals all, I guess."

He gave a noncommittal "Mm," dunking another cookie.

"Okay, smart guy," Steph said, scooting her chair closer to his and commandeering the package. She hooked her bare leg with his underneath the table. She was always doing things like that---forever reminding him that she was there and she was warm and she liked touching him. "Here's Oreo eating: challenge round. You take two cookies and open 'em, then smoosh the two sides with creme together. It's called doublestuff. If you want to really kick it up a notch, you get the already-doublestuffed Oreos and then put 'em together---quadstuffed. Heaven."

"You're impossibly strange," he said, shaking his head.

"You wouldn't want me any other way," she said, beaming.

"No," Damian said quietly, meaningfully. "I wouldn't."

She smiled the kind of smile that crinkled up the corners of her eyes and made them dance. It always left him a little bit dazzled, warming the tips of his fingers and the pit of his stomach.

"You're a charming little bitch, Damian Wayne."

"And you are a magnificent harpy, Stephanie Brown."

"To us," Stephanie said, raising her glass of milk in a toast.

"To us," Damian agreed, clinking his glass with hers. "Partners."

*

"Dispatch, we've got a 11-65---"

"Signal light out," Steph said, not looking up from the tinkering she was doing with one of her batarangs. "No."

"I wasn't going to suggest that we go," Damian said defensively, arms crossed over his chest.

Maybe that was a lie. But it was only a small lie. He was incredibly bored and the night was still young. He was rattling with energy and had nowhere to go with it. Patience and waiting had always been a part of the game, but he'd never gotten a taste for it. He preferred knowing what his targets were and intercepting them with a clear plan in mind. That was not the way of the Bat, though. The way of the Bat was reactionary, not predatory. They stopped crime, rarely heading it off unless it was a threat that needed pruning back.

"Take a chill pill, Bats," she said, making fine adjustments to her equipment before putting it back into her thigh holster. "We shouldn't really get involved in anything big. The gala's tonight, and eyebrows will be raised if we're hobbling."

"Tt." His response was sour and childish, but he didn't care. He needed to do something. It'd been a slow week, and those bothered him. When the crime wasn't apparent, he worried that only meant something big was brewing on the horizon.

"---390D, over---"

Damian reached for the ignition, but the dirty look Stephanie shot him stilled his hand.

"Do you even know what a 390-D is?" She asked in that icy, clipped way that he knew meant he wouldn't be winning the following argument, no matter what he said.

"Burglary...?"

Police procedures had been Grayson's field of expertise, for obvious reasons. There were some things he had not bothered to learn.

"Nice try. It's a passed-out drunk. So, do you really want to go stand over that evil drunk and yell at him in your scary batvoice until he wakes up? If you do, be my guest. But I'm staying in the car."

Damian didn't deign to respond to that with words. He just made another cranky noise low in his throat and leaned back in his seat.

For a few minutes, there was silence---as silent as the Batmobile ever got, at least. There was always an ambient hum, the car waiting to go from zero to day-saving as quickly as needed.

"You're just bound and determined to be a bitch tonight, aren't you?" Steph asked, sounding weary.

"I am not a bitch," Damian replied imperiously. "And I will never understand your fascination with calling me one."

"I only call 'em as I see it. If you were a skunk, I'd call you a skunk. But you're a bitch, so I call you a bitch."

"Tt."

She slid forward with a creak of leathery material, turning the volume of the scanner down slightly.

"Lean your seat back."

He turned and really looked at her, bewildered.

"What?"

"Lean your seat back. You want to do something, so we'll do something."

He didn't even get his seat reclined all the way before she started working at his belt with nimble fingers; it was at that moment that he realized that by 'something', she meant 'something.'

"Friggin' utility belts. Always a pain in the---bingo. Now we're in business."

Damian didn't get the chance to gather himself well enough to ask her what it was she was planning on doing. She freed him from his pants, snorting a little at how he was already half-hard.

He was barely twenty and in peak physical shape. Of course it didn't take much more than a wink and a promise to get him to rise to attention.

"This is probably a bad idea," he said, though he didn't sound anywhere near convinced of that himself.

She licked a broad wet stripe from base to head; it made the hair on his stomach stand up with a rush of electric pleasure. He had to sit up from the feeling, arching.

He exhaled hard, pressing a balled-up fist against his mouth to keep from making too much noise. The Batmobile was soundproof, of course, but she didn't need to know exactly how easy it was to pull him undone.

Stephanie knew already, though. She knew, and she was altogether shameless about the fact. She swallowed him down and it was so good, he momentarily forgot how annoyed he'd been.

Damian's throat worked as he struggled to swallow and his eyelids fluttered. He carded his fingers through her hair, thoroughly enjoying her skills. She brought enthusiasm to everything she did, and he'd learned to truly appreciate it.

"---10-33 on SW Clay and---"

And just like that, she dragged her head back up and let him go with a slightly obscene wet pop. The relative cool of the car was jolting; he readjusted uncomfortably.

"What---what are you---?"

"10-33," Steph said quickly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Metahuman activity. We've gotta go."

He should have picked that up himself---knew that he should have. But he'd been fairly preoccupied.

"But," Damian said plaintively, gesturing almost helplessly at himself. "...but..."

"Oh. Uh. Batboner, right." Steph regarded him very seriously---he could tell that she was trying hard not to laugh. "Not so great for the running and the jumping and the crimefighting."

"No," he agreed. "Told you this was a terrible idea."

"No, it was a great idea. It's been a week since we got any meta activity, so you just have awful luck." She paused, seemingly judging the situation in her head. "How good is the autopilot? Bet I can finish the job before we get there."

God, he loved her. He loved her an impossible amount, because she was going to finish giving him a blowjob and then fight crime with him. There was no way---no way---that a better partner existed. He believed this deep down in the soul he no longer had.

"It will suffice," he said hoarsely, punching in the coordinates.

The vibration of her laugh as she sealed her perfect lips around him again made him grip the steering wheel and groan.

His father and Grayson hadn't realized what they were missing out on by not embracing the possibility of female partners, he thought dizzily.

*

"He calls himself Amygdala," Damian said, watching the rippling mass of flesh contort. He was huge, easily three times Damian's size, and had arms like tree trunks. He was yodeling angry vowels, too worked up to find real words. "He was an angry man whose amygdala was removed in an effort to cure his homicidal tendencies. This just made him angrier."

"Is that really his backstory?" Steph asked, watching the huge man-monster fling trash cans and rent-a-cops around.

"That absolutely is his history, yes."

"Man," she said, hands on her hips. "Talk about scraping the bottom of the origin barrel."

"They can't all be Ivys and Jokers, Batwoman. Some freaks aren't complicated or finessed. They simply are."

Steph sucked in a deep breath and adjusted her gloves. "Well, at least we know we'll be able to wrap this one up quickly. Big things fall hard, and he has the IQ of a raging hamster."

"A hamster that could easily break you over his knee," he reminded her. "I'll play rabbit. You ready a tripline and some knockout gas."

She snapped a smart salute. "Roger that, Bats. Operation Fall Down and Go Boom is go."

She just had to have a name or cutesy phrase for everything. He'd long since accepted that about her and didn't nitpick it as much as he would've liked to.

Damian---privately---enjoyed being the rabbit. He liked riling an enemy up, darting and twisting out of holds as smoothly as a dance. If he couldn't prove his worth with the clean lines and strikes of a kill, he could at least show that he was a step ahead of his foe---literally. Adrenaline coursed and sang, lighting up his veins; there was nothing quite as life-affirming as successfully playing chicken with something that could turn you into yet another bloody smear on Gotham's streets.

Amygdala was a simpleton. The surgery that had turned him into this emotion-driven joke had robbed him of higher brain function. Damian turned on the suit's emergency lights---points of pale blue glow that shone from all the seams and joints of his uniform. It'd been included as a safety measure, a light source in case he was in a situation that required visibility and the use of both hands.

It instantly made him the most interesting thing that Amygdala had seen all day. He clapped his massive hands, entranced by the darting ghostlight.

And he followed him like a child chasing a firefly, like a good little monster.

He heard the muffled noise of a tripline being shot and jumped up, dragging the meta's attention with him. He was too interested in the glowing Bat hanging now hanging from a fire escape to see the line he was about to stumble over.

Amygdala hit the trap---and the line snapped with a sharp, high twang.

"Son of a bitch," Steph said darkly, taking a step back. She'd been ready to hit him with ordinance, but now she was suddenly a brand new target.

The lumbering oaf zeroed in on her voice and staggered forward again. He reached for her, howling, and Damian quickly grabbed her arm and pulled her up onto the fire escape with him. It wasn't enough protection, but it was a momentary stumbling block for Amygdala---the sad, sorry sack struggled with the idea of up for a few moments, fingers miming his want for her. He was like a grievously oversized child demanding a toy that had been put out of reach.

He was stronger than his file stats had outlined, but no matter. As Stephanie had said, big things fell hard. He only had to think of something, turn it around cleverly without resorting to a knife between his ribs.

And that's when the second man-monster crashed in, bellowing.

Some nights just didn't go his way, no matter what he did. This was one of those nights, it seemed like. The meta saw them, looked straight at them, and he braced himself to be shaken down like an apple from a tree.

But then, the second hulking man turned and started pummeling Amygdala. The sounds of his fists hitting home were wince-worthy, the kind of fleshy smacks that heralded things rupturing and breaking. He was merciless, literally beating Amygdala down.

"Holy M. Night, Batman, this is a twist," Steph said, balancing precariously on the railing. "Do we just wait it out and rush the victor?"

"I don't see any reason why not," he murmured, not looking away from the titans fighting below.

Something about this was triggering. Familiar. He combed his memories, plucking out details---he had to be sure, because there was a very real chance that he'd be pitched through a wall if he misjudged the situation due to the interference of rosy-hued memories.

Amygdala warbled a thin moan before he fell and didn't get up again. The smaller meta punched the air with one mailbox-sized fist, shouting "HA!"

"I've got him," Steph said, one of her electric batarangs primed and ready to go.

"No!" Batman barked, grabbing her arm. "Stand down!"

Batwoman froze, hair whipping as she turned to stare at him. It was rare that he gave commands to her like that, but he'd seen something. The big brute had something on his hands, a glint of old bronze that had caught the moonlight and burned.

He dropped from the fire escape, walking calmly up to the meta.

"I was wondering when I'd run into you," Damian said, opening his palms to prove he was unarmed and nonaggressive. He used his own voice, curious. Would he remember, or had his voice changed too much post-puberty?

The meta dragged his head up, bulbous eyes wide under the brim of his hat.

"Da...Robin?" He demanded, his voice deep enough to reverberate through his bones. "Is that really you?"

He gave him one of his brief, sincere smiles.

"Hello, Abuse. It's been some time."

"Robin!" Colin bellowed, picking him up with one massive arm and dragging him into an unwilling hug. He swung him around like a ragdoll, laughing, but stopped that as he began shrinking. This was good, because Damian had long since outgrown the size and age where being spun around like that was appropriate.

The corded muscles and worming veins twisted and shrunk, turning into skinny, freckled arms. He didn't look particularly well. He was still small for his age, thin. His face was sharp and narrow---he looked malnourished, but he knew that was a side-effect of the Venom.

But his eyes glittered brightly.

"You're Batman."

"So it would seem, yes."

"That's amazing," he gushed, still holding tightly to his forearms. He'd gone from hulking to breakably small---smaller than Stephanie, even. It sat awkwardly with him. Last he'd seen him, they'd been roughly the same size. Now, though, he was a man and Colin was a scrawny teenager who turned into a monster. No middle ground existed.

"Hi?" Steph cut in. She'd been watching this all unfold, blessedly silent for once in her life. "Sorry! Sorry. Not to break up this touching broment, but can I get an introduction?"

"Abuse, Batwoman. Batwoman, Abuse. I would use real names, but we are in the field and ought to maintain some level of professional conduct."

"Sorry about the hug," Colin whispered. "I've just. Y'know, missed you and stuff."

"Apology accepted. Just don't do it again."

"Is he...your friend?" Steph asked, and he winced at the disbelief in her voice.

Maybe he had a little bit of trouble connecting with people. That wasn't an uncommon thing. His kneejerk reflex of stabbing anyone who rubbed him the wrong way was a little less common, but he'd mostly outgrown that.

"Yes," Colin answered for him. That one word brought with it a rush of warmth.

That wasn't something he heard often.

"Is she your girlfriend?" He whispered out of the side of his mouth.

But that was something that was just plaguing him lately.

"She is my partner."

"I'm his mature and foxy ladyfriend," Steph said, holding out her hand to be shaken. He did so shyly, freckled face pinkening. "He's got some terminology hangups, but for all intents and purposes I am his girlfriend."

"I like her," Colin told Damian in an undertone.

"She's insufferable," Damian muttered back. "She says she's mature, but that's a boldfaced lie."

"But she seems really nice. She's pretty, too."

"Only a clever ruse."

"I can hear both of you. I'm standing right here, boys," she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"See?" Damian said with a put-upon sigh. "Insufferable."

*

Damian didn't make a deal out of it when he chose to do kind things. There were many people who didn't believe he had a kind bone in his body---that Mother had bred those out of him---but he did have a generous streak. Only those who knew him well were familiar with it, and those special few knew better than to discuss it.

If he did something nice, it was because he wanted to do it. Thanks were not necessary, and if given they were just received with a curt nod.

His generosity was aggressive. He didn't invite Colin to come back to the manor with them; he simply informed him that he would be coming. The skinny teenager hadn't needed to be pushed, though. He'd piled into the back of the Batmobile and vibrated with excitement. He'd spent most of his life acting as a vigilante, but he'd never seen himself as a hero. Heroes were something that the redhead worshipped, so he'd never realized that he was one of them.

To ride in the Batmobile with Batman and Batwoman was a bat-filled dream come true for him. He told them as much, and Stephanie had just beamed at him.

After a tour of the cave that started with Alfred and ended with Chuck, Steph begged off to shower and get ready for the gala. This left Damian and Colin alone to talk. Damian steered his old friend to the kitchen and told him to knock himself out; he sprawled in a chair and watched him happily decimate their leftovers.

"This is really good," Colin said, jabbing a fork at a square of casserole.

"Keep your opinions to yourself. The last thing I want is for Stephanie to get the wrong idea about her cooking," Damian sighed. Alfred purr-trilled a warning before leaping into his lap and stretching. The cat did not ask for attention like a polite animal---he demanded it, and harassed any available human until his needs were met. He headbutted Damian's chin, paws on his chest. He stroked his back, taking a calm moment to lay his thoughts out.

He was glad to see Colin again. Happy. Looking at him across the table made him want to smile, but it hurt a little at the same time. He kicked himself for not searching for him harder---for not following up on the cases that had made him wonder if he was still around, still alive.

Shortly after he'd met Colin, Dick had pulled him aside in private to talk. He'd told him that Venom was toxic, destructive. His face screaming sympathy, he'd told him that it was very unlikely that Colin would live past thirteen or fourteen. In the near-impossible event that he did last longer than that, puberty would push his metahuman system into twisted knots. He'd painted a grim picture, cautioning him, because he'd known that Damian didn't make friends easily. He hadn't wanted him to be crushed when he lost Colin, so he'd propped him up for the inevitable.

When Colin had drifted out of contact after Father's death, he'd assumed that the Venom had claimed his life. The life of an orphan held less weight than the life of a normal child, so his passing hadn't left a mark on the orphanage. His bed had been filled by a new kid, and Damian had carefully pinched the artery of his feelings off. He was practical, not a bleeding heart.

But, by some small miracle, Colin was here and alive and Damian would not lose track of him again. That much he swore to himself.

"Where have you been?" Damian asked as the cat kneaded his legs with sharp claws and pleased purrs.

Colin paused mid-bite, shrugging. "I've been around, I guess. I'm mostly Abuse, anymore. The city needs Abuse a heckuva lot more than it needs Colin Wilkes."

"Untrue," he murmured. "Regardless, it's odd that we didn't cross paths before tonight."

He scraped the bottom of his plate before serving himself another piece of casserole. Damian had to wonder how long it'd been since he'd had a hot meal. Too long, probably. He'd have to make it excessively clear that he would always have a hot meal and a warm place to sleep from now on.

"I stay in the bad parts of town---more kids like me there, you know?"

"Yes, unfortunately. I do know."

"There's millions of people in Gotham," he added after another large bite. "So, it's not so weird when you think about it. But boy, if I'd known it was you in Batman's suit, I would've come to say hi ages ago. You sound just like the old one did, so I couldn't tell the difference. And, well. I kept my head down 'cause a part of me was afraid that if he knew I was using the powers I got from Scarecrow to get even with thugs, he'd tell me to stop."

It hit him---only briefly, because he chased the thought away---that yes, his father would have attempted to stop Abuse. He hadn't believed in an eye for an eye, wouldn't have agreed with the Biblical passages that Colin used to justify his actions.

But Father had justifications of his own, so Damian would not stop him. He and Colin were too alike for him to find fault in what he did.

The silence must have itched at the skinny teen, because he abruptly changed the subject with a smile.

"How long have you and Stephanie been together?"

"Two years," he said, scratching behind Alfred's ear. The shameless hedonist was drooling a little. "Maybe a bit longer. I'm not sure when we officially became 'something'."

"She's really pretty," Colin told him, like that was a compliment to him and his woman-wooing prowess. "And nice, too."

It occurred to him that he'd never spoken to anyone about his relationship with her. Milagro attempted to batter emotions out of him every so often, but he was notoriously closed-mouth about...well, everything. It never felt safe, never felt like something that he could air vocally. He talked about Stephanie to Alfred and to Chuck, which in retrospect was hugely unhealthy.

Damian took a deep breath.

"She is the most important thing in my life."

He said it aloud, and nothing exploded. Nothing changed. The world kept spinning.

It was the most bizarre sense of relief he'd ever experienced.

Colin was smiling, but not at him. He was smiling over Damian's shoulder, his constellation of freckles creased and crinkled.

"Is that so?" Steph asked, sounding pleased.

He turned so quickly, he and the cat almost spilled out of the chair. She'd gotten dressed much more quickly than he'd anticipated, so he had to wonder exactly how much she'd heard. She'd gathered her hair back into a sleek chignon, a few choice ringlets spilling down the side of her neck, and she looked radiant in the champagne cocktail dress he'd suggested.

Damian's face and neck burned, and he shot a crabby, "See what I meant about her being insufferable?" at Colin, who only laughed.

Steph leaned over him, kissing the top of his head.

"Get your monkeysuit on, Prince Charming. We've got a ball to attend. I'll keep your seat warm and your friend entertained while you make yourself pretty."

"Take your time!" Colin said, waving enthusiastically.

*

Wayne Foundation charity galas were twice-yearly events. There was one in winter, when investors were heavy with the spirit of giving to those less fortunate than themselves, and one in early summer, when the promise of warm weather and fruity drinks pried open the fingers of even the most reticent millionaire. This one was the summer version of the charity gala, only differentiated by the heat and the wider color palette of the dresses. The December gala was red and green and white and gold, but the July one was a veritable rainbow of beautiful women.

If he'd been the type to enjoy large groups and open bars, Damian might have looked forward to the galas. But he wasn't a social creature, and he couldn't escape the fact that his presence was mandatory---and that it meant forced interaction with people who hated him. The public loved him, thinking him a cultured young inheritance baby, but there were a choice few who knew him for who and what he was.

Timothy Drake-Waye had to be seen at the events, and Commissioner Barbara Gordon had been a staple for years before his birth. There was no getting away from them, even though they all tried to avoid each other. They were like cats forced to intrude in each others' territory, tense and ready to bat and hiss at a moment's notice.

Stephanie could have taken his approach, but she didn't. She was willing to smile, no matter what arguments lay in the past, and that was a commendable thing.

Damian didn't even try. It would have been a waste of his time as well as theirs. Drake would eternally treat him like a vicious child and Gordon would eternally look at him like she wanted to break his kneecaps with a nightstick.

He watched Stephanie talk to Gordon. There was a stiffness in her posture, an undercurrent of guilt, and he had to force himself to look away. He was too tempted to read their lips, and that conversation wasn't his to hear.

"Is she your girlfriend?" A twenty-something in a very expensive---but poorly fitted---suit asked, eyebrows arched meaningfully. He stank of new money. Probably the son of a dotcommer, all entitlement and no sense of propriety.

That was it. The last straw. The absolute last straw.

The next person to ask him if she was his girlfriend was going to be stabbed. No questions asked. Just stabbed. Probably stabbed several times, since he had a lot of aggression to get out.

"If she isn't," the seedy bastard continued, "Lemme know. I'd like to get myself a piece of that action, if you know what I mean." He laughed, jostling him with his elbow in what he probably thought was a friendly fashion.

It was not.

Damian wanted to grab that elbow and break it in no fewer than three pieces.

Maybe he'd make that 'stab the next person who asks' vow retroactive.

He turned a vicious smile on him that was all teeth. It promised that and a whole lot more.

He might have been a stupid son of a bitch, but he got the picture that he was avidly painting.

"She's spoken for," Damian informed him frostily. "And now if you'll excuse me, I need to cleanse my palate with a drink."

One drink turned into two, two into three, and he had the clarity of mind to stop there. There were too many people around that he wanted to say things to, but he knew that he absolutely should not engage them under any circumstances. Too much liquor would loosen his sharp tongue, and then it'd all go to hell.

Drake decided to come by and have a chat while he was nursing that third whiskey sour. He tried to keep his features neutral, but it didn't help his mood that Drake looked vaguely like he'd caught whiff of something foul every time he looked at him.

He knew what he thought of him. He didn't need to remind him over and over and over.

"I didn't want to come," Drake said, instead of hello. "But I was required. I just wanted to put that out there, in case you feel like I'm trying to make your life miserable."

"You accomplish that merely by existing," he drawled.

His brow creased. It was the only sign that he'd hit a nerve.

"Aren't you still underage?"

"Aren't you still a virgin?" Damian shot back, perfectly mimicking his own voice.

Definitely should have stopped at that second drink.

Drake's eyebrows had disappeared into his hairline.

"Are you drunk?" He hissed in an undertone.

Damian rolled one shoulder in a lazy shrug. "Slightly."

"Jesus, Damian. What do you think you're doing?"

"Do you think I want to be here?" He asked with an expansive gesture at the glitz around them. "I'm not my father. I cannot pretend to be friendly and gregarious. I terrified grown men when I was four years old. I can't fake this, and it reflects poorly upon the company. So, I am drinking. It seemed like a healthy enough way to cope."

Drake took the seat next to him. He looked worried and all too sincere.

Damn him.

"I could take care of the company's public face, Damian. I'm technically the successor and still a major shareholder. You don't have to do this. You have that other job, and you and I both know I'm not cut out for that one."

"Father could," he muttered sullenly at the ice cubes slowly melting in his glass. "Father could balance both."

"Yeah, well. You're not him," Drake said, but not unkindly. "There's some things he couldn't do that you're nailing."

"Like?"

Drake's eyes flicked past his shoulder, out into the crowd. Damian followed his line of sight, resting on a woman whose back was turned to him. She was all summer-tan skin and artfully arranged blond hair, the sweet dip of her back draped by the folds of her champagne-colored dress.

It took him a moment to realize that it was Stephanie. Out in the throng, flitting from group to group with a bright smile on her face, shaking hands and laughing, she was almost a stranger.

She hadn't been born into wealth or prestige. She had no training, no etiquette, but she won people over with her effervescent attitude and magnetism. Her charm was effortless. She reminded the older couples of a daughter or granddaughter, the younger ones of a sister or friend. Steph had an uncanny ability of making herself so invitingly open, strangers felt they'd known her forever and opened up in turn.

He was proud of her. It squeezed his heart almost painfully.

"Bruce could balance the day job and the night job," Drake continued. "You're right about that. But he couldn't carry a real relationship. He wasn't capable of striking that balance, but you're making it work. If you ask me, sacrificing public schmoozing is completely worth having someone like her."

"You missed out on something amazing," Damian said, before he could stop himself.

"I know. And as her friend, I'd rather she give all that wonderful to a frog over a psychotic prick like you, but she made her decision and I have to respect that."

"You have no idea how amazing," he said, and smirked.

It was a smirk that spoke lewd volumes.

Drake went from looking uncomfortable to looking downright ill. He rubbed his temples.

"I really don't want to think about that."

"Earlier, in the Batmobile, we---"

"I'm leaving," Tim said, features pinched. "And I'm also telling the bartender to cut you off. I'll email Lucius about pushing me toward the public arena and you back toward threatening the competition with professional kneecapping. Have a good night."

Flawless victory, Damian cheered inwardly, toasting himself. He was unspeakably smug. It's never tasted quite so sweet.

*

Her rounds finished---asses patted and hands shaken, names remembered and party dates set---Stephanie reappeared at his elbow. She was thrumming with pent-up aggression, and he could have kissed her for being just as annoyed as he was.

"I need to get out of here before I stab someone," Steph announced, and grabbed his wrist. "Let's dance."

He had so, so many reasons to love her.

"Do you even know how to waltz?" Damian asked, fearing for his toes.

"Details, details," she scoffed with a flick of her wrist. "Come at me. Let's do this thing."

She attacked everything in her life with the same force and determination she leant to sparring. Such was the nature of Stephanie Brown. He took her hand and led her out onto the dance floor.

There was a live band---of course; they had money enough for real people playing real instruments---and the music had turned low and moody as the night wound down.

Surprisingly, she did know how to dance. She followed his lead, but she didn't need to be nudged along. He led, but only just barely. That was how she was. He had the lead, but only because she allowed it.

"Someone's been hitting the open bar," she whispered, giving him one of her many looks. This one was mildly annoyed, but colored mostly by amusement.

"Drake started it," he whispered back. "You should blame him. His face is enough to drive anyone to the bottle."

"You're two drinks away from 'take me now, woman,' aren't you?" Steph asked, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

"If we factor that dress you're wearing into the equation, possibly only one drink away. One shot, if it's a double."

She pulled at his ear until he leaned down far enough for her to kiss him. He wasn't fond of public displays of affection, but knowing that Drake and Gordon were undoubtedly watching made him put on a little bit of a show. He was aggressive, cupping the back of her head; her arms tightened around his neck as she relaxed and pressed her body into his. He braced an arm around her back and dipped her, her heels clearing the floor.

"You sure do know how to charm the pants off a girl, Mr. Wayne," she said, half breathless.

"I'm only interested in getting your dress off," he reminded her. He could feel Drake glaring lasers into his back, and it felt wonderful. "But I appreciate the compliment."

"When this is over," she began, and her voice held a promise that stole his full attention. "You and I---"

But that interesting thought was cut short by the front door getting blown off its hinges. A woman screamed, and Damian instantly regretted drinking. If he concentrated, he could force his head to clear---but everything needed his attention, and needed it immediately.

"Ladies and gentlejerks, lend me your ears! This is a stick-up! Don't tell me you ain't been in one before!"

A group of armed men in white suits and matching masks spread around the crowd, claiming the exits. At the head of the mob was a curvy woman with a red domino mask, wearing a white suit with narrow red pinstripes. There was a silk heart stitched into her left lapel. The heart had a fringe of three strands of rubies at the bottom---it made it look like she was bleeding down her breast.

Loveless. She was one of the most notorious gang bosses in Gotham, and she'd dressed for the party. Then again, she'd always had a flair for production and fashion. The little red and black checkered number and jester hat she used to wear had been almost iconic.

But Harleen Quinzel had grown out of that role, that jester's hat and ruffled collar. She was sleek and streamlined, pared down to a single impact.

She was exactly as advertised: heartless and Loveless. The Joker was gone, Catwoman had retired and moved away, and Poison Ivy had abandoned her for the Green. Instead of crying about it, she'd hardened. And a hard-hearted Harley with sugary endearments had either charmed or disposed of all of her competition.

She had a machine gun braced against her hip, her bob of short blond curls bouncing as she waved.

"Evenin', folks! I'm lookin' for a Bat---anyone seen her? She's about my height, an' she's got blond hair, an' she's got a cape an' pointy ears. She's awful cute, so if you've seen her you'll know who I'm talkin' about. Ringin' any bells? Aww, heck, I'll give you some time ta think about it. While you're doing that, how's about putting your shinies inta the bags my boys are passin' around?" Harley smiled, her red, red lips pulled wide. "If nobody pulls anything stupid, I'll letcha get back ta your dancin' an' everything."

Damian had already pressed the button on his watch that initiated the Batmobile's autopilot. It would arrive in fifty-two seconds, forcing traffic lights to turn on its approach. The GCPD knew better than to slow it down. Their costumes were inside it already, and it wouldn't take them longer than fifteen seconds to change.

He caught Drake's eye across the room. He nodded imperceptibly, unbuttoning his suit jacket to bare a flash of red.

Good. He'd come prepared in his own way. Drake disappeared, and Damian tugged at Steph's wrist until she followed him through the crowd.

"Any idea why she wants you, not me?" He hissed as they disappeared through a false door. No one had seen them blend through them and then away. Every building that the Wayne family owned had passages like that one, tunnels and entrances that didn't exist on any blueprints.

"Gender equality?" Steph tried, then shook her head. "I seriously have no idea."

"I don't like it."

The Batmobile appeared with a hushed purr, the door sliding open. He tossed her her suit and utility belt; she'd already unzipped her dress and pulled off her heels.

"That makes two of us. Do you know how long it took me to do my hair up like this?" Steph asked as she swiftly plucked hairpins out of her curls. "I'm going to kick her ass into next week. Ugh."

Damian pulled up his cowl, then gave her a brief kiss. "Red Robin and I will secure the room and the hostages. You take her down." After a moment's hesitation, he added, "Be safe."

"Will do," she promised, and donned her mask.

*

"Geeze!" Batwoman said loudly, standing atop the staircase and holding her hands wide. All eyes turned up on her, completely missing the red and black of Batman and Red Robin sliding into their midst. "I've heard of the party not starting 'til I walk in, but this is ridiculous!"

"Honeyyyyyy!" Harley sang, a hand to her heart. "You came! I knew you would. Everybody knows if you wanna smoke out a bat, all you've gotta do is turn the screws on the Waynes."

"Pretty sure that the Waynes have gotten tired of that shit," she deadpanned, walking down the stairs. Her cape trailed after her like the train of an evening gown. "But what do I know? You wanted me, Loveless, so I'm here. Start talking before I start punching."

She snapped her fingers, and the men in white suits grabbed Steph. She let them. There were at least two dozen armed men still casing the crowd, and any overly aggressive moves could set them off. There would be no heroics until Damian confirmed that everyone was safe.

"Call me Auntie Harl. C'mon, you an' me, we gotta have a heart ta heart-less."

And with that, she was cuffed and dragged to the banquet hall. The heavy oak doors were closed and barred behind them.

The men holding her forced her down on her knees. The position made bile rise in the back of her throat, but she allowed it. For the people below, she dealt with the humiliation.

Then, they let her go and stepped back. Harley paced an even line in front of her, red stiletto heels clicking heel to toe. She plucked an apple out of the fruit basket on the banquet table, rolling it between her palms.

She took a bite, then spat it out. "Wax! Wax fruit. Wouldja look at that. It figures, y'know? There's nuttin' real about these high society cats. They replace their personalities with suits an' dresses an' jewels. Take 'em away, an' they're big crybabies. Big, broke crybabies."

"What is this about, Quinzel?" Steph growled, her voice low and dangerous.

She blinked, then smiled.

"That's the surprise! This is about you. I wanted ta get a chance ta have some girl talk. I've heard a lot about you, an' the more I've heard, the more I've thought that you an' me could be friends."

The way she said friends held tears. Everything else bounced and rolled with gaiety, but friends throbbed and ached. She pressed her lips together, took a breath of composure, and crouched so that they were eye-level.

"You're crazy," she said, hoping that it'd trigger her. She was easier to work and manipulate if she was angry.

"Boo, I'm a psychiatrist. Didja know that? I used ta be a doctor. Dr. Harleen Quinzel. But that was before Mistah J came inta my life an' shook it all up."

"The Joker."

"My puddin'," she agreed, but it held no fondness. She might as well have called him something foul. "He screwed me all up. I thought I loved him, y'know? An' love---love's the worst kinda crazy in the book."

Harley traced the points of her cowl's bat-ears thoughtfully.

"Just tell me what you want from me. We're not going to be friends. You're the crazy ex that every other crazy ex wishes she could be."

Her hand snapped across her face, the slap sudden enough to give her whiplash.

"I'm sorry!" She squealed, holding her face. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean ta hit ya. Cross my heart. You jus'---you gotta know what it's like. I don't wanna be 'just the crazy ex'. I'm bigger than that. Bigger than Mistah J. But people, they still compare me ta him. They never take me seriously. I can kill 'em all, but they'll never take me seriously. An' that's why I'm here. That's why I'm holdin' all those fat rich jerks hostage."

Harley's face was china doll white, her lips red as a slash. She sat next to her, knees drawn up, and smoothed a few damp strands of hair from Steph's face, careful not to press against her throbbing cheek. Her touch was light, gentle, just fingertips and the plucking edge of her poison-painted nails.

"Listen, sweetpea," she murmured. "You listen ta Auntie Harl. Sooner or later, he's gonna leave you. They do that, y'know? Men. Sure, you're good for a few laughs, but you're just his opening act. They'll remember him, not you. Everyone remembers Mistah J, but ol' Harley? Nope. Nuttin'."

"I hate to break it to you, but there's some major differences between Batman and your psycho exes."

Her eyebrows arched. "You so sure about that? What about all those birdy boys of his? Those Robins? I ain't seen 'em in ages. Did they fly south?"

She couldn't answer that. One Robin was dead, one Robin was worse than dead, one Robin had twisted the title around to mean something new, one Robin had become the Bat himself, and one Robin was sitting right next to Harley, fighting to keep calm.

But they never remembered that Robin, did they?

"He had a girl Robin, too," she said between clenched teeth. "The fourth one was a girl."

"Ha! That's news ta me. She didn't stick around, huh? Smart girl. Those Bats, they're nuttin' but trouble for girls. You should come with me, puddin'. Give up those silly bat ears. I could give you anything you wanted. Anything at all. An' you wouldn't hafta worry about bein' my second anything."

Harley put an arm around her, kissing her cheek. The smear of lipstick that she left behind burned and tingled. Her perfume was heady, cinnamon and carnations. She didn't pull away, holding onto her like she was a sister or friend or lover.

This wasn't about intimidation, she realized with a sinking sensation. It wasn't about humiliation. It wasn't even about patronization. Loveless was being genuine, being kind---she truly thought that she was helping her.

That took her breath as swiftly as a punch to the gut. It felt a lot like panic.

There was no way this psycho was right.

No way.

"Don't get down, puddin'," Harley said, stroking her hair. "I didn't wanna burst your bubble an' ruin your night, but I don't want you ta end up like me, neither. In this circuit, second billing doesn't just mean gettin' less time in the limelight. It means you're expendable---you can always be cut, an' the show'll go on. Wise up. You'll save yourself a whole lotta heartbreak. I could kidnap you, if you want. I can make it seem like you fought, an' then we can disappear forever. I jus'...I don't wanna go alone. An' you seem nice. It'd be good for us both, I promise."

"He's not like that," Steph said firmly, straining at her cuffs and leaning away from her touch.

"Take it from a girl who's made bat-watchin' her hobby since you were in gradeschool," she said, blue eyes bright and sharp as solitaire settings. "Bats're only out for numbah one, an' Gotham's numbah two. Where's that leave you?"

No. Damian wasn't like Bruce. She wasn't the girlfriend. She wasn't the sidekick. She was his partner, and she couldn't be replaced or forgotten. He'd said that, meant that, promised that.

But hadn't Bruce promised the same thing?

"Get away from her."

Batman melted out of the shadows, hands furled into fists at his sides. There was a half-dozen metallic clicks as the bodyguards took their safeties off and aimed at him.

"Aww, you. You just had ta show up an' ruin it all! Batwoman an' me, we were havin' a girl talk." Loveless shooed him with both hands, the corners of her red lips turned down into a frown. "Go back ta your belfry, ya big moose!"

The distraction was all that Steph needed. She'd jimmied the lock open three minutes before, but she'd needed Harley to look away. She busted free of the cuffs, fisted her hand in as much of her hair as she could grab, and started punching.

She was so angry.

How dare she think that she knew him, knew them. How dare she say those things. How dare she plant that ugly seed of doubt deep, deep down where she couldn't uproot it.

The guards whirled on her, but Damian stole their attention back with a smokebomb and two canisters of riot teargas.

There were shouts and dull thuds, hacking coughs, and firearm reports as knocked-out guards pulled triggers reflexively, but she ignored them. She focused on Loveless, on holding her down and beating the smug knowing out of her.

How dare she. How dare she. She was wrong. She had to be wrong.

She'd promised herself that it wouldn't happen again, that she wouldn't let Batman do that to her for a second time.

"Enough," Damian growled in her ear, grabbing her wrist. "That's enough."

And it was. It was more than enough, really, more hurt than Steph usually brought. Harley's face was swelling, pale skin mottling red and black and blue. The blood on her suit was real now, not just rubies dripping from a silk heart. Her lipstick was smeared in a broad stripe across her bruised cheek.

Steph fought to breathe. "Got them all?"

"All neutralized and zip-tied. We need to go."

Yes, they had to go. They had to go and redress in their nice clothes and pretend that they'd been there the whole time, helpless and wringing their hands. She had to calm herself down enough to fake being a damsel in distress, even if that went against everything in her.

But they'd been taught to be actors, the very best at what they did. Besides, the Commissioner herself and the head of the Justice League would confirm that they'd been among the hostages, if any suspicion was cast on them. And that, right there, was why she'd been so adamant about keeping healthy ties to them, despite all their differences. Mutual respect kept all of their asses covered.

Steph was about to nod and agree, to tie Harley up for the GCPD to deal with, but the beat-up moll pulled a gun and fired.

*

Damian saw Stephanie go rigid, saw the entire moment slow down and spool out bit by bit, millisecond by millisecond.

Loveless had hidden the gun in her suit coat. It was small, a lady's pistol, a laughable icon of the female power she'd built herself up to be. She cocked it, looked him straight in the eye, and squeezed the trigger.

Even though Batwoman had been the one to beat her, she wasn't aiming at her. No, she was clutching her hand possessively and looking at him.

Like she was protecting her.

Like he was the villain, not her.

He didn't need to push Steph out of the way or save her in a move of heroic self-sacrifice. He wasn't the hero in this scenario. He didn't know what he was, what was happening, what balance had been overturned.

Loveless pulled the trigger, and his last thought was, This could have gone better.