#Batman dragged out of a death trap by Two-Face waking up on a dirty floor with 8 broken ribs: >_>

[ziracona]

Me when Harvey told Harv who Batman is

[old-castlegachi]

Untitled JaySteph Fic:

I wanted to get this out, mostly for @shauds02 so, see this as an “exclusive” first half of Chapter 1 bc it is fighting me. When it’s done, it’ll be on A03, like all ‘dem others. Either way, I hope you like it!

There is a lot Stephanie Here-To-Kick-Your-Ass Brown can handle.

An infinite anything from mortal wounds to a divine abundance of waffles no mortal could finish. Her point is that if there is an immortal feat no regular mortal can overcome, she had it down, done and deal, signed on that dotted line and took it home with her to do a victory dance and hug it to her chest. It is done, she has it handled and she never quit.

It is one of her faults and she embraced it.

This is all relevant information for what will be explained at her current predicament. It began after an exhaustive patrol where all she wanted was her two poufy duvets, blistering water pressure and the solvent for her flesh wound, it was already two nights old and begun to scab, they really did grow up too fast. Her entire form ached and it felt wonderful, a deed well done in physical personification and with light daring to fall in Gotham, she felt content and calmed.

It was her fault for taking her sweet time back home, humming a little the latest hot beat underneath her breath and already half-jogging her cool down stretches. It was all Red Hood's fault for being pathetic. He murdered people, all anti-hero, I-know-better-than-you-Bruce, when a lot of people knew better than Bruce – for being The Detective, he is an absolute face-plant when it comes to emotions, and people, and on sparing occasions, not-being-an-asshole – but as it stood? Red Hood was pathetic for face-diving into two trash cans and promptly slouching there on the concrete.

It was a very Tim maneuver and she expected Hood to do something else, shift and grunt, or move like human's do, prove his superiority here come on, but no. He stayed face-planted into a puddle on the cold, hard ground – oh, trouble – like a plank that'd fallen down or blanket that'd spilled, and okay, she didn't like it. She didn't like how much he not-moved.

And with curiosity, Good-Samaritan help a buddy out curiosity Stephanie flipped beside the prone form and nudged it with her boot. She cleared her throat, "Um. You should skedaddle before the daylight people come out –" Not even a grunt. Don't make her do this. Don't make her do this, " – I'll call Batman, I swear."

Nothing. Waffle-Iron-it.

It must be serious and "please, don't shoot me; don't shoot me –" was her mantra, wedging her steel-toed boots beneath his ribs and heaved him onto his back. It took a little wobble but thigh-workout's-galore, it worked and the red helmet stared, empty-faced upwards. Her mouth twisted and she shuffled closer, "Oi. You awake in there?" she tested.

In all the traps she's wandered into this is definitely the worse. And, while she's heard Red Hood is all about bad-taste, playing-dead seems to take it too far. So, only option is that beneath that helmet Jason Todd is passed-out like Timmy after a cup of decaf, unconscious for at least six hours and dead to the world or, the actually dead –

No. His chest moved. It's good.

This is bad.

Her three options are all worse than the former because no, she didn't want to call Batman to pick up his wayward son from his playdate with unconscious-makers and she didn't want to abandon him there for daylight pickings. Even if it was a good soul who dragged Red Hood to safety, it wouldn't be 'safety' with the gun-dependent there. Her third option is that Stephanie be the good soul and really, before she's thought about it, she lobbed the Red Hood over her back and shuffled to her apartment.

He weighed scientifically and at the very least, over two trucks worth. That is cement trucks with a prehistoric dinosaur playing rollerblades above. His helmet digs into her ear and his huge trunk-thick arms do not want to stay on her slim shoulders, despite how she bulked them up for exactly this purpose.

Once inside her apartment she breathed relief, straightened to her full height and dumped his self-entitled self on her lumpy couch. Her post-patrol routine, rids the cowl off her face, turns the heater on and stacks a plate of waffles in the microwave before she tuts at the figure prone on her couch. His neck will creak like that.

In care of her hidden attacks, she repositioned his head on the pillow and snapped off his utility belt, yanked off his boots, which stank by the way and dirtied her floor in dried mud and blood, loosened the straps of his Kevlar around his ribs and poked the underside of his helmet. If there was a switch it was unknown to her, besides he already looked better. Not waking-up to demand her lungs and livelihood better but breaths no-longer a death march better, deeper and softer than earlier.

She lightly rapped on his helmet, "You're going to be a little bitch when you wake-up. I can tell," Stephanie told him, following the microwave's ding and digging into her meal-of-kings, licking off syrup and chocolate chips she hummed, dumping dishes into the sink and swallowed down her post-patrol concoction of vitamins and muscle relaxants. Yay, for bat medical feats.

Her routine continued as it usually did a blistering post-patrol shower where she groaned enough for question's sake, blearily rubbed solvent into her wound and wrapped it up present-like, and burrowing into her two living-in-a-fuzzy-cloud duvets before she grunted, rolled out of bed and grabbed one to throw it over Hood because she wasn't evil, okay? And, she couldn't sleep knowing he'd be cold in her care. Stephanie Brown did not do comfort in halves, no sir and no madam.

This world hurt sometimes so for balance's sake constant comforts were required. It is just a truth of life.

Her old nemesis, the shrill alarm-clock, chimed after a pointed two and a half hours, and she sobbed a little and shut it off, groggily rolled out her bed and into the bathroom. Yay, for education. That morning her wrists ached so she clasped warmers on alongside her thickest hoodie, thermos-tights and jeans, shucked into thick socks before shambling into the kitchen for two bowls of cereal and a banana.

If she laid her head against the fridge, cursed the waking world and normative sleeping schedules for a minute that was her business, no one else's – after that, she took the milk out just like any other mortal. On her second brightly colored bowl of fiber love she blinked and found the strewn, lethally inclined utility belt in front of her face.

Other people read the back of cereal boxes or milk cartons, and she'd done that as well, but that morning she picked apart compartments and fiddled with bastardized bat-a-rangs. Her hands strayed to the handguns, heavier than they looked, ambidextrous hold – for the flinging-guns-about fancies – and speckled in blood. Oh yep, she has a murderer on her couch, shouldn't overlook that.

Her hands absently dissembled a handgun, only two bullets in the magazine, before she picked at the other with her foot working overtime to strike a tune, this with four bullets. It had been a productive night then.

Stephanie is in so much trouble and worst bit is, she doesn't even know by whom. Who will kick her ass for this? Herself or Batman? God, don't let it be Babs.

In her living room is a crash and a muffled swear that sounded oddly tiny, well, guess sleeping beauty is up. Did Hood sense his guns out, so figured his sunny disposition had to come out? Okay, yeah, that was bad. Early morning wit workout, it'll catch on. With all this at head, she took down another bowl and spoon and set it at the table before she flopped back into her seat.

So, she hadn't offered her leftover waffles or even the ceramic batman plate which made her snicker each time she wiped golden syrup off his judgmental frown, but it was still luxurious comfort; true to the Stephanie Brown path. And she had a suspicion that like most bats even a comfy kitchen chair will bite him in the ass.

Speak of ass and ass awoke. His scarlet helmet stared. "Morning Red Condom of Death –" That needed some work. Oh well. Stephanie shimmed a box at him, "Lucky Charms?" And, if he decided to grab his lethal-murder weapons and bolt, or even grab them and turn them on her, it'd be his choice. The former was expected for an emotionally-overwhelmed Bat. The latter was more likely but she reckoned she can talk him out of it.

Before her 8:30 class began though, is a question.

Except, Hood's estrangement from bats has done well, and he didn't act like a monkey-nut and sat down at her table. For all the world clueless to how he found himself there. It was pretty hilarious. "You invite every crime-lord for breakfast?" he asked, deeper than she expected with a mechanical slant to it.

"You're not really every crime-lord though, are you, Red Dead Redemption. Look," she said before a hissy-fit could start, "I have to leave for class in five minutes, so either you can leave or you can eat some cereal with me. I don't actually care but don't drama me and make me late." And with an angry crunch she swallowed another spoonful.

His voice lifted, "That's fair."

Then he took of his helmet – button at the back of it, perhaps – and it so was not fair. Stephanie chewed her mouthful, "Huh. You're not that awful-looking," she said. It lacked all tact for bodily welfare but Jason smirked, a tired little huff before he filled his bowl with cereal and chowed it down like popcorn. Stephanie looked at her innocent carton of milk, "I have milk, you know, if you want," she offered.

He shrugged, "Intolerant." Huh. Huh – Huh. Huh. Huh. Each day she lived to learn something new. Like, how his voice was deeper, more filled than she expected. That was definitely new. He cleared his throat, "Thanks." Her thumbs made an appearance of 'it's cool' because she's cool like that.

Less new was how humongous his shoulders are, practically expanding gravity in a five-inch radius if how he slouched wasn't a choice. Like, a smaller man had been pressed into his body to fit. That was a horrifying thought. His darkly tanned skin is thin, scratched by stubble and ripped scrap over a cheek which made him wince every so often, and his black hair is oil-shocked.

His teals are the absolute worst, though.

This is more a mess-of-a-man than Tim. And, he had worked so hard for that right, all for naught. That is a shame, an enflaming burning-hot-fire shame, and whatever will – Jason plodded onto his dirtied hand, stubbled cheek smooshed, "You're going to be late, Blondie," and absently ate another mouthful.

Waffle-Iron-It!

In the race against the clock she grabbed the banana, her pre-prepared lunchbox, a thick coat and was at the door before the call of –"You know you're not wearing shoes, right?" He slouchy leaned in the kitchen arch and she dropped it all, shucked into her shoes and packed it all into her backpack.

"I owe you one –" grabbed her keys and tossed-out, "Close the window on your way out!"

Then Stephanie had sprinted to the station, clambered into the bus seat when it finally – finally, bless the warrior amazons – arrived, re-read the article she needed for her second class, rushed off the bus and into the college, trekked towards her lesson and scampered into the back to fold into a seat just as the Professor began; and the crowd went wild!

Victory! Ah, she is so amazing!

Her hands are elbow-deep in a cow's kidneys and it finally fell into reality. Yes, she had lobbied a murderer into her home, tucked him into bed, bestowed him multi-colored fantastic cereal and left him alone in her home. Her instinct to hiss into her hands is foregone by bloodied guts but still Babs will definitely throw her to the Big Man for this. Then the lecture will growlingly emphasize, 'You are reckless, Stephanie. You aren't qualified to be a solo operative, Stephanie. You could've been killed, Stephanie.' Yeah, yeah Brucie-Bear been there, done that.

A shoulder nudged into hers, "You're muttering to yourself again, Steph." That 'worried' undertone that Stephanie would kidnap a spleen, cause a riot and dab-nab into the night prevalent. Except, this is Gotham, everyone had coping mechanisms Ms. I-Chew-My-Hair-Till-It-Doesn't-Need-A-Wash-Any-More Mace.

Her deep breath mostly smelt of blood and slightly of mildew, the luxurious lifestyle stench of Wayne Manor's water pressure cried out to her, again, and Stephanie huffed: "Thanks, Mace. Keeping me sane in here. Hey, did you understand the D of the pathology assignment? It is literally kicking my cute tosh…" No, she hadn't.

Dagnab-it.

In the wise words of a talking chicken, the sky is falling by the time Stephanie arrived home, unlocked the door with a hand, cellphone barely balanced in her shoulder. "You're kidding me," she had said, and on the other side Derek laughed that it is true, the Rock will be skintight in a superhero blockbuster but this isn't the deal.

It had totally bungee-jumped out her closed window that Gun-Fetish had been in her home, great situational remembrance there but to be honest, despite all the title Red Hood depicted he wasn't extremely murderous, was he? Hood had said thanks over cereal. Hood had looked tired and somehow small, forced to fit into himself. And, it is her belief that murderous people didn't do that.

Even if murder-y people are usually also the poor, unfortunate souls. It mattered that Hood hadn't felt murder-y, no slinging entrails to the beat no sir, and instead, he felt like a weighted man, a shadow of a person, not completely shattered but definitely not whole. Like bat-papa, like bat-son.

Speaking of bat-traits Hood had definitely snooped, except she spoke bat-speak and that practically meant affection, and he'd washed her dishes as in legitimately scrubbed old takeout from two-dollar bowls and he tidied her perfect lumpy couch and folded the heaven-in-a-cotton-home duvet into an Alfred worthy square. Her hand rubbed a bruise on her jaw and this is so totally not the actions of a crazy axe-murderer incarnate Red Hood.

In the kitchen arch and steaming hot chocolate in her hands, it felt like hope, an idea lodged in her skull and yep, Hood had bought this on himself. He should have taken into account her unwillingness to quit at alleged dead-ends before he over-exhausted himself into two trash cans; and Stephanie sipped her hot chocolate.