#it seems that when I did the multi-year-long journey of getting rid of my internalized transphobia so that I could actually realize I was

[contagious-watermelon]

I think we went wrong with emphasizing the distinction between sex and gender. People have taken it to mean that sex is immutable and that gender is whatever you make of it

Transphobes in instagram comment sections get refuted with "hey, he may be female, but he's still a man!", completely conceding to the "lol still a female" comment by faceless user 06873. People call trans women "male women," seemingly unaware of the fact that terfs often call them exactly that same thing... well, the nicer ones do. I'm not going to repeat the meaner things they say.

Maybe it's not that distinguishing sex and gender was a mistake. Maybe it's that the trans community never dealt with its transphobia, and pulled out the band-aid of excising gender entirely from sex whilst not questioning its beliefs about the immutability and inevitability of biological sex.

The trans community as a whole, I've noticed, doesn't seem to really believe that we really are our genders. They act like it's an impossibility for a trans woman to be female — or mostly female, or infertile female, or with a mix of both sex characteristics, or — and that it's insane to suggest that a trans man really is a man.

They seem to be of the opinion that transphobes are right about the science, but wrong in their treatment of us, and that therefore we must find ways to deny and circumvent the science. “If we reduce gender into an entirely amorphous and nebulous concept, couched with words like "identify as," we can obfuscate our sex so that it becomes irrelevant.” Nevermind that trans people really can and do change our sex. Nevermind that even if we don't, we still don't have the same gendered experience as a cis person of the opposite gender.

[incoherentbabblings]

First Date (1/9)

Tim has one more test to pass before Bruce will allow him out as Robin. Like Dick and Jason before him, he has to avoid being caught by Batman for one night. He has already failed once, and is determined to succeed this time. Determination which might not count for much when Stephanie Brown is on the run from the mob. Her mother kidnapped as a way to threaten her father, Stephanie manages to escape and run into Tim. Unable to leave Stephanie alone when she is in need, Tim decides to try and multi-task. All he has to do is rescue Stephanie’s mother, take down the mob, avoid Batman, and get Stephanie to agree to a proper date all in one night. Absolute anarchy ensues.  Ao3 link here!

This is 100% inspired by the First Love (2019) Trailer.  I didn't know the plot when I started writing so it's purely the premise of girl being chased by the mob and the bloke getting drawn into the mess cause he's head over heels for the girl... seems as good a place to start as any. The film looks absolutely bonkers so I wanted to try and capture that energy in a story. God knows if I succeed. Everyone is a little bit older than they otherwise were in the comics. I have no excuse.

Tim tried not to stare too long at the Robin costume behind the glass panels.  Batman was stomping down the cave stairs behind it, heading in Tim’s direction.  He was currently slumped at a desk, fiddling with small explosives.

The final test began in three hours, and Tim was so nervous he felt like he was about to give birth to a brick.

Avoid Bruce from eight at night until eight in the morning.  That was all.  A demented game of hide and seek; stop any (small) crime that you came across that night but avoid being pointed out by or grabbed by the Bat. No costume, no equipment, just you and the clothes on your back and feet.

Dick had managed it, Jason had too.

Tim was on his second go.

The first time he had fumbled simply because he was not fast enough.  He had managed until three in the morning.  Squatting in an abandoned building in the narrows, he had stopped to eat a breakfast bar and take a piss.

It had not ended well.

So, six months later, endless missions as Batman and Oracle's mission control plus one and at least sixty lessons on improving reflexes, he was getting a second shot.

He had been told under no circumstances would there be a third.  If he failed this, Robin was dead (in every way that mattered).

Dick was optimistic to Tim’s face, happily offering advice and a change of teacher whenever Tim could manage visiting New York.   However as far as Tim knew he had not vouched for a second shot to Bruce himself.  Dick still would not step foot in Gotham if he could help it.  His relationship with Bruce, something Tim had given himself the task of starting the restoration of, was still very strained.  Jason’s costume in the glass case hung over everyone like the dead elephant in the room.  Always present, always in sight, always inescapable.

No, the push for a second go had come from Barbara.  Tim enjoyed spending time with her.  She was sardonic in her wit, but patient in her teaching.  Sometimes it was reassuring, sometimes it was patronising.  She had a level head and a gentleness about her that somehow reminded Tim of his mother (little he got to spend significant amounts of time with before she kicked the bucket).

Maybe he was projecting.

His brain wandered, thinking of what a Gotham psychiatrist would make of him.  Nothing good probably.  What sixteen-year-old signs up for what he signed up for?  What he pushed for?  If Bruce and Dick had had their way, none of this would be happening.  Tim’s stubbornness appeared pathological.  He titled his head, wondering if he was being cruel by pushing Robin back into the lives of people who had wanted to leave it behind.  He briefly realised that he was acting on the assumption that he knew how best to handle the emotional state of two grieving men than they themselves did.

Although, thinking of Dick and Bruce’s emotional processing capabilities, perhaps Tim did know better.

He frowned and pressed his lips together, hands still fiddling with the small explosives that he would not be allowed to take with him tonight.  So lost in his own head he only realised he was glaring disgustedly at Bruce until Batman coughed loudly.  Tim started, fingers fumbling over the bomb’s trigger.

“I wasn’t staring at you.”  Tim said pitifully.

“Clearly.”

Tim had no response and looked down at the tiny bombs.  They couldn’t do much damage, they stung more like a paintball pellet when they exploded.  Enough to make you wince and potentially fall over, weak enough to avoid any real damage apart from your suffering ear drums and bruises from the popped shell.

“Where’s my starting point this time?”

Batman looked at the time: 7pm.  One hour until kick-off.

“Wayne Tower” he said.  “Fifteen-minute head start, then I will set out from here.  Be back at Wayne Tower any time after eight, but before nine tomorrow morning. Don't think you can squat there all night.  You'll lose in less than half an hour.”

Easy.

Nodding, Tim stood up and pulled away from the table.  He still held on to one bomb with his right hand, thumb rubbing anxiously against the sphere.

“I won’t fail this time.” He swore.

Bruce said nothing, and there was no movement of his mouth to indicate any other sort of reaction.  Tim felt himself internally slump.  Bruce had no faith in him.  He’d always known that, and logically he understood the reasoning.  It didn’t mean that it still didn’t sting a little.

“Your father understands you won’t be home tonight?”

“Yeah, I’m covered.”

Ives was the cover.  He hadn’t intruded too much into why Tim was sneaking out all night, but felt naughty enough to agree to lie to Jack in case enquired further.  It wasn’t the most solid of plans, but Tim also knew that his father barely checked on him as is.  Too lost in his own head to notice what his son was up to.

“Good.” Batman held out a small device.  “Take this.  If you need help or want out, switch this on.  I’ll be able to find you then.”

Tim stared at it for a moment, then rather reluctantly took it.  “It’s not on already is it?  Not much of chance tonight if this is already tracking me.”

Batman was unamused.  “It switches on when you switch it on.”

Tim’s awkward smile fell and he nodded, pocketing it.

“See you tomorrow morning then.”  He joked, laughing with a confidence he wasn’t sure he felt.

Bruce just grunted and went to turn away.  Tim exhaled heavily, gnawing on his lip, when his thumb snapped a small knob on the bomb.  He looked down, realised he had just triggered it, and squeaked.

The thing popped in his hand with such a loud bang that it disturbed the bats above, screeching and rustling.  One of them proceeded to take a massive crap which plopped down between Tim and Batman.  Swearing loudly, he flapped his hand quickly back and forth, trying to cool down the burn.  Bruce had turned at the sound, then stared at the pile of bat waste on the metal floor.  His gaze moved up, and watched Tim make a fool of himself.  Not one ounce of emotion was shown on his face.  Tim smiled, eyes wet with the sting.

“This is fine.”  Tim said.

“Is it?”

“Yup.  Peachy.”  Tim whistled and winced and buried his hand between his thighs, trying to elevate the sting.  Bent in half, head near the floor, he choked out a polite goodbye, wishing for Bruce to just leave him in his humiliation.

When he finally gathered the courage to look up, he saw that Bruce was gone.  Smacking his head repeatedly, he slumped away to his red car, sidestepping the bat poo that Alfred would inevitably have to clean.

A great start to a great evening for sure.

Tim parked around four blocks down from Wayne Tower, a multi-storey which smelt of piss, alcohol, weed and assortment of other nose wrinkling things.  It was around the block from the hospital, so was not used for much outside of frantic potential patients and their visitors.

Slowly he made his way down the stairs, hopping past a passed-out chap hanging over the railings.  Coming out onto the overwhelmingly busy street, he began to make his way to Wayne Tower.

He had a rough game plan.  One that, in hindsight, was not detailed enough.  First time round he had made the mistake of planning out his every move, to which once Batman had figured out that plan, tracking Tim down was easy-peasy.  No, this time, he was going to (Night)wing it.

He was going to stay low initially, stay amongst the crowds of central Gotham for as long as it was busy and as long as Batman needed to stay out of sight from the average Joe.  He’d worn bland clothing to try and blend in.  Black sneakers, black jeans, some plaid shirt and a red light jacket.  A backpack had nothing but the absolute essentials in them.  He’d been refused any tools to help him, but food, drink and money was allowed.  He’d left his phone behind, and the tracker Batman had given him was zipped in an inside pocket.

The city’s churches rang out that it was eight o’clock, and it was go time.

He took in a deep shaky breath, rolled back his shoulders, and left the tower grounds.

***

Stephanie knew she had her pissy face on.  It matched her insides, which were churning in a such a rage she had developed heartburn.

If she threw up, she begged it would be after she got off the bus.  And in front of the hospital.

Her mom had insisted on her coming to pick her up from work.  Her mother’s shift ended at eight, and there Steph was on her way to collect her mother.

A lone seventeen-year-old girl travelling in the dark on public transport.

Bad enough for any city.

But in Gotham?

Stephanie wondered if her mother was trying to get rid of her.

She knew she had enough of an angry expression that no-one dared sit near her for fear she would start ragging on their very existence.  Or throwing up on their feet.  Depended how awful the heartburn got.

Headphones in playing no music and sneering at nothing, she silently stewed the whole journey into Gotham City Centre.

Upon arrival outside the hospital, she waited for her mother to emerge.

Crystal stumbled out into the early autumn air, wearing probably a thicker coat than was necessary.  On her feet were her white slip-ons, but she had changed into what appeared to be her pyjamas.

Stephanie inspected Crystal as she shuffled over.  “What’s with the jammies?”

Her mother ignored her.  “Need to head to the pharmacy.”

Curling her lip, Stephanie shook her head.  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?  It’s eight at night?  I’ll go to the one round the corner first thing in the morning for you before you wake up.”

Her mom didn’t seem to hear her.  “I’m all out.  I won’t sleep unless I got something to knock me down for the night.”

Seeing how uncooperative she was being, Stephanie snapped as her. “Weren’t able to grab some spares from the cupboards?  You know the in-house ones won’t give anymore so you—”

“That’s enough Stephanie!” Her mother whirled and grabbed her hand, pulling her down the street.  “I am in pain after a nightmare shift.  I don’t need you to have a go on top of everything.”

Guilt flooded Stephanie, and she shut up.  She reminded herself that she couldn’t be responsible for her mother’s sobriety and tried to let it go.  She twisted in her mother’s grip until she could hold Crystal’s hand. Her mother twined their fingers together, holding tight.  All was forgiven.  Conflict avoided.

“…We got through another scene of Hamlet today.”

“Oh?  Enjoying being Ophelia?”  Crystal asked, staggering slightly, the pain in her back slowing the pair down considerably.

“It’s fun… kinda.  Though, she doesn’t even have that much to say or do in the end.”

“No… most of Shakespeare’s tragedies don’t give much to the women.”

“Lady Macbeth and Juliet aside.”

“Hmm.  The comedies are better anyway.”

And so, they talked, slowly making their way through the centre of the city, hunting for the one pharmacy that a) was open after eight and b) was within walking distance of their bus stop route.

Gotham was noisy and bright tonight, many staggering people yelled and fell over into the road, but most of them were laughing or from having a good time.  The neon signs for assorted bars, restaurants, clubs and shops were garish more than welcoming, but Stephanie liked it all the same.  The city was alive, though down each dark alley uncomfortable smells and sights ensured both women kept deliberately facing forward.  A humdrum of the city came out at night, especially after twelve.  That was when the Bat would appear, and all hell would break loose.  Stephanie and her mother lived far enough out in the crappy suburbs to avoid the hellish events from places like the Narrows from spilling over, but that didn’t mean they had escaped what the city could be unscathed.

For example, Stephanie’s father - Crystal’s husband - hadn’t come home in nearly two weeks now.

Stephanie cared, if only because she didn’t know why and/or where he was.  Maybe he was dead, lost in a shoot out and stuffed down the sewers.  Maybe he was cooking up another awful plan to get more money, hurting who knows how many people in the process.

Stephanie didn’t love or care for her father, but she did care about the consequences of his actions on others, on Gotham.

On her mother.

They arrived at a pharmacy which looked rather empty inside, save for three blokes staring at the condoms and lube in one corner.  Crystal took one look at them and asked for Stephanie to wait outside.  Reluctant, but not wanting to fight with her mother more that evening, Stephanie nodded, and lingered under a lamp.  She plugged her headphones back in and stared in the shop window, eyes following her mother.

She watched as Crystal pulled a prescription from her purse at the counter.  A very tired and out of it looking pharmacist glanced at it, then glanced at Crystal, then glanced back at the paper, and finally back to Crystal.  They heaved such a sigh it was like they carried the weight of the world, and then moved out back to fill a bottle.  Her mother’s haggard appearance, making her look older than her age of 42, was in part due to endless cigarettes, as well as the alcohol and drug abuse.  The pharmacist no doubt recognised it, but just wanted to do their job and get Crystal out of the store.

Stephanie ignore the sound of some pervert wolf whistling her from some bar across the road and glared as one of the three condom buying men turned and did a double take at the sight of Crystal.  He repeatedly smacked his friend on the arm, not so subtly grabbing his attention.  The third guy listened to the pair as they talked, watching with no subtlety the woman waiting for her painkillers.

Feeling a drop of fear, Stephanie went to walk in the shop, praying that faced with two woman, one that could kick and punch and bite particularly hard, the men wouldn’t try anything.  The third man noticed her before she entered, and pointed with an exaggerated stupidity, like he was an old friend of hers and it was some inside joke, some usual greeting between the two.

She jerked to a stop, instead blurting out a call for her mother.

Crystal turned, frowning, when Stephanie saw them men pull out guns.

She shrieked, and the second man turned his gun on her, and shot above her head, firing through the open door.

Stephanie fell to the ground, then scrambled up.  The man had deliberately missed her, so frightening her must have been the aim.  Beyond that, she was lost at their motives.  She didn’t recognise those men, and neither did her mother it seemed, who was kicking up a storm, screeching and twisting and kicking as the other two men grabbed her.  The moment one of them put his pistol on her temple, she froze, and looked for Stephanie out the corner of her eye.  The pharmacist had seemingly hidden away in the back once the sound of shots had been made.

Stephanie tried to rush into the store to help, partially sure that the men wouldn’t do any serious damage to her, when another fired bullet grazed her thigh, shattering the store window.  She collapsed from the pain, and looked down as her leg began to run red.

The man wasn’t trying to miss, he was just a shit shot.

With a bleeding leg, a mother in danger of being shot in the head, and three men with guns ready to hurt or kill her, Stephanie freaked.

She began screaming hysterically, and a crowd had begun to gather at the spectacle.  No police presence appeared, and no-one intervened.  Drunken jeers came from the side, but no-one helped Stephanie to her feet or to check on her injury.  Three incompetent men with guns were somehow a greater threat then three competent ones to the general public.  Stephanie and Crystal were strangers to these people, and not something risking their life over.

Her mother was dragged out the shop and into a nearby car mounted on the curb, not resisting and limp with fear.  Once she was inside, two of the men turned for Stephanie, but she had managed to pull herself to her feet.  Still screaming, although with rage this time instead of fear, she body slammed one to the ground, doing a roly-poly on top of him.  Her leg burned in agony, but she managed to pull herself up to standing.  She began to sprint as best she could away, heading back towards the hospital.  She had to treat her leg first.

With what money? Eh.

And then what?

She didn’t really have the presence of mind to think chronologically or logically about her situation.  Her left leg gave way every time her foot slammed into the concrete ground, and she flinched and screamed every time a shot rang out until she was so far down the street she was out of range.

That didn’t stop them however, as the car drove away, one of the men gave chase to Stephanie, seemingly sure he could run down an injured teenage girl.

She managed to turn the corner onto a large avenue, the hospital just one more block down.  Wayne Tower, in all its fancy glory, stood watch at the far end.  Her leg gave out then, and she crashed into a streetlamp.  She called for help again as she saw the man gaining on her.  She went to push off the pole, but she collapsed in a heap on floor.  She rolled onto her back, groaning.  Most people gave her a wide berth as she stared at the man only a few feet away now.  One or two hadn't moved out of the way, probably from confusion more than anything.  The man pushed several of them out of the way.

Abruptly, and with as much strength as a brick wall, a boy in front of her held his arm out, and punched the man straight in the face.

The man actually whirled up and down, legs up in the air at odd angles, arms contorted strangely as he had stopped at such a speed and with such force.  His head thumped against the ground, and with that the man pursuing Stephanie was passed out cold on the street.  She felt herself squeak at the man now lying on the floor next to her.

The boy quickly removed the gun from his hand, emptying it of bullets and scattering them on the street.  People were staring again, but didn’t say or do anything aside from a passing comment here and there of, “Hey is that guy passed out?”

Stephanie tried not to flinch as the boy knelt in front of her, but she couldn’t help it as he looked at her bleeding leg. He went to touch it, to which Stephanie cried out, and slapped him hard across the face.

The boy lost his balance from the force of the slap but managed to hold his hands up in deference whilst looking at the floor submissively.  He was trying to make himself as small and nonthreatening as possible.  A difficult task to achieve when faced with a bleeding, sweaty, crying girl lying on the floor.

“I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  I just wanted to check on it.  Should I get you to the hospital? It’s not far from –”

“I know where it is!   Where do you think I was running?”

Her sharp interruption didn’t seem to offend him, instead it seemed to amuse him.

“Yeah.  Sorry.  Sorry.”

He finally looked at her then, and Stephanie felt her heart stutter for a reason other than fear.  He also seemed gobsmacked for some reason, and his gaze made her squirm.

Darnnit.

“My name’s Tim.”  He finally offered, smiling like a dork who hadn't just one punched a gang member.

Shit.  He was cute.

Her stomach rolled abruptly, and Tim watched as she turned faintly green, growing concern on his soft face.  Her heartburn apparently had had enough of this evening, but she managed to turn her head to the side in time for her to vomit all over the street.  Some woman cried out, stumbling away and fell into the gutter, heels flying off comically.  Someone muttered, "Jesus Christ".  Stephanie and Tim couldn't care less.  He reached out and stroked her hair, far too familiar for someone he had just met and watched puke.  Stephanie found she actually quite liked it.  

A moment's pause, and Stephanie turned back over onto her back.  Someone shouted about how disgusting she was, and the blood oozing from her leg was starting to flow upwards on the uneven ground, mixing in with the brown stinky vomit.  There were carrot chunks from the soup she'd microwaved earlier slipping down a storm drain.  Her mother had just been kidnapped.  Stephanie had been shot in the leg.  She had bits of puke stuck in her hair and teeth and now her breath smelt really bad.

Her mother had just been kidnapped.  Stephanie had been shot.  In the leg.

Tim was grinning at her as if she were a million dollars.  She smiled dreamily.

“…Hi Tim.”