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There are thirteen people in the basement and one corpse.
The air is thick with the stench of mildew and blood. A single, flickering lightbulb sways overhead, casting jagged shadows along the damp concrete walls. The silence here is suffocating, heavy with exhaustion and resignation. No one speaks. No one moves except for Stephanie, her breaths steady but tight as she works the shackles off trembling wrists.
Comms eerily silent in her ear, Stephanie murmurs reassurances to the girl she’s unshackling, rubbing circles into her shoulder blade. The girl is barely more than skin and bone, her eyes sunken, her lips cracked. She doesn’t sob or scream—doesn’t react at all, really—just clings to Stephanie’s wrist like a lifeline. Tonight, it’s just her, Tim, and Damian. The boys are making their way through the rest of the building, making sure Steph doesn't run into anybody as she's freeing the civilians. Thirteen emaciated, dehydrated, and dirt-coated prisoners watch her move with dull gazes.
Steph swallows, gently extracting herself from the girl’s tight grip. She guides her up against the wall. “I've got you,” she whispers. “You're safe.”
“Batgirl,” someone mutters, so soft she almost doesn’t catch it. “Batgirl’s here.”
“Are we dead?”
Steph shakes her head, forcing strength into her tone. “No,” she promises, carefully avoiding the body laying slumped in the corner, her hands already moving to the next set of chains. “They can't hurt you anymore. Robin and Red Robin are with me.”
There’s no distrust in their eyes, but there’s no hope, either. Steph goes through a roll of bandages as she wraps their wounds, biting her lip at the sharp gasps of pain and shuddering breaths. She works efficiently, pressing gauze to split lips, binding ribs that shift too easily under her careful touch. The little boy in her arms—he can't be more than four—doesn't make a sound when she lifts him. His skin is littered with dark bruises, a smear of dried blood crusted at his temple. She passes him off to a teenager with hollowed cheeks, who instinctively pulls the child close, despite the rattling of his own chest.
“Fifth floor is clear,” Tim announces. “Heading down.”
Damian grunts. “Ground floor clear,” he says tartly. “Heading up.”
An old woman blinks up at Steph, tears trickling silently down her weathered face. She reaches a shaky hand up, brushing her thumb against her cheekbone, just beneath the cowl. “Robin,” she whispers.
Steph inhales sharply. She takes the woman’s hand, squeezing it gently as she helps her over to the wall. There’s blood caked underneath her brittle fingernails, the thin skin of her knuckles split open. Stephanie ties the last bit of gauze around them, and then there isn't anything to do except attend to the body.
Stephanie’s known what a dead body looks like since she was seven. The movies make it look easy, playing dead, but there’s no replicating that kind of stillness. She kneels at the woman’s side, placing herself between the corpse and the survivors.
“Everything alright, Batgirl?”
“One casualty,” Steph reports. She reaches out, turning the woman onto her back, before freezing.
A shift in the fabric of the woman’s coat, a fold of cloth too rigid to be just clothing. Stephanie’s stomach lurches, breath catching in her throat as she peels back the layers of cloth with trembling fingers. The old, tattered material parts beneath her touch, revealing a small bundle cradled tightly to the woman’s chest.
Stephanie stops breathing.
No more than a few months old, swaddled with care, wrapped in what little the woman had to offer. The infant’s tiny hands are curled into delicate, unmoving fists, tucked against its still body. Its face is impossibly peaceful, the way sleeping babies sometimes look, but the skin is too pale, the lips tinged blue.
The woman had held on, even as life slipped from her body. She had never let go.
For a moment, she isn’t here, isn’t kneeling on the damp concrete of a filthy basement. She’s fifteen years old again, sitting in a sterile, too-bright hospital room, the cry of her baby echoing in her ears. Her hands had been trembling then, too. She remembers the weight of the tiny body she had carried for months, the warmth of skin against hers, the impossible, all-consuming fear wrapped around her ribs like barbed wire.
“Batgirl?” The little boy behind her calls out, his voice hoarse.
Stephanie swallows against the lump in her throat. The sour tang of bile lingers at the back of her tongue, but she forces herself to breathe through it. “Two casualties,” she says dully. “I'll stay with them.”
A beat of silence. Then Tim clears his throat, his concern bleeding through the comms. “On my way. Robin alerted the Commissioner, GCPD is en route.”
She rises to her feet abruptly, knees locking, the motion too stiff, too mechanical. Her body feels like it doesn’t belong to her. She turns to leave—but then she hesitates, glancing back at the boy. His small frame is shaking, his thin arms wrapped around himself like he’s trying to hold himself together. Without thinking, she reaches for him. He doesn’t resist. He lets her pull him into her arms, clinging to her like she’s the only solid thing left in his world, face buried against her shoulder, his breath coming in short, uneven hiccups.
“I’m scared,” he whispers, his tears dampening the fabric of her suit. Stephanie exhales, running a hand through his matted hair. She’s—she’s not all there. She's floating outside her body, the beating of her heart almost unnatural in her chest.
“I've got you,” she says again. “I've got you.”
Tim meets her at the top of the stairwell. His stance is steady, his presence solid in the way it always is, but there’s something unreadable in the way he looks at her. Stephanie blinks at him, her brain sluggish, her body leaden. She knows there’s something in his expression—concern, maybe, or quiet understanding—but she doesn’t try to parse it. She turns away instead.
The survivors move slowly, their steps unsteady, their bodies frail from starvation and fear. Together, she and Tim help them up the stairs, guiding them carefully when legs tremble and shoulders sag. The air shifts as they ascend, thick, stagnant basement air giving way to the cold bite of Gotham’s night, a draft coming in through the window. With one last squeeze, Tim takes the boy easily, one arm settling him against his hip with a steadiness that Stephanie knows well. His grip is firm, reassuring. He murmurs something—low and soft, something only for the kid—and the boy sniffles, wiping at his face with a grimy sleeve, and turns wide, glossy eyes towards Steph, lip wobbling.
She’s done this a thousand times before. Comforted a thousand kids with a thousand smiles, given them hope when they had none, wrapped them in safety even when the world had failed them. She knows the words to say, the softness to use, but tonight, she can't. Something’s wrong with her. Tim takes the boy away, tucking his head into the crook of his neck. Stephanie watches them go, her arms still curled slightly like they don’t yet realize they’re empty. Her body is running on autopilot, boots carrying her back toward the building, back down the stairs, back into the quiet, suffocating dark of the basement.
The lightbulb has gone out, but Steph doesn’t turn on her flashlight. She doesn’t need to. She knows exactly where they are.
Carefully stepping over the debris, Steph weaves her way past the emptied chains and discarded restraints, before lowering herself back onto the cold, damp floor, stained with days old blood. The chill of the concrete bleeds through her suit almost instantly, seeping into her skin, but she barely registers it. She pulls her knees up to her chest, arms wrapped loosely around them.
The woman is slumped against the wall, her body still, her features frozen in an expression of something that might’ve been peace. The baby remains nestled against her, swaddled in the remnants of the coat, impossibly small, impossibly fragile. She knows, logically, that she did everything she could. That they all did. But right now, logic feels meaningless. Right now, all she can think about is how tightly the woman had clutched her child even in death, how small and helpless the baby looked wrapped in its mother’s arms.
Her mind drifts, unbidden, back to that hospital room.
Do you even want to see the baby?
No. It’s better this way.
If she looked, she’d want to hold. If she held, she’d want to keep. If she kept—Steph hasn't let herself regret that decision. She can't. Even when—even if—
“Get up, Batgirl,” Damian snaps, annoyed. Steph raises her head, eyes flicking towards where the kid is waiting by the stairs, staring at her with crossed arms. “The paramedics are here. Our job is done.”
She hums noncommittally, not trusting herself to speak. She should move. She should stand.
Damian huffs, eyes narrowing. “Red Robin,” he calls over his shoulder, his small frame already disappearing back up the stairs. “She is refusing to move.”
Tim steps into the room. His gaze flickers from Steph to the bodies, then back again. From his angle, he can’t see—not yet. Neither could Damian. His lips press into a thin line, hesitation flickering across his face. The paramedics move past him, murmuring to each other as they kneel beside the mother. Stephanie hears the sharp inhale, the quiet exclamations. Watches the subtle shift in their movements, the immediate, inevitable shift from urgency to quiet resignation.
Something inside her cracks.
She opens her mouth to say something, anything—but what escapes instead is a broken, shuddering sob. Her shoulders curl inward, her breath stuttering out in uneven gasps as the weight of it all presses down on her chest, heavy and unrelenting. In two strides, Tim is dropping to his knees beside her, one arm wrapped around her, the other bracing against the floor. His grip is firm on her arm, grounding.
“Christ,” he breathes, voice barely above a whisper.
Stephanie squeezes her eyes shut, pressing a trembling hand against her mouth, but it doesn’t stop the way her body shakes silently, doesn’t stop the burning in her throat, doesn’t stop the overwhelming, aching grief that threatens to pull her under.
“What on earth are you both doing?” Damian’s voice cuts through the quiet, tinged with exasperation. He wavers on the stairs, eyes flicking between them and the paramedics moving in the periphery. His hands curl into impatient fists, his weight shifting from one foot to the other like he’s debating whether it’s worth the effort to come down himself. Irritation radiates off him in waves. “We must—”
“Shut up, Robin,” Tim snaps, his voice frayed at the edges. “For once in your life.”
Steph shakes her head minutely, rubbing the heel of her palm against her damp mask before pushing herself to her feet. Tim rises with her, his hand steady against the small of her back. “He’s right,” she says quietly. “We should get out of this dump.”
She doesn't look back.
They ascend the stairs together, the air growing colder as they step outside, the weight of the basement pressing behind them like a living thing. The red-and-blue glare of GCPD lights washes over them, flashing in rhythmic pulses against the dark. Rain drizzles lightly, slicking the pavement, mixing with the lingering scent of gasoline, blood, and rot. The low murmur of officers and paramedics fills the space, their movements swift but controlled as they move to intercept the rescued.
Damian is already waiting, standing with rigid posture near the ambulances. His masked eyes sweep over the group, cataloging injuries, assessing weaknesses, ensuring no one is left behind. The moment he catches sight of them, his lips part in surprise, judgement seeping into his voice. “Are you crying?”
“For fuck’s sake,” Tim hisses, smacking him upside the head. “What is wrong with you?”
Damian glares, rubbing the spot as he steps back out of range. His mouth twists in irritation, but it lacks the usual sharpness—it’s almost hesitant, uncertain. He clicks his tongue against his teeth, the motion automatic, but his eyes flicker, searching Stephanie’s face like he’s trying to piece together what just happened. Stephanie feels a burst of guilt. He doesn't know. How could he? Steph doesn't even let Tim bring it up. “It’s okay,” she says. “It’s—everything’s okay.”
Predictably, he scowls, shifting his weight like he’s shaking off something uncomfortable. “Of course it is,” he says, but his posture eases, shoulders losing their rigid tension by the slightest fraction.
The police lights illuminate Tim’s clenched jaw, the exhaustion pulling at his features. He doesn’t speak at first. Just stands there, still, waiting—always waiting for her. She can see it, the quiet desperation in his posture, his eyes constantly scanning her as if he's ready to catch her at any moment. It’s—it’s so Tim that Steph wants to laugh.
“Steph,” he starts, his voice quieter now, measured. He had sounded just like this in the hospital, and Steph can imagine the furrow between his brows so clearly as he takes a step forward. “Are you—”
“I'm just gonna head home,” she interjects, smiling wryly at the pinched look on his face. “I'm sure you two can write the report without me.”
“That’s not how it works,” Damian says crossly. “Batman will want a debrief.”
“Then you debrief him.” Steph shrugs, twisting her hands into the fabric of her cape, pulling it around herself like a shroud. “Tell him we saved thirteen people. Tell him it was a success.” Her voice wavers at the end, betraying her, but she steamrolls past it. “I’ll read the report later.”
“I don't think you should be alone right now,” Tim says—pleads— and Steph loves him so much, but she thinks if she has to deal with him walking on eggshells for the rest of the night, she might jump off the nearest building. She hugs him tight, trying to convey as much thank you, I love you into the action as she can. Tim’s arms are warm around her waist, the edge of his cowl poking her shoulder as he dips his head.
She pulls back, just enough to meet the white eyes of his cowl. “Go home, Boy Wonder,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m alright. Promise.”
“Steph—”
She's gone before he can finish his sentence, grapple line pulling taut as she swings herself up, up, up and out of view. Neither of them follow behind her, but Steph knows better than to expect that they aren't watching her movements through the suit trackers. She doesn't care one way or another, hopping from rooftop to rooftop until the blaring sirens fade into the rest of Gotham's cacophony. Out of the corner of her eye, Steph spies the pretzel stand.
The old man insists that it's on the house, which Steph thoroughly ignores, tucking a fiver into the tip jar. He calls after her, indignation coloring his voice, but she pretends not to hear, her steps already pulling her away. The couple of people nearby chuckle, their amusement light and easy, and for a moment, she wonders what it would be like to feel that ease, to live without the weight of what’s constantly pressing against her chest.
Why can't she be okay?
Her legs swing lazily off the edge of the library’s roof, the city sprawling beneath her. Gotham hums with its usual rhythm—car engines, distant conversations, the low murmur of a city too damn angry to sleep.
The image of that woman—her hands caked in blood, curled around her baby—it won't leave her mind. It should. She’s seen worse. Objectively, right? Death and carnage and dozens—dozens of bodies. Her fingers trace the edge of her cowl, the leather smooth under her touch. That's what would have happened to her baby if—it was for the best. It was. Even if just for her daughter. That's all Steph can afford to care about.
“Brown.”
Wordlessly, Steph holds out the pretzel. Damian's approaching footsteps slow, surprise evident in his silence. He's removed his mask, she finds, as she's turning to look at him over her shoulder. Steph can’t help the little quirk of her lips, watching Damian's eyes dart from the pretzel to her, confusion flickering in his sharp gaze.
“How did you know?”
Steph leans back slightly, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow. “What, that you'd follow me? Come on, kid. I know you.”
He grunts just like the mini-Bruce he is, but when he settles next to her, boots dangling beside her knees, it's Steph's turn to be surprised at the chilli dog Damian shoves under her nose. He avoids her gaze, a rare vulnerability in the twist of his mouth.
“You are upset,” he says shortly. “Drake would not explain. I demand you eat this.”
Despite everything, Steph laughs brightly, nudging their shoulders together and pulling off her gloves.
“Demand, huh?”
They trade, Damian begrudgingly biting into the warm pretzel as Steph licks pickle relish off her fingers. She braces herself for his questions, but they never come. Instead, there’s just the quiet thunk of Damian’s boots against the ledge, the occasional scrape of his suit brushing hers, the sharpness of his movements as if he’s trying to remind her that he’s there. He presses against her arm, the point of his elbow digging into her every so often, but Stephanie wouldn't trade this sullen little kid for anything.
“Drake is worried,” Damian says finally, staring at the road below them. I am worried, Stephanie hears.
“There was a baby,” she says quietly. “I didn't see at first. The mom was—she was holding it. Them.”
Damian doesn’t move. He stays perfectly still, staring at the asphalt below, his hands tense where they're clasped in his lap. His voice is carefully measured when he responds. “They were already dead,” Damian points out haltingly, like he knows he doesn't understand, but can't think of anything else to say. “You couldn't have done anything.”
Steph looks at him, studying the uncomfortable furrow of his brows, the slight pout of confusion on his lips. “I had a baby,” she tells him, voice thick with what might be grief or regret or both. “It reminded me of her.”
The words are out before she can stop them, and the impact of them hits her all over again. She feels the emptiness gnaw at her heart, her lungs, the ache that never quite goes away. Understanding floods Damian's face. He stiffens, eyes flitting over Stephanie's face like he's trying to figure out how and when she could've birthed a whole child without him knowing. It's almost comical. “You—a baby?”
“I gave her up,” she says, tapping her thigh idly. “I don't even know what they named her.”
She can feel Damian's eyes on her, trying to reconcile her past with what he knows of Steph now—reckless, stubborn, irresponsible. “I don't know if it was the right choice," she adds, her voice wavering slightly. "But it felt like the only one I could make. She deserves more.”
She deserves better than me.
“You are foolish,” he mutters after a long pause, his voice low and uncharacteristically hesitant. His shoulders creep up to his reddening ears, but when he speaks, his words don't falter. “You would have been a good mother.”
Steph's chest grows tight, a lump sticking in her throat. Damian's such a little shit usually that every kind word feels like a punch to the gut. “You can't know that,” she manages. “She'll think I never loved her.”
Damian shoves at her shoulder, an abrupt anger washing over him. “Don’t be absurd. My mother gave me up,” he snaps viciously, raw and laced with heartache. “And I know she loves me.”
Steph blinks, lips parting in shock. “Of course she does,” she says, almost automatic, but Damian knows that already. It's not him he's trying to get through to. He grits his teeth, doggedly looking out over the city. Even like this, staunchly refusing to meet her eyes, Steph knows him well enough to see the truth buried beneath his sharp edges. Damian had to fight for love, and yet, here he is, fighting for her to believe in it, too.
The ache in her chest doesn’t disappear, but it shifts, loosens enough to let in something else—something softer. “You know,” Steph says lightly, clearing her throat. “For someone who doesn’t like me very much, you can be a real sweetie pie when you want.”
Damian gags. “Never say that again,” he shudders. “I'll run you through, Brown.”
Maybe he's right. Maybe it’s enough that she loved her, that she still loves her. Maybe that’s something that can never be erased, no matter how much grief she carries.
In this moment, on this rooftop, with a half-eaten chili dog and a pretzel between them, it doesn’t feel so heavy. Eventually, she’ll sleep—probably not well, but that’s nothing new. Eventually, she’ll get up and do it all over again, but for now, she just sits, shoulder to shoulder with Damian, watching the city breathe.