#bratkid

It would mean he would see the house, the trash cans littered over the yard from where she tossed them, the glass in the kitchen and the hallway.  

There may be a question, or maybe he would see it and know what had happened. And maybe he would think she deserved it, agree with Arthur’s sentiments. Or, even if he didn’t, would just want to see her get taught a lesson. 

“You…” Bruce began, still gripping the doorknob like a life line. What’s it even doing for him? Let go, buddy, we can get you a better security blanket. “You can’t do this again,” he said finally, voice bordering on the edge of firm, like he had to mean it. But he didn’t seem firm. He just seemed worried. 

“Do what?” Stephanie asked, not looking at him. 

"Stephanie.” He said it firmer now, like he meant it, but also like he was incredulous that she was even taking this route. 

Stephanie didn’t have time to be incredulous that she was taking this route either, for she had opened her mouth before she realized it. “I was late, so what? I didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“It’s seven o’clock.”

“So?”

“So,” and he finally let go of the doorknob (good work, Brucie, get in those baby steps), crossing his arms. “You get out of school at three thirty.” 

“So?” she said again. 

He didn’t say anything.

“Do I have a curfew now or something?” she asked, annoyed, as if the idea of a curfew was funny. 

“No,” he said, when he really should have said yes. That was the problem with Bruce, Stephanie knew. He was too honest. 

Dick hated the honesty. He was a showman, a performer. Whatever is real can be twisted a little, made to seem magical. Tim didn’t know what to make of honesty. He assumed that everybody went over their words before they spoke, to ensure the reaction he was looking for. Stephanie was enough of a liar to know the difference between the truth and a lie. So she knew Bruce never lied. He’d conceal, hide, let others assume and never correct. But that was because he had never been a liar. 

She’d seen it, Alfred asking a question point-blank and Bruce struggling to respond. 

Couldn’t be her. Stephanie was too smooth for that. Too much of a liar.

“Where were you?” he asked finally.

“At the mall.”

He cast an eye over her room. “Did you buy anything?” 

She shrugged. “No.” 

“Who were you with?”

“Me, myself, and I. Look, is there a point to this?” Stephanie asked, yawning and trying not to wince when the action pulled on her ear. “Because I’m pretty beat.” 

He looked at her. And she looked back, because she was a Liar McLiarpants and was competing for the Miss Liar crown in the Lower Gotham Liar Pageant. 

“You’re going to bed?” Bruce asked.

“Yep.”

He looked at her again. She didn’t budge.

“Okay,” he said. Then his hand went back to that blasted doorknob. “You need to come back earlier than seven pm.” 

“I was in the neighborhood when the streetlights went on,” she told him. Which was a lie. 

“Before seven,” he told her. 

“That sounds like a curfew,” she said.

“It’s not.”

“Needing to be home at a certain time is not a curfew?” 

He said nothing. 

“Goodnight, Bruce,” she said pointedly. 

He gripped the doorknob, as if it was a lifeline, until finally he released it and stepped away. She could hear his footsteps down the hall.

Stephanie waited until he was far enough away to sigh. ‘And I’d like to thank the academy,’ she thought, mentally throwing a kiss to the peanut gallery. They threw peanuts at her but she didn’t care. She wiggled her socks off, chucking them under the bed. She’d have to wash them herself, there was some blood on them. She gave a thankful thought to Alfred for buying multiple uniform socks. Except—who even put insignias on socks? They scratched her ankles all the time. 

She noted that it may be strange that she wasn’t crying. Stephanie thought she might be all cried out. And, well, what was the point? Her dad was out of jail. Her dad had the house. But Stephanie had the trump card: the answer to every clue Arthur had. 

Coming home late, lying to Bruce — it gave her a determination she didn’t know she was seeking. 

A soft intake of breath. She didn’t hear it, but she knew he was breathing. The next moment the shadow curved over the television, sending the gray light in dull spangles across the couch. She dug her chin into her knees.

The couch exhaled moments later, and she opened her eyes, peeking over.

His blue eyes reflected the television screen. He wasn’t looking at her, and she pretended he didn’t know she was looking at him. This was the longest she had seen him for weeks. Months, even. Especially since she had been ignoring and avoiding him before spring break, when—

She turned away, hair falling over one side of her face like a curtain. There. Didn’t have to see anything she didn’t want to.

The volume was low. She couldn’t hear the game show, but she focused on the screen all the same. She needed an anchor, nowadays. She hadn’t told anyone about that, because there wasn’t much of a point and it wasn’t that bad. They’d turn it into something it wasn’t, and she wanted to go back to normal. She wanted to be their Stephanie again, not the girl who had gotten kidnapped and tortured for days on a warehouse floor, blood staining her hair strawberry red. It was like she had returned the same person, just with scars, but they kept looking for her in between the spaces of what she was. ‘You’re not going to find her,’ she wanted to snap sometimes, when Tim looked at her in that vague way, eyes going distant. ‘She’s here, I’m right here.’

She was still Stephanie.

She was still Stephanie, even if they couldn’t see it. She would make them see it, she would break this manor down and build it again on her own terms and—

She clenched her fists. Then immediately released them.

And what?

She looked down at her knuckles, still shiny with new scars. She could feel him breathing two feet away from her and it took everything in her not to crawl beside him, to assure him that she was alive and if he would please just look at her she would never be kidnapped again, never be bad again, never return as someone different he didn’t know and couldn’t remember how to deal with, if he would please just look—

Her throat caught. Her chest hammered the next instant, chest seizing in mild panic and pain.

“Don’t you still want me?” she wanted to ask. “Don’t you love me? Was it all a lie before, trying to get me and keep me? Was that only because I was young before, or valuable or something? Was it because he hurt me, am I no longer as good or perfect? I was hurt before, Bruce, I was fucking gone before you even knew me. You acted like you didn’t mind then, why now? Have you given up? Don’t you still want me?”

But she didn’t say any of those things.