It was 9:04 PM on her first night off in weeks when Stephanie Brown turned the faucet on in her bathtub. It took until 9:07 for the water to be ready for her to pull the shower tab and step in. And it was at 9:36, right as she was rinsing the shampoo out of her hair, that she wondered if she could take heavenly 30 minute showers all the time.

Sure it was just her dinky little bathroom in her dinky (she preferred the word "modest") little apartment — it was nothing like the luxurious accommodations at the Manor or even the Grayson/Gordon penthouse. Still, Stephanie saw this warm, soothing shower as a quiet celebration of the ordinary … a nice little start to her night of peace and quiet.

So when she heard the faint but distinct ring of her "work" cell through the roar of the water, her first reaction was panic. Immediately followed was her leaping out of the shower (barely missing tripping over the rim of the tub), snatching a towel to wrap around her while rushing into her bedroom and lunging across her bed. She landed on the mattress with a bouncy thud, but managed to grab her phone on the last ring.

"Hello?" she said, out of breath.

"Brown."

"Damian," Steph said, "What's wrong?"

There was a pause. "Wrong?"

"There isn't anything wrong?" she said, her heart still racing and her mind still trying to catch up.

"Not that I know of," he replied, "Should there be? When you gave me this number, you didn't tell me it was for emergencies only."

"No, it isn't," she said, half laughing at herself for panicking, "I just thought the worst."

"Ms. Positive thought the worst? Color me shocked."

"Yeah, yeah," she said, hopping off the bed, "Anyway, I thought you were on duty tonight."

"Will be. Just finishing suiting up. Since Nightwing," he added an extra emphasis on the name, "will apparently be taking the night off, I'll be going out. Alone."

"Well, Nightwing feels that she might have earned a night for herself," she sent back at him.

"T-T." Ah yes, the classic Damian reply. The disdain was still there, but it was still strange as hell to hear his voice so deep, even if he was 19 now.

Not to be fooled by his guilt trip, she added, "Well, if the great and powerful Robin is really that desperate for a partner tonight, he can always call Dick for help. Not sure if Dick'll fit into MY Nightwing suit, though."

She could almost hear him roll his eyes.

"Please, Brown — we all know Grayson is already well out of shape. I visited him this week to check on the hellion—"

"Hey, that's your niece you're talking about—"

"—and Grayson looked positively unheroic. I'm pretty sure he'd developing a gut."

She didn't feel like telling him that Barbara recently mentioned Dick gaining a few pounds since Ellie was born. It was never a good idea to tell Damian he was correct about something unless absolutely necessary.

"Well, we can't all have perfect Wayne genes, now can we?" she teased. Not that it was much of a tease considering it was a compliment. Still it got him to be quiet for a moment or two as he was clearly contemplating something. Steph waited, knowing by now when the guy was building up to something. Any second Damian would—

"I'm a bit insulted I wasn't informed of your plans tonight."

And there it is, she thought with a huff. She shouldn't have been so surprised he was giving her some form of a guilt trip, but this was supposed to be an easy night. Stephanie had had it all planned out. All of the classes she was TA-ing were off for fall break and that included her night classes. So that meant a whole evening off and pretty much the next day as well.

She sighed. Of course, Damian wasn't going to let her have it easily. "Actually, Dami," she said as she went back to the bathroom for her comb, "You were informed. By me. On Sunday when we sparred."

He scoffed. "I think I would remember."

"You could prove it by pulling up the security footage in cave," she countered.

"… Well, maybe I was distracted by your weak side kick and didn't hear you."

She shook her head and didn't respond right away, instead using her towel to get out some of the excess water from the sopping hair. She'd known the guy for so long that it was obvious when he was trying to bait her to respond.

He finally caved. "So you're going out to the city tonight? For fun?"

"Maybe," she said, knowing full well this would be an evening in, "I do have the party dress from the last Manor party that I want to actually get some use. You know, the one you said was too short?"

"It was too short—"

"Anyway, why do you want to know?"

"Considering Father and practically all our allies are out of town this week? In the middle of summer, when criminals are most likely to be out on the streets? Oh why ever would I want to know where my only partner in the city will be while I work to protect the city?"

She half laughed. "Does that mean you're worried about me?"

"I thought as one of the few semi-competent protectors of this city, you'd want to take this newly free night to further protect Gotham citizens, but apparently now you'll be gallivanting off into the city, probably with your phone turned down far too low to hear when you're called in for back-up."

And there was his slip-up. "Oooh, you think you need back-up, Robby?" He hated when she called him that and she knew it, but it served him right for keeping the Robin suit at the age of 19. "Worried you'll get in too deep?"

"Hardly," he said, his tone too even to actually be even.

"Look Dami, if you don't think you can handle the load—"

He cut her off with that weird tut noise of his. "I can handle it, Brown."

"Then maybe you're just worried about getting lonely," she said, a grin plastered on her face.

"Don't flatter yourself, woman," he said. There was another scoff, but no malice behind the dismissal.

"Oh, I think you're a little lonely," she pushed, pulling the comb through her wet hair, "I think you're lonely, all alone on the mean streets of Gotham. You're missing your favorite partner."

"Well I am, but he's still on paternity leave."

Steph paused mid-combing. She glared at the spot she was imagining Damian to be. "Okay, that was a low blow, Wayne."

"Perhaps," he said, the amusement clear in voice, "but if you don't think you can handle a little ribbing, Brown … "

She considered coming up with a retort, but laughed in defeat. "Okay, Dami, you've stalled enough. Go out and don't get hurt, okay?"

"Worried about me?"

"More like I'd hate to have to stitch you up again."

She could hear his indignant snort through the phone. "Trust me, your less-than-gentle first aid skills are not—"

"Stop stalling and go already!" she laughed. "I'll come by sparring tomorrow."

"… See you tomorrow then," he said, the amusement still strong, "Robin out."

Click

"Dork," she said with maybe a bit of affection to the phone before getting into her "comfy as hell" attire for the muggy summer evening — an extra large sleep tee and some boy shorts. She moved into living room, stretching her sore-as-hell limbs and ruffling out her drying hair.

God, it was a relief to have one night to herself with some wine and a smutty trash novel. Not that she didn't love being Nightwing; she was honored that Dick chose her to fill his shoes while he did the daddy thing with O, despite being scared out of her mind doing the superhero thing again after being out of the field for so long. Two years changed a lot. Edging into her late 20s without sticking to training changed a lot, too.

But five months in and she was definitely back in fighting shape. Plus her graduate schedule wasn't kicking her ass nearly as much as she thought it would. Dick was right — the job was just like riding a bike. A bike she had spent a good decade on as Spoiler, Robin and Batgirl, so it just felt natural to get back into the pace of things.

If she was being honest, she thought as she plopped the lasagna from Alfred into the microwave, superhero gig number four had been surprisingly pleasant. Not least thanks to a particular teammate not being such a little shit anymore.

At least he's stopped calling me fat, she smirked to herself as she poured herself a glass of red something or other wine. Working with Damian in her early Batgirl days, with his insults and superiority and generally overblown ego, was a challenge at best. But she stuck around and towards by the time she hung up the cape and focused on preparing for grad school two years before, he had blossomed from an uppity 10 year-old to a moody 17 year old — somewhat of an improvement.

The microwave beeped and she managed to get the ceramic dish onto her counter top without burning herself. Grabbing a pot holder, a fork and her wine, she brought her bountiful meal to the couch where smutty book sat on the table.

But yeah, she thought while settling down on the sofa, working hand-in-hand with Damian as her main partner was going smoothly. Expecting him to protest her taking over as Nightwing (either because she wasn't good enough or because he had wanted the honor himself as Dick's former sidekick), she was a bit taken back when Damian gave her a once-over and an almost friendly "Good to see you, Brown" on day one. Since their work-out schedules seemed to overlap most days, he had been a huge help in getting her back into fighting shape; the extra training (and the extra getting to know each other) meant they ebbed and flowed well during combat. More than that, he actually listened. He actually listened to her when she came up with a plan, even acknowledging when said plan worked. And the obligatory snarky comment he loved to add came off almost sweet.

Wait, what? She shook off the last thought with a laugh because, well, a sweet Damian Wayne was just too weird. Tolerable Damian? Sure. Mature Damian? A stretch but possible. Sweet Damian? Way too weird to think about. The point was, she thought as she took another forkful of lasagna and another drink of wine, he had certainly changed in the course of her two year hiatus from the "life." Sure, the snark and general Damian-ness was still there (case in point, the phone call), but he wasn't nearly so impatient or condescending. She liked the person he was becoming.

And with him edging towards his 20th birthday, Steph was starting to wonder just when he was going to put away the Robin costume for whatever was coming next. Damian didn't talk about his "right" as the heir of the Batsuit anymore (part of that new-found maturity, apparently), but it had been clear for a while now that Bruce was finally coming towards his retirement … a real retirement, not a "I was legally dead" retirement. Dick had also hinted over the past few months that one of his reasons for asking her to come back to the field was to assess if Damian was ready to take on bigger responsibilities … especially if Gotham was going to need a new Batman sooner than later.

It wasn't a bad idea — Damian would do well in the big suit. Dami might not have realized it yet, but he was "really really" ready for it. There was something sort of nice (sort of warmed her from the inside out) about about how far he'd come and she was proud to have been a part of that in her own small way. If Dick needed Steph to convince Bruce — and Damian — that he was ready, she'd do it. And if Dick decided to keep doing the Mr. Mom thing permanently, she wouldn't mind it if the new lady Nightwing worked alongside the new hot Batman.

She blushed a bit, her own words catching up to her. Hotstuff? No, not hot. Just … up and coming Batman, more like.

She exhaled a long, audible "Hoo." It wasn't that he wasn't attractive. He was. But he was … young. Well, he was 19 but 19 was still young. And it didn't matter that he had filled out in the past couple years and their newly established banter could have been considered flirting by someone who didn't know them and he had those broad shoulders now and—

And clearly I've been drinking this wine too fast, she thought as she gathered up her plate to put in the sink … and went for glass number two. Then she could get to her reading since she was clearly in need of some sexy Steph time.

She snatched her worn copy of The Seas of Passion and opened it up to the eared page where she left off. She was doing an effective job multitasking her reading and drinking, getting sucked into the silly, smutty story and letting the wine go to her head. She started nodding off somewhere early into her third glass and before the second sex scene, drifted off into dreams filled with pirates and wenches and the passion of the seas. Still, even during the dream itself a corseted Steph noticed that Captain Albrecht was no longer lightly tan with angelic blonde hair that blew in the wind but had a dark olive complexion, his hair short and dark and his eyes a startling icy blue. But with the Captain's hand creeping between her legs—

CRASH!

Steph gasped and her eyes flew open, as her mind went to panic mode. All thoughts of her dream and her sleep shattered when she realized that the crash came from her bedroom. Remembering she finished off the wine with the last glass, Steph reached for the empty bottle and crept towards her room. She pushed the door (which was thankfully slightly ajar) open and leaned in, ready to attack her intruder. The window was opened, her curtains and curtain rod pulled to the carpet. Her big floor lamp was also knocked over, muddy footprints moving away for it to the far corner where she found—

"Damian!"

He was curled up in a ball, shaking with pain. The bottle slipped from her hand, bouncing onto the carpet forgotten as she rushed to her injured partner.

"Damian, what happened?" she asked as calmly as she could as she knelt beside him. A quick look over showed no major injuries — a few scratches here and there and some muddy bits on his costume but no gashes, no bullet wounds, no apparent head injury. "Can you move?"

His eyes still closed tight in pain, he nodded. Grabbing his forearms, she was able to help him up. Once he was stable, she looked him over again, just to make sure there was nothing she was missing.

"I … I need …" he got out.

"Don't worry. It's going to be fine. I've got my first aid kit in the kitchen," she said, still trying to keep him steady. "We'll get you to the couch and then I'll do a horrible job patching you up like always." With the adrenaline still pumping though her system, she almost had to laugh at her own panic. And on her day off, no less. "You really can't get along without me, can you Dami?"

His eyes were still closed shut.

"Stephanie …" he moaned.

"Hey," she said, "I'm here." She moved one hand to cup his jaw. At the touch, his eyes flashed open, the normally ice blue now a vivid, almost glowing green. But any inkling of what that meant was cut short when slammed her against the wall, pressed his body to hers and kissed her.