Chapter Text
Leslie Thompkins really hated life right now. No seriously, she was around 3 seconds away from cursing out every single God in the vain hope that it might either get her smited or get her point across. That point being: Stop fucking like rabbits and leaving random children to grow up in less than fair conditions. Or even, stop leaving children full stop.
Stephanie Brown wasn’t a stranger to Leslie, nor was she a random street kid. A superhero in her own right, despite what others may say, she was a good kid with a good heart who frequently helped out at the clinic when she had time.
And now she was butchered. Her body desecrated and mangled in Batman's arms. He didn’t shed a tear. Couldn’t. He had resigned himself to this fate long ago. He had already written her proverbial obituary the second he had seen her. He had seen this story before, all too aware of the way it ends.
Stephanie Brown's nearly dead body was placed on the operating table, a half-hearted glance sent by the dark knight imploring Leslie to do something. Anything to the girl who Thanatos already had his bony grip on. Nothing short of godly intervention would bring her back from the brink. She may as well have already been in Charon’s ferry, being ushered over the river of death.
And Godly intervention would never come for a regular mortal.
She watched his hunched shoulders leave, once he placed her down with the gentleness of a grieving man. His tenderness a reflection of his apologies, the ones he never got to air. The ones he would never get to tell her. He never said he was proud of her, not when she acted so much like him. He couldn’t get attached, couldn’t bear the thought of another dead robin.
But it happened. And in Leslies mind and heart, it was because of his detachment. His grief blinded him to the reality where protecting himself only led to her death. The day he shut her out was the day he signed her death warrant. And Leslie was ashamed. Ashamed that this was the man she helped raise.
A coward when it came to emotions. A failure when it came to Stephanie Brown.
She watched him go. His cowl bloodied and grimy. He only spared her a glance when she called to him, her soft voice raw with emotion. “I’ll do what I can to make her comfortable,” She had said. Because that was all she could say, when her clinic was overflowing with the injured and the dead, when her patient was in that condition.
He swallowed, she could see his throat bobbing, before disappearing into the hazy mist of the outside world, fumes and smoke engulfing him. Just because a 15 year old hero lay broken and dying in her clinic, does not mean that the horrors of Gotham were over.
Leslie wished he could have stayed, wished, in a sick and horrible way, he could watch her die. For the consequences of his actions to haunt him. But she knew that wasn’t fair, and the consequences of his actions already haunted the streets, the gang war still raging strong. So she sighed, turning back into the room, stroking the girls hair, making do on her promise to make the girl comfortable as she slipped away.
The morphine bag was filled. The machinery in place. A medical euthanization in all but the name. Batman knew what he was asking for when she was delivered here, knew what he was forcing Leslie to do, knew the hurt that would consume her being as she prepared the medicine. She had minutes, maybe an hour if she fought (which she would, Leslie knew her indomitable spirit no matter how battered would hold on for a little longer), of suffering. This would be the only way. The only way Leslie would allow her young charge to go. No more hurt, she had enough of that for a lifetime.
But that wouldn’t happen. Didn’t happen.
Because the god of the sun, healing, and a plethora of other domains appeared with a gentle, yet sad, smile, a thermos of nectar, and a broken heart.
* * *
Between her fiance's stints in prison, Crystal was a shackled woman. Arthur Brown was an overbearing force of defiled nature. Slimy and oily, and all together too smarmy for her tastes. He was a quintessential stain on Gothams streets, one of a million really. Yet she stayed.
She stayed because he was safe. In a sense of the word. He was a schmoozing failed game show host by day, and criminal by night, with aspirations of villainy that made Crystal cringe and pretend she didn’t know anything about his illicit activities. Nothing about him screamed safety or stability. But he was.
He was a solid rock who was there when Crystal was becoming a nurse. When she was an acne riddled high schooler, beaten black and blue by her fathers heavy hands, the sterile sweetness of his drug-coated breath fanning her face as he wailed upon her.
Arthur was there, and did not turn away when the truth of the situation was revealed to him. With his hands, then uncalloused and so uncharacteristically soft, cradled around her face as he promised her a way out, she had flashes of the good life. She was wearing white, him in navy, as they had the gotham equivalent of the white picket fence and 2 and a half kids.
He took her with him, out of the narrows, off the school yard, into the outer suburbs. With a small, shitty beat down house they called theirs, she lived without fear for the first time. She pursued her passions, as he did his. And that's when life began a stained spiral downwards. When the good life started slipping away. When the dream of normalcy began tearing away from her white knuckled grasp.
Small-time goon work became more ambitious, as his game show failed to land any decent numbers. Nights without him became more frequent, along with his rage induced outbursts. The small freedoms she reclaimed in the isolation of the cloud covered nights were ripped from her as he came with the dawn light.
He was an angry man, feeling himself too good for this place. For her. And a part of her agreed. What was she in the grand scheme of things, except an abused nurse barely scraping herself through college.
He was out for longer, came back angrier, till eventually nights stretched to days, which stretched to weeks. And all of a sudden she was getting frantic phone calls to bail him out of jail. Every second month. He was in and out, his stints never lasting too long. Yet in those weeks of her boyfriend-turned-fiancee-turned-whatever-the-fuck-they-had-become’s absence, she relished in the freedom of a life without an overbearing presence breathing down her neck.
She played piano for the first time in years during one of these breaks. A community centre down the road had a music room, and she allowed herself to feel. Allowed herself to dredge an ancient piece from the crevices of her memory box, and played. Like she had the eyes of 1000 people watching her. Like she was in the national orchestra, in an auditorium somewhere up north, not a crumbling building in the crime capital.
It was there she met him. So handsome with his golden hair, tanned complexion, and foreign features. He was a Greek musician, on holiday travelling around the US, partly for fun, partly to find a new muse.
His words were honey soaked as he complimented her playing, as he slipped onto the bench next to her, as he played alongside her, occasionally his soft hands brushing against her own as they played the day away.
It had been a few days, filled with smiling laughter, until he brought her to his apartment. A swanky thing on the nice end of town with its own grand piano settled into the corner, sleek and polished, looking wholly unused. A wonderful night turned into a wonderful week, where she learnt the minute details of the man named Apollo.
He played any instrument under the sun, but preferred the lyre. He had a special interest in healing, saying that if music ever failed him, he would become a doctor. He waxed poetry from the depths of his heart, yet refused to publish a single one, stating that they far too intimate to share with the rest of the world.
For that week, Crystal, who was so accustomed to misery and pain, who jumped ship from an abusive father, only to land on the docks of an abusive boyfriend, was happy. Undeniably so. She had become more than what she thought she could become. Contentedness swapped out for joy.
She didn’t suffer through her days, instead looking forward to dancing in the living room, cooking and eating great food, and listening to the songs her lover would sing for her. She believed him when he told her she was everything good in the world. That he had fallen in love with her spirit.
She believed him when he told her she’d never see him again.
She left the apartment and returned to find Arthurs waiting form, and 9 months later, when her beautiful baby girl was born with a mop of golden hair, that deep complexion, and those gorgeous eyes, bright blue in the crystalline clearness, she believed him when he told her that a part of him would always be with her.
Because that blonde was far too reflectant to be Arthurs. Eyes too bright. And most of all, the soul too pure.
* * *
She didn’t bow at his feet, nor grovel like so many gods wanted. The situation was far too fragile, too charged with unspoken emotions that hung heavily, like a lead weight on the usually spritely God. He looked to the girl with something akin to tortured pride, and Leslie was starkly aware she was now privy to a side of the God not many were so fortunate to witness. His eyes were coloured with a hint of paternal selfish satisfaction, for this girl was great, yet also marred with grief and loss, for the condition that it rendered her to.
And suddenly she felt stupid. Of course the God so terribly cruel to mortals had had a hand in creating a being of pure hope. Of course he must sully everything good in the world, for it is his impulse to do so. Of course Stephanie Brown was a child of the Gods, with her indomitable spirit and radiating kindness. Of course she was the daughter of Apollo, with her blinding smile and need to help others at any cost.
For a moment she could imagine a life where he watched her grow up. She was truly a carbon copy in physicality, with her golden hair, radiant tan and blinding smile, and perhaps too a hint in personality before the god had been corrupted by his hubris. She imagined a reality where the God before her got to hold his child and deliver her with the love she could see so plainly written in his eyes. To congratulate her, and tell her of how happy she made him in the way she went about life. Of how she wasn’t just good enough, but instead great, and of how she was a hero through and through.
Her imagination did not lessen the constricting anger she felt at the knowledge that another God had sired a child and left them to rot. Despite Stephanie's continued heroic deeds, she did not garner the presence of her father, not until she was on the edge of the underworld, ready for a better (after)life.
She knew what he was going to ask of her. Knew why she appeared before him holding her own flask of nectar. “I cannot save her, not directly.” He croaked out. “But you can. You can save her.” He didn’t plead. Despite his obvious love, no matter how impure or twisted as most God’s paternal love is, he would not shatter his ego like that. But Leslie could read between the lines. Could tell in the way he almost shoved the thermos in her hand, and the darting glance between healer, medicine and patient.
He was the snake in the garden offering an unknowing Stephanie the forbidden fruit. The knowledge of the world, of the truth of her life. But where did Leslie fit into the story? Was she Adam, powerless to stop it? Or was she the tree, the sustenance of the parasitic bundle of Godly power, waiting for an unsuspecting wanderer to pass by.
Perhaps she was the snake, incurring the wrath of the world upon a lonely girl, broken and afraid. She certainly felt it as she lifted the girl up, so tenderly, yet feeling as though her hands were poison, impossibly killing the girl as she raised the cup to her slack mouth. Her very essence felt toxic as she forced it down her throat, for however sweet it tasted, it would only bring a more bitter, colder life than the one she's had to endure already. Most certainly, a more bitter, colder death as well.
* * *
Chiron was surprised to see the weathered face of the healer, her presence unannounced, not like she usually does. She usually gives him a warning, the sourness of her presence dampening his own. She didn’t want to come back every year, but she felt she had a duty to the kin of her forefathers, for they were innocent lambs led to the slaughter, and it was her that would shepherd them away from the blade.
She offered her expertise, giving campers vaccinations, antidotes, and updated healing practices to the most devoted of the Apollo campers. She was an ingenious doctor, her knowledge revered by even Chiron. He wished she would stay, but he knew there were too many bad memories here. Too many friends lost. Too many promises to those in the mortal realm, her affinity for saving lives better suited for the bustling metropolis of hell on earth. She feels more fulfilled there, and he can respect that.
She didn’t let him greet her, instead nodding to the frame in her arms. “I’ve got a dying half blood. She needs a whole lot of nectar, and even more rest.”
Chiron harriedly called Argus, who moved to take the child from her arms, though Leslie did not allow it. She held onto her fiercely, like a lioness protecting her young, nearly baring her teeth at the offending arm that reached for her girl. The message was clear. This was Leslies patient. Her responsibility. She was only here because of the DNA that ran in the girl's veins.
Chiron could respect that, and instead ushered her through the big house, onto the infirmary wing, which was thankfully empty. He watched in carefully concealed interest as the woman laid the girl down with such tenderness, the love in her eyes so clear. The bitterness of what she reminded her of was also far too clear.
There was a certain care Leslie had when she removed the tattered suit, blood soaked and grimy. There was a certain grief she held when she revealed the injuries to chiron. Chiron, who had been around for millennia, had seen every type of battle injury. Chiron, who knew this was not that. This was the work of something far more nefarious, something so sick and vile it had no place occurring in life, let alone to a child.
This was torture, plain as day.
And while some monsters, like the kindly ones, partook, maybe even revelled, in the torture of demigods, none did so with such a sloppy human touch. For the deepest evils were rooted in human nature, and this was undoubtedly a very deep evil.
“You are close with this girl?” Chiron gently inquired, placing a comforting hand on his arguably favourite student-in-this-field’s back, radiating a grandfatherly warmth as she worked. She grinded herbs, mixed them with ambrosia, nectar, and modern human medicine, creating a balm to the most obvious of the wounds: Gun shots, knife punctures, and crude holes.
“Stephanie is,” Leslie started, eyes tracking along the girls almost peaceful look. “She’s a true blue Gothamite, through and through. Sharp as a dagger, quick as a whip, and far too kind. She interned under me. I came to care about her, like she was my own.”
“Her mortal parent?” Chiron further pushed.
“Her mother,” Leslie grimaced, all too aware of the complexity known as crystal brown. “She’s a good woman, but.” How do you find the words to explain her shortcomings while simultaneously conveying the crucial understanding why it happened? “She’s troubled. She loves Steph, but she struggles with addiction because of her late husband. A rotten piece of work he was.” That was it in its most simple form. Crystal loves Stephanie like only a mother can, but she also hurts her like only a mother can. Too many unspoken grievances, manic pleas of desperation, and stretches of borderline emotional absence paves the 2’s relationship, marring it.
“And her father? Claimed or not?”
“You know I can't say that aloud lest I be smited in case he doesn’t want people to know.” She wished it was a joke, but the Gods have struck down mortals for less serious slights on their character. “But he did visit her, he’s the reason she’s here right now, came to the hospital and everything. I think you’ve seen enough demigods to know who her father is, you’re not daft.”
“Let's hope his,” He coughed into his fist. “Graciousness extends to a public claiming.”
She only hummed in assent as she finished applying bandages, before placing another container of nectar beside her bed, in case the girl wakes up and needs a shot of energy and/ or more godly healing. “If she wakes up when I'm not here, the first thing you're doing is calling me. I don't care if she’s more out of it than fresh-god-Dionysus at an olympus party, you call me.”
And with that, and all the dramatics of the Greek pantheon, she turned on her heel and strided out of the room, skulking around to try and find her part-time apprentices. The little rat-bags needed some borderline maternal love from a non-toxic source, and she was chock-full of that
* * *
Stephanie Brown's eyes fluttered open, all too aware of the slightly-but-not-completely-numbed pain echoing across her body. She felt it in her bones, like years of exhaustion had built up, infecting the crevices of her body. She could barely hazard to keep her eyes open, let alone push herself up. All she wanted to do was allow herself to succumb to weakness, slumping even further into the pillowy cloud she had found herself resting on.
Resting. Pillowy clouds. Comfort
Her eyes zapped open once more, this time her brain bypassing her bodies weakness, forcing her to slowly, very fucking slowly as it was all that her strength would allow, to push herself up. Her hands sunk into the comfortable bed she found herself in, and all she could think was that the room was far too bright to be anywhere near gotham.
Once she propped herself up, she noted that she was in an infirmary-like room, a row of beds beside and across from her, all with undrawn privacy sheets. It was starkly empty, though she could vaguely hear the shouts of young children. It was off-putting, as the voices seemed so light. It wasn’t the screams of terror she was used to hearing in gotham, the ones she hated hearing. These were normal. Like the day she went to metropolis and went to one of their playgrounds. It was nice.
It was also not black masks lair, which gave it bonus points in the not-terrible category.
She looked down to see her spoiler costume was not on her body. Fuck. Instead, she had been dressed in a hideously bright orange shirt, and non-descript shorts. Weird, but a little bit better than a hospital gown. Her utility belt was also taken from her, along with the various holsters and weapons she had strapped to herself.
To her left there was a window with the blinds partially down. They looked beaten and dusty, the window itself reminiscent of an early 20th century home. Nothing like the much older gothic architecture found in gotham. Another tick in the not-gotham box. There was also a bedside table, a partially melted ice-drink laying next to her, with a small sticky note.
She looked at the drink first, noting the little amounts of condensation, and the just barely melting ice. Whoever had put it there had been here very recently, and probably wouldn’t come back for a while, giving her more time to figure out an escape plan if need be.
She next looked at the note. It was in a foreign language, but her brain still zapped, allowing her to understand the writing.
‘It’ll make you feel better, puzzle-bird, come find me when your ready
Leslie’
No one else knew of that nickname, not even Bruce. Leslie had names for all the robins, saying it was tradition. It was born from her love for puzzles, the older doctor often finding her playing with handheld ones, a symptom from the childhood she had with her father. Leslie helped separate that love for brain stimulation from the memories of her father, hence Stephanie loving the nickname. She never found out her name for Dick or Jason, only Tim, which she relentlessly teased him with after. Detective-bird, how fitting.
All that to say, it was most likely from the older woman, and therefore the drink was likely to be safe to drink. Still, she gave it an experimental swirl, and a customary sniff, trying to remember Bruce's hasty lessons on poison detection. They were rushed, but it went something along the lines of: something something bitter, sweet or sour, something something.
It did not smell like any of that, instead smelling like her mum waffles, the kind she would make when she was sober and present, wanting to make it up to stephanie. It was warm and comforting, and had the faintest hint of the good maple syrup they could get at the corner shop, not the generic shit.
She gave it a tentative sip, finding it tasted exactly like what it smelled like. The same sweetness, encapsulated within a drink. It made her feel warm on the inside, the bone deep pain being chased away, like a monster retreating into the night. Before she knew it, the entire glass was drained clean.
She looked into the empty glass once more. She had had a warm drink, yet the ice had not melted. She knew what she tasted, yet her brain could not comprehend what she was seeing. It tasted exactly like her mums cooking, had even felt warm and gooey, and like her mother had placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. Yet the glass was cold, and her mother wasn’t here.
She gulped, the glass almost slipping from her hands, before she had half a mind to catch it, not wanting to bring any attention to the fact she was awake. She needed to get up, find Leslie, and figure out what was going on. Last time she checked, she had been in a crummy warehouse on the verge of death, with black masks perverted figure looming over her, the drill in his hand looking more like a gun than anything else. That was when the blood loss got to her, but she could have sworn she felt the cold barrel of a gun pushed against her ribs.
And now she was here, in a nice place, with comfortable beds and drinks that defied the laws of thermodynamics. She needed answers.
She slipped her legs from the bed, her feet bare, before gently putting them on the hardwood floors, ensuring as little weight was out down as possible. Like an agile cat, she bounded across the room, quick and light, before slipping through the open doorway, revealing a hallway.
The walls were a faded white, trimming a light birch. A far cry from Gothams dark wood and stone.
She crept down the hall, until she reached the end, on her left another hallway, leading to more doors, and another window. This time she could see green grass and trees. They were far away from any city then. On her right, a staircase, which she bustled down, periodically stopping and scanning her surroundings. The house was empty as far as she could tell, no other soul in sight. Yet she knew someone must be close, her drink was fresh after all.
The front door was the first thing she came across once she reached the final stair. It was wide open, and Stephanie could see other children, clad in similar outfits to her, running around. They had bright smiles on their faces as they bathed in the sun, enjoying the whims of a sunny day.
She stepped out of the relative safety of the house, finding herself on a wrap around porch, a table with occupants to her right. A pudgy man with red rimmed eyes, flushed cheeks and a distinct unkemptness that reminded her far too much of her mother when she went through her admittedly frequent ‘rough’ patches. That man had ‘addict’ written all over his face.
The next one was an older man, a full beard that was neatly trimmed accompanying a weathered face, wrinkles prominent. His hair, much more maintained than drunky next to him, fell to his shoulders, and a wiry pair of spectacles sat on the bridge of his nose. He had the warm feeling of a grandfather, reminiscent of how Time would describe agent A whenever she wasn’t there. Stephanie didn’t know how to feel.
The final occupant of the table had the shiny grey hair of her favourite doctor. She was also clad in the orange shirt, this one layered under a medical coat. She had her own glasses on as she scanned the cards in her hand. She appeared to be locked in an intense card game, the card combination in her hands indicative of the game. Pinochle. Not her favourite, but Arthur always made her play it when his goon squad came around. She thinks he enjoyed watching her outsmart everyone but him.
She allowed herself to observe for a moment more, before taking the chair next to Leslie, watching in measured glee as the women faced her, a worried smile worming itself onto her aged skin, grey eyes lighting up in delight. “Stepahnie,” She started, her voice filled with relief. “It's good to see you up and awake, and not on the verge of death.”
“It feels good to be, you know,” Stpehnaie sighed. “Alive. But where are we? What happened to me? What happened to Gotham?”
“Gotham is… not as bad. The war is slowing down.” Leslie wasn’t going to say why. To tell the young girl that her nearly murderer has major control over most of the city. “As for us, after everything, Batman brought you to me, but I knew I needed some extra help for your recovery.” She was also not going to tell her that Batman had given up on her, asking for euthanization. Stephanie had been through enough. “We’re in New York, camp half-blood to be exact.”
At Stephanie's confused look, Leslie sighed, knowing she needed to bite the bullet, fully revealing the world of myths, legends and monsters to her. “How much do you know about Greek mythology?”
* * *
At some point during the initial storytelling, the 2 other occupants had excused themselves, the man in the wheelchair going inside, and the skulking addict wandering in behind him, muttering something about diet cokes. This left Stephanie and Leslie to converse, and stew together.
It wasn’t exactly surprising that the Greek Gods existed, because, well, Wonder Woman. Steph hadn’t gotten to meet her personally, but she'd met Wonder Girl, and knew that Nightwing was friends with Troia.
So really, them still kicking isn’t the biggest shock in the world. However, how she was involved, that's when it got a little bit harder to grasp. “So, me, Stephanie Brown, regular Gothamite, supposed daughter of an f-grade super villain, is actually the kid of an ancient God, who actually might be worse than arthur?”
Leslie grimaced, but nodded. “Gods mingle with mortals more than you may think. We’ve got a known Greek Demigod population of around 120 strong.”
“Shit.” Stephanie sighed, her shaking hands clenching and unclenching. “So do you know who my… biological dad is, then?”
“Yes, but unfortunately, I’m not allowed to say. Gods are fickle, for a child to know their parentage, and come to their full power, they must be claimed first.”
“Claimed?” Stephanie questioned, not liking the tone Leslie had taken. She sounded almost sorrowful.
“A public acknowledgement that you are that God’s kid. Without it, you are a lonely wanderer, an unclaimed, an unacknowledged. Those who remain unclaimed are often lacking in a defined identity, and become lonely without definitive knowledge of their parentage. Its a sad reality, one which has gotten better in recent years.”
“Why don’t Gods claim their kids, surely it doesn't take that long?” Stephanie questioned, fearing for not only her own future, but also the lives of those that had gone for so long unclaimed. Living an isolated life as an unwanted hurt, alot.
“Some forget about their kids. For some it is politically inconvenient to acknowledge them. Others do it out of fear for the backlash on them and the child.” Leslie was angry, she could tell from the tone of her voice, and the crinkle between her eyes. She did a very good job at hiding it, but Stephanie could read faces. She had seen all of Leslies emotive range, the patterns her body and verbal language took to when feeling certain things. What she felt was rage.
“I see.” Stephanie said quietly. “Is that why I was… left for so long.?” She questioned.
Leslie grimaced, understanding the underlying question. Is that why she was left with a monster as a father for so long. Is that why she was left to suffer? “Yes. That and the nature of Gotham herself. Most demigods attract ancient monsters, a result of their parentage, with a scent. It increases with age, most demigods finding out about the Greek word in their tween years. However, the stink of Gotham is so terribly mortal it can hide even the strongest of demigods, ergo, you were safe from the mythological monsters.”
“Safe from one type of monster,” Stephanie grumbled. “Exposed to another.”
Leslie laughed sullenly. “Yes well, unfortunately now you know of your true heritage, your scent increases. Not enough to break through Gothams haze, but enough to be a very big homing beacon if you were to step out of it.” She sighed, a deep rumbling thing that was so tortured Stephanie wanted to reach out a hand, and tell her that it wasn’t her fault, that everything would be okay. “I want you to stay here and train.”
Stephanie frowned, becoming defensive. “I have trained.” Her words were clipped, tone cold. She had been told by so many people she needed to train more. They all saw her as some scrappy kid, ignoring her talents in favour of homing in on her flaws. There was no repercussion to Batman who refused to train her.
“A different kind of training. Stephanie I know you can hold your own, and you certainly have a leg up on most of the kids here in hand to hand, but you need to learn other things. Weapons training, survival training.” Leslie grabbed her shoulder. “It’ll be different this time around, the instructors here are good. They’ll see you for how amazing you are”
Stephanie let in a shuddered breath, before nodding, seeing the merit behind her words, regretting the defensive stance she took when she knew that Leslie was just trying to help her. “Now run along to cabin 11, they’ll know you're the new kid I told them about.” Leslie shoo’d her off with a smile, watching the young girl nod and wander down the stairs, along the worn path. “And Stephanie,” She called out.
The blonde turned, her head tilting in a quizzical way. “You're great, I need you to know that. Don’t let anyone here bring you down. Never again.”
Stephanie allowed a small and sad smile to grace her face, before nodding and turning away. Leslie couldn’t help but be reminded of how stupid she had been. As the sun reflected off the blonde's skin, her aura practically radiating gold, she looked the most Godly she had ever seen a demigod look, bar maybe Percy Jackson.
And that scared her.