Stephanie and "whose blood is that?"
Turns out the next fic is right now. Go figure. Thanks to anonymous for donating! You didn’t leave a prompt, so I just chose one from my inbox.
Stephanie is sitting on the island in Alfred’s kitchen at four in the morning when it happens. The lights flip on, Stephanie’s head snaps up from the ice cream she’s devouring, and Bruce Wayne asks, “Whose blood is that?”
All in all, not a very good way to start her day, Stephanie thinks. Or end it. It is four in the morning, after all, and Steph hasn’t really gone to sleep yet. She’d skipped patrol since she’d been exhausted and spent—and considering she doesn’t like to half kill herself when she knows she’s at her limit like half the crazies in this house do—and all she’d wanted was some ice cream and some peace and quiet in order to think.
Of course, Bruce just had to ruin that for her.
And then Bruce’s question registers with her. She looks down at the front of her shirt. There’s blood staining it–old, she knows. From an old gunshot wound that had bled through bandages and her thin shirt while she’d slept, and Steph hadn’t bothered to try washing it when she was well enough to move. She knows there’s no way it’s coming out now. Not unless Alfred’s involved, at least.
“Mine,” Steph says, shoving another spoonful of mint chocolate chip ice cream into her mouth. Bruce is still tense, though, so when she swallows, she continues, “Chill. It happened like a bazillion years ago. It was the cleanest shirt I had.”