Anonymous asked: Why was Steph fired from being Robin? What reason did Bruce have?
In Robin 125, Bruce gives her the terms of being Robin - which are, I believe, stricter than anyone else’s.
In Robin 128, Batman goes to fight a criminal and tells Robin to wait in the plane. They’re in contact through the comms, though, and…
Robin goes in, and the villain gets away. Stephanie sits home for three weeks until Bruce calls her.
"You remember our agreement. You disobeyed a direct order in the field. You’re fired. Take the rest of the afternoon to gather your personal thing and retrieve your personal files out of the computer. Take everything now, because you won’t be back. The codes will be changed as soon as you leave."
"I know I screwed up awful bad, but - "
"I gave you a fair shot. You didn’t measure up, but there’s no shame in that. And Stephanie? Let this be the end of it. From now on, I don’t expect to see Spoiler out there either."
Word Count: 7808
Characters/Pairings: Barbara Gordon/Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth
Summary: Batgirl contends with her feelings after Dick leaves Gotham.
There was no wind in the still, limp, hot summer air. Below and around her sprawled Gotham city, like a living creature restless even in its time of rest. The lights of a bridge glittered beyond the rising bulk of another building and a luminous moon blotted out the starlight. It was a massive moon, almost frightening. On hot clear nights like these, it seemed very close, as if she could shoot her jumpline and swing across to its mountains and valleys.
"And maybe grab a quick snack—hey, what if it’s made of white chocolate instead of cheese?" The imagined, playful voice echoed in her mind, as did her glib reply: "If it were made of chocolate, bird brain, we definitely would have gone back."
Her gloved hand reached out to the roof border to steady her. She shook her head, clearing it. There would be none of that.
The neighborhood spread below her was trendy, recently gentrified. Turn-of-the-century rowhouses, relics of Gotham’s troubled past, had been converted into galleries and shops.
Most crooks would prefer to go stealthily, avoiding any noise. They might use glasscutters to slip in and out without mess or fuss. But the convertible burned rubber as it took a screaming turn off 4th, then barreled to a chaotic halt outside Dixon’s Fine Jewelry.
Sometimes she thought he enjoyed being caught. It gave him more opportunity to make fun of the members of the GCPD, the staff of Arkham, and the vigilante he hated.
Four broad-shouldered, massive hulks of men in white face paint, red-and-black striped shirts, and absurdly delicate toe shoes leapt out of the car. They were a troupe of mimes that followed the spinning dance of a laughing, screaming, whooping green-haired clown of death.
The darkness suggested the memory of a familiar, brash, male-bravado voice remarking, “Hope they don’t start the party without us.”
Shut up, she thought. Shut up. Don’t remember. Not now.