A drabble for Nye, on the occasion of the anniversary of her birth.
Steph's not sure if he's teasing her, or motivating her, but while she's training, he never lets her wear the whole uniform, just the pieces. She pets each bit when he gives it to her for fitting, lusts after the glossy boots, the violent looking hair-band, the gloves made for brutality. She can't help watching him put each part back in its locker, on its shelf. Almost perfect, nearly Robin. He thinks he's making her uniform, she knows it was only sleeping, waiting for her. She brings it life with a slash of carmine lipstick.
