Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

2012 

“So each week has seven days. There’s fifty two weeks in a year.” Tim roundhouse kicked a henchman in the throat, sending him wheezing to the ground. “So that makes 365 days in a year.”

A henchman jabbed a knife at Cass, and she effortlessly disarmed him before tossing the knife far into the opposite end of the warehouse, letting it jam point first into a wooden packing crate. A soft shower of white powder drifted from the crate, which Cass had been reliably informed was something called cocaine . It was laced with glass and very dangerous. Tim told her that the sign for it - brushing a fist with your thumb out below your nose - looked a little like how people snorted the drug, which was pretty funny. 

The man dropped to the floor, body screaming in pain. “But seven times fifty two is 364,” Cass said, as Tim dived for the dirty computer propped on top of a wooden crate. It had information that they needed or something. Cass didn’t keep track. “So how are there 365 days?”

“Good catch,” Tim said, as he swiveled the mouse and Cass moved to cover him. He jammed one of his little sticks into a little hole in the computer. Cass kicked out the kneecap of another man advancing on them, tossing him to the side and knocking him into another man. “That’s leap day. Every four years, there’s an extra day in February to make up for how the Earth’s actual trip around the sun is a little longer than 365 days.” He thumped on the keyboard a lot, doing something mysterious. On the other side of the warehouse, Batman had a very large man in a headlock. “I know a girl whose birthday was on a leap day. That’s February 29th. February only has 28 days, otherwise.”

A man tried to break through Cass’ rigid perimeter around Tim, but she effortlessly grabbed his arm and twisted him to the ground before he could make contact. “What’s a birthday?”

Tim just dodged slightly without looking up from the computer, making the computer flash before he withdrew the stick and tucked it into his utility belt. “That’s the day you were born. On your left.”

Cass, already halfway through a word, abruptly transitioned to nerve striking an advancing man. She watched him collapse on the floor, then turned back to Tim. “What’s the point of that?”

A very slight twitch of surprise twinged in Tim’s neck, but otherwise he didn’t react. Cass respected that highly about Tim. He tried hard not to show any surprise at Cass’ questions. “Many cultures like to celebrate the day somebody was born once a year. There’s a cake and a party and stuff. It’s mostly for kids. My birthday’s on July 19th, which means that I was born thirteen years ago next week.”

“That’s seven days from now!” Cass signed proudly. 

Tim tapped his forehead with an index finger and pointed both index fingers at Cass in agreement. The last henchman fell, landing on the pile of unconscious and groaning bodies around them.  

Batman, who was distantly watching their conversation from afar as he stood in a circle of fallen foes, tripped on his cape and fell on his butt. 

The topic of birthdays seemed to make Dad anxious.

On the drive home, as Tim and Cass chatted lazily in the back seat and inspected each other’s bruises, Dad glanced at the empty passenger seat next to him slightly more than usual. When they got back to the Cave - Cass backflipping out of the car and Tim calmly hoisting himself over the door as usual - Dad stopped to talk to Alfred in the corner as he radiated anxiety. Cass poked Tim in the arm and pointed it out, as Tim wasn’t very good at knowing what people were feeling. Apparently Cass and Alfred were the only people in the world who could read Dad sometimes, which made Cass feel pretty good. 

She cocked her head at Tim, silently asking if he knew why Dad was upset. Tim shrugged in confusion, withdrawing the stick from his belt and holding it up. 

“I stripped the shipment movements from their computer,” Tim said, after saying some gibberish with his mouth to get Dad’s attention. “They saw me using their computer, so they probably know that I took it, but they can’t hide the list of buyers. If you give me a few days, I can probably track their supply source.”

“Your birthday’s next week?” Dad asked, distressed.

Cass and Tim stared at Dad. Alfred sighed. 

“Uh,” Tim said, “I can probably get it done in a day…”

“You should have mentioned it,” Dad said, lifting his cowl and revealing faint lines of tension. “That’s important information.”

Tim’s expression creased in confusion. “If the information’s time sensitive, I can -”

Alfred radiated exasperation, placing his silver tray of post-patrol snacks on the foot cart so he could free his hands. Cass happily skipped over, grabbing a pack of the little bear cookies and tearing it open with her teeth. She loved honey flavor. “I believe what Master Bruce means is that we would like to celebrate your birthday, Master Tim. Thirteen is an important age.”

“I guess,” Tim said, but in reality he was confused and uncomfortable. “It’s not that different from twelve…”

“It’s very different,” Dad said firmly. Birthdays seemed to incite a higher level of panic than defusing the Mad Hatter’s bomb last week. “Would you like a party? What about a present?” Dad obviously groped for something teenage boys liked. “Do you want a new sword? Or training with the tonfa?”

Alfred’s body screamed ‘you do not understand children’. Cass was intrigued by the tonfa option. It would be a highly suitable weapon for Tim. He needed to find a weapon that protected him. Cass worried about his safety. 

But Tim just cocked his head, frowning. He signed uncomfortably, “You really don’t have to bother with that.”

“What’s a birthday party?” Cass asked Tim brightly. 

“It’s a celebration for kids with cake and good food and fun games,” Tim explained to her. “The kid’s family holds it for them. I don’t have parents for that, so there’s no need for Bruce to do it. He’d do it for you, though.”

“I don’t know the day I was born!” Cass said brightly. 

Dad groaned very loudly into his hands. Alfred kneaded his forehead. 

By the time Dad looked up, his stress had tripled. “Both of you hit the showers and your cool down stretches. Now.”

They scampered, already elbowing each other for first rights to the shower. 

As they did their cooldown stretches, Tim and Cass solemnly agreed that the birthday topic definitely made Dad very anxious. Neither of them could figure out why. Dad was an open book to Cass, but he was also very irrational. Most people were.

That was why Cass and Tim got along so well: Tim was very rational. He didn’t feel anything that didn’t make sense, and he could explain almost anything to Cass. Even if sometimes he had to consult their ASL dictionary first.

They ran upstairs together and submitted to the ordeal of Alfred plying them with protein bars and bottles of water before shepherding them to bed. They normally got back from patrol at around 2:30 in the morning, and Alfred made them go to bed at 3:00 in the morning at the latest. He had to explain the concept of bedtimes five times to Cass, but once Tim solemnly informed Cass that it was one of those ways adults liked to exert power over children it made much more sense. 

But as Cass lay in bed, wrapped in the softest silk pyjamas in a cozy bed under a fluffy duvet, she couldn’t stop thinking about birthdays. 

She couldn’t imagine it. What did you do during a birthday party? Her mind conjured images of the big dining room table covered with Cass’ favorite foods - eclairs and cheesecake and Fruity Pebbles. It wouldn’t be like the galas Dad organized sometimes - those weren’t real  parties, Tim had assured her, not like birthday parties. They were just work things. A birthday party had a family who gave you presents. 

Cass could imagine that. Dad sitting at the table, and Alfred next to him. Maybe they’d be smiling at her. Tim would be next to her, smiling his secret smile only for her - the kind that lived in the crinkle of his eyes, and never showed in his mouth. 

Would a family birthday party have Damian Wayne? Cass had never met him. He must have had a lot of birthday parties. Tim had assured her that Dad and Damian were the perfect family and that they were awesome partners, so every birthday between them must have been great. Cass didn’t know why he would leave behind such nice things like birthday parties to lead the League of Assassins, but Tim told her that he must have had a really good reason. 

Maybe she could imagine that. But when she tried to imagine David Cain standing next to her, smiling down at her and giving her a pretty little music box just like she wanted, she couldn’t imagine that at all. 

Cass sat up and slipped out of bed, silently slipping out of her room and walking down the hall until she reached Tim’s room next to hers. Without knocking, she slowly opened the door and entered Tim’s room. 

It was darker than hers, because he left the thick velvet curtains closed no matter what. It didn’t have everything her room had - her posters and stuffed animals and toys, her music boxes or her snowglobes. It didn’t have anything but his computer and a few clothes stuffed in the wardrobe. Tim called it a guest room. 

He had opened his eyes when Cass opened the door, so she grabbed his duvet and slid underneath the covers next to him. She could barely see him in the dark. His face wasn’t anything more than the faint impressions of a human: dark sweeps for the hair, lighter strokes for the high cheekbones and pointy chin. He stared back at her, breathing softly, before reaching up and flipping on the reading light attached to his headboard so they could talk. 

“If you fall asleep here you’re going to freak out Bruce again,” Tim said, but it was obvious he didn’t really care. 

Cass just hummed, snuggling under the covers. She liked Sign, but it was annoying having to express herself and stop and wait for people to understand. Sometimes she wished everybody was like her: that they understood everything instinctively, and there were no miscommunications between anybody at all. If everybody in the world was just like Cass, then nobody would ever get confused and accidentally hurt each other. 

But there was nobody in the world like Cass. The only one who came even close was Tim. But nobody understood Tim either. 

“What’s a birthday party like?” Cass asked. 

Tim blinked at her, eyes large and gleaming almost green in the soft yellow light. “I don’t know,” he said, “I’ve never had one.”

Cass blinked at him, a silent ‘why?’ hanging in the air. 

Tim laid back down on the pillow, eyes flickering away from her. Sad, hesitant, accepting. His mouth folded, a corner scrunched up in a way that read clear as day to her. Resigned. ‘That’s life’. 

“I want a birthday,” Cass signed. 

Tim half-shrugged one shoulder, and propped himself up on an elbow so he could sign again. “Then ask Bruce. He’ll give you one.”

“I don’t know when I was born.” Cass let her expression crumple. “I don’t know how old I am.”

Tim stared at her for a long moment, blinking slowly. Finally, he said, “You can have mine.”

Crickets whirred outside, their wordless song that spoke of so much. The wind rustled leaves against the window, a sound that spoke of nothing at all save the infinite flow of weather and wind, and Tim blinked at her in the soft light of the creeping morning. 

Cass told Tim something that couldn’t be put into words. 

“You’re welcome,” Tim said. 

The next morning, Tim chugged coffee and thumped mysteriously on his laptop again (“I’m talking to my internet friends, and I will not elaborate”), as Cass sat on the swiveling barstool next to the kitchen island as she watched Alfred prepare breakfast in the kitchen. 

She really liked watching Alfred work. It was very calming - its own form of ballet, as practiced and elegant as any choreographer. Alfred was very pleased when she told him that. He took a great deal of pride in his work, and Cass loved seeing it. Tim wasn’t as impressed by Alfred’s cooking as she was, but Tim wasn’t impressed by a great deal of impressive things. 

“What’s a birthday party like, Alfred?” Cass asked, spinning on her chair. Alfred was chopping onions on the counter in front of her for the omlet, so he put down his knife briefly to answer her. 

“A fun and joyous occasion,” Alfred said. “The birthday girl would have all of her friends over, and there would be a great deal of colorful decorations and balloons. There’s always a very large birthday cake, with candles on the cake representing the age of the child.”

Cass beamed. “That’s fun!” She signed, throwing her hands out wide in excitement. “Can we do that next week? I want to meet all of Tim’s friends.”

From his place at the dining room table, Tim verbally said a word that even Cass knew. “No!”

“We may have a quiet celebration among us,” Alfred said diplomatically. “Master Bruce is already arranging something.”

Tim mumbled something verbally. Cass ignored him. “Why do birthdays stress out Dad? You said they’re fun.”

Alfred paused for a second as Tim went back to his computer and resumed ignoring them. He carefully said, “This has been a difficult year for Master Tim. I believe Master Bruce would like to make him feel welcome.”

Because birthdays are for family. And Tim screamed sadness and confusion whenever anybody talked about family to him.

“We can have an extra fun time,” Cass said firmly, waving her arms around empathetically. “It is my birthday too! We can have a double birthday party!”

Alfred said something verbally, very shocked.

Tim said something back without looking up from his computer, sipping at his coffee. 

Amidst the confusing commotion, Dad walked inside the dining room with thick bags under his eyes and a loose robe pulled over his shoulders. Tim silently slid a steaming cup of coffee to his seat, where Dad dropped and grunted a thank you before chugging the coffee. 

Alfred said something verbally, seemingly mild but feeling very pointed. Dad choked on his coffee. 

Finally, he turned to Cass and clumsily signed something out. He always talked goofy in the morning. “It’s your birthday next week too?” His panic kicked up a notch. “I forgot two birthdays? Again ?”

“I gave Cass mine,” Tim said, straight faced. “I wasn’t using it.”

“We’re sharing,” Cass added helpfully. 

“How old are you turning, Miss Cassandra?” Alfred asked archly.

Cass turned to Tim. “How old are we turning?”

Tim held up three fingers and bent them a few times.

Cass turned back to Dad, beaming brightly. “We’re turning thirteen!”

“It’s a very efficient method, Master Bruce,” Alfred said. “Very easy to remember.”

The mild words made guilt radiate through Dad, cuing him to desperately grasp his newspaper before he remembered that he couldn’t talk and hide behind things at the same time. Alfred said that Sign was good for him. “I didn’t forget Damian’s…”

“It’s really not a big deal,” Tim said uncomfortably. “It’s not like I told you or anything.”

“How interesting,” Alfred said. “That was what Master Damian said after his fifteenth birthday.”

Dad outright cringed this time. “That wasn’t…”

“What did you do for Damian’s fifteenth birthday?” Tim asked, fascinated. He loved hearing little things about Damian’s life. He had shown Cass the compare/contrast list with his own life several months ago. It was a spreadsheet. 

“Why don’t we go to Dave and Buster’s?” Dad asked desperately. “We can go for the tapas Cass likes afterwards.”

“I hate the tapas,” Tim said, straight faced. “I want the French bakery.”

“I want tapas and the french bakery,” Cass said, gesticulating wildly. “ And I want to meet Tim’s friends -”

“I also need a bar mitzvah,” Tim said. “If we’re doing all of this.”

“I want a bar mitzvah!” Cass said, not knowing what that was but intent on being included. 

“Congratulations,” Alfred said, “it’s twins.”

But, of course, they weren’t twins. They were partners.

It was a word that had once meant very little to Cass - like video games, like weeks and years and leap years, like birthdays. Cass understood fathers, and teachers. She understood that one of her teachers had given birth to her, but this had been presented as trivia. There was nobody else in her life. There was nothing in her life but the training, the fighting, and the pain.

A partner was Robin. Robin-and-Batgirl were partners. A partner read words for you and translated what you said to other people. A partner hacked the database as you covered him. A partner explained planets to you as you lay on your bedroom floor, flipping pages of a glossy picture book. A partner sparred with you, and always got back up no matter how many times you knocked him down. 

Cass had only known Timothy Drake for three months. She had only been Batgirl for three months, and Tim had only been Robin for twice as long. Their synocrity was not perfect, and their tag team style was choppy. Tim’s resentment bubbled through, and Cass couldn’t hide her frustration. 

But this new life, so bright and shining and exciting, introduced new things to her every day. Scary things like reading and writing, and awesome things like tapas and pastries. Every time she held a new thing in her hands, she had no idea how she lived without it. In this bright and strange and shining and terrifying world, there was no Cassandra without Tim. 

There was a Tim without Cassandra. But Cass had the sense that Tim didn’t really like that person. Maybe he still didn’t. She didn’t know why. She liked him quite a bit. 

That was why Tim’s birthday party had to be great. It also had to be great because it was her birthday party, and Cass had decided preemptively that birthday parties were the greatest thing on the planet. She was eager to help Dad out understanding how important this was, even as he looked increasingly harried. It was somewhat complicated by the fact that Cass and Tim didn’t know what a birthday party entailed, and apparently Dad didn’t either. 

“It means no Batman,” Cass said insistently. She personally had nothing against Batman, but Batman wasn’t family . “No matter what!”

“I promise,” Dad said, unsuccessfully hiding behind his desk. “Are you sure you just don’t want a pony?” 

“I’m not ready for the responsibility yet,” Cass said gravely. She was still navigating her relationship with Titus. They were entering the negotiation stage. “Remember we have to invite Tim’s friends.”

Dad panicked again. “Tim has friends?”

Cass didn’t blame Dad for not knowing. Tim didn’t like discussing his life to Dad, as if he was afraid that Dad would find it boring. Most of their conversations were about Batman stuff. Cass wanted to argue with him, but they both seemed to be happy with the arrangement. Superboy, who was the only friend that Cass had met, confided in her that they were both ‘socially awkward’. 

But Tim’s friends were the kind of friends that existed at school, and did school things with you. Cass did not know what those things were. Tim rarely hung out with them after school - he preferred to come straight back home and get to work on Robin stuff - but on the rare occasions that he disappeared for a few hours on a Saturday, he always came home and told Cass all about the fun he had. 

It was a part of Tim that Cass couldn’t see. It wasn’t unfair. Cass didn’t talk to him about her life before meeting Tim very often. They shared Batman and a home, but Tim couldn’t share this. Not the way he could share Robin or a bed or birthdays. 

Maybe Cass was envious. Maybe Cass wanted everything Tim had. 

Thankfully, Alfred was supportive of Cass’ intrepid spirit - or maybe he just found it funny - because he allowed her to tag along when he drove to Brentwood Academy to pick Tim up. It was the kind of school that you could live inside if your parents wanted you to (or so Tim had explained), and if Tim wasn’t staying with Dad then he would probably live there full-time. He was subtly relieved about this. Cass was also relieved about it. Dad and Alfred and home cooked food weren’t in schools. 

In concession to her mission, Alfred parked right in front of the school. He stayed inside the car, flipping through one of his books, as Cass sat on the roof of the limo and kicked her heels against the window. Eventually, an ear-splitting siren echoed out of the building, and only a few minutes later children started pouring out of the doors. 

It was a fascinating ritual that Cass had no frame of reference for, and she watched with interest as the children in uniforms yelled and bumped into each other and shoved each other around. They reeked of simplistic, effusive joy in the sheer act of leaving school. Some students pulled away to a large, imposing building, but many of them meandered towards the street Alfred was parked on and waited for cars to come. Some of them were intrigued by the car, and more were curious about Cass, but she just smiled brightly at them until they awkwardly looked away.

Finally, Tim exited the building, flanked by two other kids. He was deep in conversation with one of them, expression intent and focused, but when he turned his head towards the street he stopped dead in his tracks. Cass waved at him. 

He came running up to her, backpack flopping against his back, and his two friends followed in abject confusion. Cass jumped off the roof of the limo as Tim skidded to a stop, radiating panic and confusion and a tinge of anger. 

“What are you doing here!” Tim signed, attracting even more stares. “Is something wrong? What’s happening?”

“I wanted to meet your friends,” Cass said brightly. She pointed at the two kids next to Tim - a boy and a girl, whose eyes were bouncing between Cass and Tim and the limo and looking increasingly confused. “Are these your friends? They look really nice!”

Tim groaned. 

Cass ignored him. In a flawless rendition of the societal ritual, Cass stuck out her hand to the girl. The girl carefully reached out her hand and shook it, looking spooked, and Cass repeated the motion with the much more enthusiastic boy. 

The girl said something verbally to Tim, who said something with complete resignation. The boy said something in delight, and Tim was lightly amused-angry-frustrated. 

Cass didn’t know a lot of words, and people spoke very fast and slurred every word together like they were one big word, but she knew a few. The girl said a lot of things, but she also said the word ‘sister’. Tim said a short sentence, with the word ‘friend’. 

Alfred rolled down his window and said something else. Cass was beginning to feel a little overwhelmed by all of the speaking. Normally she only heard a lot of talking as Batgirl, and actions tended to speak louder than words in the streets. 

Finally, Tim turned back to her, and jabbed out a few signs. “Cass, these are my friends Ariana and Ives. Congratulations. You’ve met them. Can we go home now?” Alfred said something to him, with an arched eyebrow. “And why is Alfred making us all hang out ?”

Cass beamed. Tim read a clear ‘so that’s why’ in his sigh. 

At apparently Ariana’s suggestion, they migrated to a patch of grass in front of the large red building. Alfred left, with the promise that he would be back in twenty minutes, and Ives clearly manhandled Tim to sit down with all of them on the grass. Cass was almost vibrating with excitement. Tim looked like he wanted to die, but he agreed to translate anyway. 

“So Bruce Wayne really adopted you?” Ariana asked, through Tim’s reluctant imitation of her excitement. “That’s so cool!”

“Imagine being adopted by Bruce Wayne , man,” Ives said. “Set for life .”

Cass glanced at Tim. Tim informed her that Bruce Wayne was Dad’s name. Cass turned back to Ariana, nodding. “I’m very happy Dad adopted me. I don’t know why my picture is always in those magazines, though.”

“Because you’re, like, the richest teenage girl in America!” Ariana cried. “I can’t believe Tim never mentions you.”

“Tim never mentions you either,” Cass said, and Tim translated with a wince. “He does not enjoy saying things.”

“That’s an understatement,” Ives said. Tim was clearly not enjoying having to slander his own character. “The guy didn’t even say that he was Tim Drake, the Drake, for months. We had no idea what he was doing hanging out with two scholarship kids. Now he’s, like, double rich.”

Tim said something, before quickly translating it. “Bruce isn’t adopting me. I’m just staying with him until my dad gets better.”

Both of Tim’s friends looked at each other. And even if it wasn’t clear to Tim, it was very clear to Cass. Ives and Ariana did not expect Tim’s dad to get better. They thought that Tim was refusing to accept reality, and it made them uncomfortable and sad. 

In an effort to break the tension, Cass quickly said, “Did Tim tell you it was his birthday next week?”

“I’m not translating that for them,” Tim said flatly. 

“Dad said that translators have to be impartial,” Cass said, both wounded and pulling out her ultimate trump card. Tim always did exactly what Dad said - or, at least, he never got caught disobeying. Cass and Tim were partners-in-crime.

Tim sighed, and reluctantly told Ives and Ariana what she said. Both kids reacted with surprise and delight, confirming Cass’ suspicions. 

“Are you doing your bar mitzvah?” Ives asked. “Do you have to do it exactly on your birthday, or are you waiting or something?”

“Bruce said that he was willing to hold it for me,” Tim said. “So I’ll probably have it in a few months. There’s a lot of studying and stuff.” He paused awkwardly, before saying, “It’s a lot more than a party. I didn’t know if Bruce wanted to do it with me…”

“We have to come to your bar mitzvah,” Ariana said, eyes shining with excitement. “And we have to come to your party!”

“I’m not having a -”

“Can we come to your house?” Ives pleaded. “I really want to see your house.”

“Nobody’s coming to Bruce’s house,” Tim said. His shoulders were hunched around his ears, like he was being attacked. “It’s Cass’ birthday too, she’s the one who wants to do a whole thing.”

“Then we’ll have a party between the three of us!” Ariana said firmly. She looked at Cass and smiled. “Four of us! We’ll go to our favorite restaurant and Tim will have to buy all those deserts he likes but never gets.”

“They have to give us extra cake if it’s your birthday, right?” Ives said. “That’s, like, a rule.”

“They give you free cake on your birthday!” Cass yelled. “Nobody told me this!”

“Of course,” Ariana said warmly. “We can have a nice friends birthday. You should have told us earlier, we would have had more time for a present. Cass, can I make you some khrustyky as a present? It’s like Ukranian cookies my grandma makes me.”

“What’s Ukranian?” Cass asked. 

Tim said something to Ariana verbally, before turning to Cass and signing, “It’s a country on the other side of the world. Ariana immigrated here from Ukraine eight years ago. She had English problems back then too.”

Cass brightened. “You couldn’t speak English? You weren’t born here?” Cass automatically felt as if she had met a kindred spirit, even if Ariana likely did not know martial arts. “Me too! We have that in common.”

“We do!” Ariana said, and she grinned brightly. “Now the double birthday party’s mandatory, Tim! Cass and I have to bond.”

“You just want a girl to hang out with,” Ives accused. He swooned dramatically, but his body was laughing. “You’re finally ditching us for a cuter model.”

For some reason, this made muted panic shoot through Tim. Cass looked at him in a silent question, but he brushed her off. Ariana yelled at Ives, playfully and full of affection, and Ives poked her in the side back. Then Ives said something to Tim, drawing him into it, and suddenly all three kids were squabbling and yelling at each other in barely concealed affection. 

It made Cass happy. She had never seen Tim’s face crease in that smile, or look that exasperated. It was a new part of the whole of Tim - a part that was capable of childish happiness. Tim was a lot of things, but he was not childish. Or, at least, he was childish in the same way that Cass was, and she could not tell. 

When they waved goodbye to Ariana and Ives, Ariana surprised Cass with a tight hug. Ives shook her hand and grinned brightly at her, and Cass could tell that there was something he desperately wanted to tell her but couldn’t. One day she would ask. One day, when she could talk and read and write and go to school and wear uniforms…

But when they walked back to Alfred’s car in their usual silence, Tim’s shoulders were hunched around his ears. He was upset, and burning with an emotion that Cass couldn’t understand. 

It wasn’t until they piled into the car, Tim answering Alfred’s questions in short, clipped sentences, that Tim finally turned around in his seatbelt and spoke to Cass. 

“Why did you do that!” Tim jabbed his hands angrily, expression twisted. “I didn’t ask you to follow me to my school!”

Hurt and embarrassment panged through Cass, and she didn’t bother trying to keep the hurt off her face. “I wanted to meet your friends,” Cass said. “How else was I supposed to do it? You never talk about them to me. And you never talk about me to them.”

“That’s because you two having nothing to do with each other,” Tim snapped. “You’re Robin’s partner. They’re just distractions who feel sorry for me because of my parents. It’s all a waste of my time.”

Hot anger and hurt flowed through Cass. “How can you say that? Do you have any idea how lucky you are? I want school! I want nice friends like yours! Robin’s not more important than that!”

Tim shot her an incredulous, ‘are you kidding me’ look. “Ariana and Ives aren’t exactly stopping glassed cocaine shipments into Gotham. Look, you aren’t missing out on anything. You’re skipping all of the boring and useless parts of life. You’re the lucky one here.”

“Life isn’t useless!” Cass yelled. “At least you have a life! I don’t have anything! You’re so spoiled!”

And she refused to say anything else to Tim for the rest of the car ride, and when they got home she ran up to her room and refused to come down until patrol. 

Dad could tell that they were fighting, but as usual he blatantly refused to get involved. Tim had explained to her months ago that they should tell Dad as little about their lives as physically possible, because adults were annoying and got in the way. Cass, who had eventually made it a professional habit to ignore David Cain and everything he said, had agreed empathetically. Now it was their unofficial partner motto: don’t tell Dad.

So she didn’t, but while they were hopping across rooftops during patrol Cass did end up asking him a question. Tim was busy tracking the shipment on his wrist gauntlet, and Cass found herself drifting closer to Batman’s cape. It was big and heavy, and very fun to hide inside. Sometimes when they were meeting Commissioner Gordon he let both of them hide inside, and then pop out and try to scare him. It wasn’t frequently successful - Cass’ giggles gave them away. 

“Am I really the richest teenage girl in America?” Cass asked. 

Batman grunted. “Blue Ivy Carter-Knowles comes close. But yes.”

“Blue Ivy is so nice,” Cass said admiringly. “She showed me her closet. It’s so big!” Batman blinked slowly down at her in a silent question. “Is it a big deal? Why is it important?”

But Batman just grunted again. “The only important thing about having a lot of money is that it makes life easier. You’re very privileged because you have all of the money and opportunities you want. Don’t forget that.”

“Yeah,” Tim said, “he doesn’t even bother giving us an allowance. We just do whatever we want.”

Muted panic shot through Batman. “You’re supposed to have allowances?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Tim tugged at Batman’s cape. “I think I found the origin of the cocaine shipments.”

And they didn’t have any more time to talk about money and luck. 

Cass did feel lucky most of the time. Trying to kill Batman was the best thing that had ever happened to her, and she was keenly aware of how close she had come towards a life filled with nothing but death and pain. She did vaguely understand that money meant she could live in a nice house and have everything she wanted. She was lucky to have Dad and Alfred and Tim. 

But a small, secret, mean part of Cass didn’t feel lucky. It felt very bitter and upset. Other kids could talk and read and write. They had a childhood home, and hadn’t lived most of their life on the run bouncing between motels. Their birth fathers hadn’t shot them and called it training. 

David Cain had pretended to anybody unimportant enough to ask that she only spoke Chinese. People still assumed that. Cass wanted to learn Chinese. She wanted to be the person who Dad pretended she was, and she wanted to be somebody kind and gentle and never hurt anybody. 

But she wasn’t. Sometimes Cass hated that about herself. Sometimes she hated the world for taking that away from her.

Tim understood as much as anybody could, but part of him thought about it strangely. Tim assumed that never having something meant it couldn’t be taken away. He didn’t think that never having something meant that it had been taken away, so long ago that you never realized that you deserved it. Tim didn’t think that he deserved anything, just for being Tim. 

As usual, it didn’t take long for them to make up. Cass disarmed a gunman aiming at Tim and judo threw him across the room, and Tim found traces of Krokodil on the man’s lapel and deduced that Killer Croc was being framed for underground manufactured drug shipments. 

They didn’t talk about it, but Cass and Tim rarely did. Alfred said that nobody in this family talked about anything, and he insinuated that it explained a lot about everything. Cass had no idea what the everything was, but she suspected it involved her big brother Damian.

But maybe Alfred just didn’t understand partnership. Maybe Dad and Damian had never understood partnership either. They didn’t understand what communication meant . 

Nobody could, because nobody was like Cass. And nobody wanted to accept that unassailable strangeness but Tim.

On the morning of their birthday, Cass put on a nice black dress as Tim threw on some khakis and a polo. Alfred was baking a cake, so they ordered a car service down to the hospital by themselves. The hospital was very large and very scary, but Tim navigated it with ease and practice. 

He explained that it was a special hospital, for people who would be staying for a very long time. He talked with a nurse behind a counter for a few minutes before she led them towards a faux-wooden door, opening the door for them and smiling what Tim called a customer-service smile at both of them.

The room was small and sterile. Tim said it was a really expensive hospital room, so it was really nice, but Cass didn’t like it at all. There was a sink and a lot of mysterious medical equipment, but mostly it was only a bed. The bed had a man lying on it, who didn’t look like Tim at all.

Tim chatted with several of the nurses, and made conversation with the nurse who came in to take his dad’s vitals. They were all very nice to Tim, and he was very nice to them back. It was only once all of the nurses left the room that Tim released all of the tension in his body and slouched in his chair, pulling out his phone and typing rapidly on it.

Cass stood next to him, peering down at the body with interest. She had half-expected a breathing corpse, but she found that the body twitched sometimes. Tim had explained that sometimes people move or they open their eyes in comas without actually waking up, so she shouldn’t expect anything.

The sight of the body - Tim’s father’s body - made Cass very sad. There was always something sad about a silent and still body. A body that said nothing - not because it had nothing more to say, but because it could not say it. 

Tim didn’t seem as sad. He didn’t talk to his father or hold his hand or anything. He just sat there texting. 

When Cass poked him, he explained. “I have to show up every couple of months so nobody gossips that I’m not visiting him.” He had to put his phone down to talk to her, but the disinterest hadn’t faded. “That’s why I stopped to talk to the nurses and everything. Tabloids need footage of tragic children visiting tragic parents every so often, or they get antsy.”

“Do you want to talk to him?” Cass asked. “You said coma patients can hear you sometimes.”

But Tim just shrugged. “What’s there to say? I never really knew how to talk to him anyway. It doesn’t matter.” He looked down at his father for the first time, face blank. “I researched his injuries months ago. Guy’s not going to wake up. Not much point in talking to him.”

It had always been clear to Cass that Tim didn’t expect his father to wake up. She suspected it wasn’t clear to everybody else. “Why do you always tell everybody that he’s going to wake back up?”

“Oh, that?” Tim typed something on his phone quickly before setting it back down. “It’s what everybody expects, you know? I got so many weird looks after I didn’t act right when Mom died. I strategized this time.”

“Is this something you’re supposed to strategize about?” Cass asked, baffled.

“I’m beginning to think it’s just me,” Tim said, straight faced. “But it’s whatever. It’s just awkward when people act all sorry for me. They all imagine losing their mom or dad or whatever and get all sad. But it’s not like that.” He looked down at his father’s body, at the slow rise and fall of his father’s breaths. The scary medical equipment hooked up to his body, and the oxygen mask over his face. “Just kind of a waste of my time.”

“I’m sorry nobody was sad for you when you lost them the first time,” Cass said. How to put this feeling into words? How to say what she wanted to say in a way that he could understand? “I’m sorry this was something you never had.”

Tim turned his face away from her, staring at the corpse. 

He thought of himself as someone cold and uncaring. Cass thought of him as someone who had grieved a long time ago. She wasn’t sure who was right, or if either of them were wrong. She just pulled up a chair and sat next to him instead, holding his hand in hers. A perfect fit. 

They sat there for a societally appropriate amount of time. Eventually Tim stood up, and said something to his father’s body that Cass couldn’t understand, lyrical and strange. She didn’t even think it was English.  

They left the hospital together, hand in hand, and even if Tim squeezed her hand a little tighter than usual she would never tell. 

Tim and Cass had their thirteenth birthday together. Or maybe it was their first birthday together, the first birthday of the rest of their lives, and the only one that counted.

They had lunch with Ariana and Ives, everybody laughing together and doing their best to overcome the awkwardness of the translation. Ariana, an immigrant out of place, understood. Ives, chronically sick and trapped by a body that couldn’t help him, understood in his own way. They forced Tim to order his favorite milkshake and teased him when he spilled half of it down his shirt in a graceful impersonation of clumsiness. 

When they returned home, they saw that Alfred had tastefully and lightly decorated the den and the dining room for their birthdays. Tim was embarrassed; Cass ecstatic. Dinner was a huge spread of their favorite foods, and Dad smiled at them and asked the names of Tim’s friends. 

Alfred turned out the lights, surprising Cass, and carried out two equally sized cakes, laden with candles. One was lemon and kosher for Tim, and the other was a heavy and rich chocolate for Cass. 

Dad gave them presents, and smiled faintly as Tim taught Cass how to open hers before cautiously opening his own. Cass shredded the paper, and lifted a beautiful ballet outfit from the package. Silky pink leotard, fluffy and elegant tutu, and beautiful ballet shoes. He had signed her up for classes. 

“Thank you, Daddy!” Cass cried, and hugged him tightly around the middle. Dad was happy and confused and something deeper and warmer that not even Cass could discern. 

Tim just smiled and thanked Dad when he unwrapped a very large desktop computer that meant nothing to Cass but apparently had good ‘specs’. He mumbled under his breath a lot when looking at it, which cued Cass to solemnly inform Dad that he loved it. 

They played board games after dinner and watched a movie. 

And there was no Batman, just for one night. Just Tim and Cass, turning thirteen together. 

A birthday on the same day, turning the same age. Alfred told her that meant they were twins. That was a family. If a family was anything, it had to be this. 

She didn’t know how to explain that to Tim, or how to make him believe it. But Cass knew. Someday she’d figure out how to say it.

That night, long after Alfred had eagerly shepherded Tim and Cass off to bed at ‘finally a reasonable hour!’, Cass lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling for a long time.  

Cass sat up and slipped out of bed, silently slipping out of her room and walking down the hall until she reached Tim’s room next to hers. Without knocking, she slowly opened the door and entered Tim’s room. 

The opulent bedroom felt as sterile as the hospital room, in its own way. She tried not to think about it as she slipped into bed next to Tim, tucking the comforters around her chin again. Tim was awake, staring at the ceiling just like her, and he turned onto his side to face her. 

They lay there staring at each other for a while, comforters drawn around their chins. 

Tim whispered something, two words that Cass learned today. They were in a strange song that Alfred had sung for them, the same song that Dad eventually reluctantly joined in on. 

“Happy Birthday,” Tim said.

“Happy Birthday,” Cass said. 

There was nothing else that could be said, or anything she was capable of saying. 

2014 

“What about your debutante ball?”

Cass’ fork halted in the hair, sauteed broccoli hanging limply from its metal noose. “My what?”

Dad did not fidget uncomfortably as a general rule, but she could see him vibrate with the desire. “Your debutante ball,” Dad said weakly. “You’re turning sixteen. Sixteen year old girls have debutante balls.” He glanced at Alfred, who was pouring Tim’s iced tea. “Right? They still do that?”

“Seeing as most of this table attended Sarah Fredrick-Lovington and company’s debutante ball, I would expect that they do.” 

“I don’t remember that,” Cass said blankly. 

Tim nodded at Alfred in thanks and slowly sipped his tea. “You threw a shoe at her head because she told me the Holocaust wasn’t real.”

“And I’d do it again,” Cass said gravely. She primly ate the rest of her broccoli, taking a second to appreciate the delicious flavor before turning to Dad. “Are antisemites at debutante balls?”

“They’re all antisemites,” Tim said. 

Steph eagerly shoveled chicken in her mouth, stray bits of skin flying everywhere. “Are you serious, Bruce? You really want to dump Cassie in the viper pit full of Pandora charm bracelets and scripture tattoos? You actually want to subject her to the catty teenage ultra-rich WASPs worshiping the last remnants of patriarchal purity culture sticking to Christian values like a barnacle in Gotham? You’re that cruel?”

“We don’t have to invite you to family dinners,” Dad said. 

“We don’t invite her at all,” Tim said, serenely cutting his chicken. “She just shows up.”

Alfred slipped Stephanie some extra chicken, which in Alfred-speak roughly translated to ‘Preach it, sister’. 

“I don’t understand,” Cass said. “How is a debutante ball different from your parties?”

“It’s your debut into society,” Dad said, tremendously uncomfortable with the words he was saying. “Traditionally, it shows that you’re of marrying age. It’s just a celebration to show that you’re a woman now.”

“Like Claudia’s quinceanera,” Steph added helpfully, referencing one of the many parties that she insisted on inducting Tim and Cass into. “But with less alcohol and more racism.”

But Cass found herself shaking her head, lost in history and tradition and socio-political implications. “I still don’t understand.”

Tim patted her hand. “Nobody understands,” he said. “Welcome to adulthood.”

The ‘Sweet Sixteen’, Cass was reliably informed, was a big deal. 

She and Tim were not strictly friends with any of the other kids in their upper crust circle, but after so many parties and social events anybody would develop a rapport with the other ultra-wealthy teenagers on the sole basis of mutual suffering. Tim knew many of them from Gotham Academy, and Cass regularly attended classes with others at her private tutoring co-op. They were all friendly with her and Tim, if only due to their implicit social status, but their only moments of true companionship were in mutual commiseration over the difficulty of their high status lives. 

Besides, many of them were quite nice. Cass liked people. She found them very funny and very strange. People tended to like her back, even if they found her strange too. A personal stylist had once told Cass that she had a ‘warm smile’. 

Tim always said that getting along with people was harder than fighting Killer Croc. Killer Croc was susceptible to biochemical attacks, Tim would point out, but encyclopedic knowledge of the weaknesses of teen girls wasn’t helpful if you wanted them to like you. Cass didn’t understand. All teen girls wanted was someone who would help them with their plies and pass them water bottles. 

“It’s all about the work hard, play hard,” Jamie said wisely. She stretched her foot over the bar, warming up slowly before lessons. Cass copied her, silky and worn ballet shoes creasing at the soles. “My Mom never gives me a break from the extracurriculars. Parties are when you can go crazy, you know?”

Leah deftly tied her hair into a bun, smiling at Cass. The other ballet class girls were gossiping and warming up before class began, taking advantage of the scant free time before the hard-ass teacher walked in and beat them into dance machines. Cass liked the coach a lot. She found her very nostalgic. “You deserve a blow-out party, Cassie. Maybe your dad will finally let you go to competitions this year!”

“I don’t want competitions,” Cass said. “I just like to dance.”

“Like I said.” Jamie bent over her outstretched foot gracefully. “Work hard, play hard.”

The other socialites at the Wayne Foundation galas were more direct. Heirs of biochemical companies and shipping conglomerates were experts in flaunting wealth. Nicole and Rachel were the ones who explained to Cass the importance of the ‘Sweet Sixteen’, and what she should be requesting of Dad. 

“It’s a total excuse to blow as much money as you want on the biggest party ever,” Nicole had assured her. “My older sister told me that Bethany Jackson’s Sweet Sixteen made her the most popular girl in Gotham Academy for months .”

“I had mine on a yacht in the Bahamas,” Rachel informed a captivated Cass. “I’m so bummed your family thing meant you couldn’t come.” Cass had been in space at the time, which was technically a family thing in the sense that her family was also in space. “We just had this massive rager for days. My hangover had hangovers.”

“You deserve the best Sweet Sixteen ever, Cass,” Hannah said eagerly. Rachel and Nicole held silent contempt for Hannah, who was accepted as a bit of a social climber, but they smiled at her anyway. “You’re Bruce Wayne’s only daughter. He’d, like, get you anything. Everybody knows it.”

“Does anyone else remember when he got Damian Wayne his own island for his fourteenth?” Rachel said. “My older brother was frothing with jealousy.”

“I want my own island,” Rachel muttered, caught in the throes of realizing that she actually very deeply needed her own island. “If your dad gives you an island you have to invite us over for the parties.”

“If my dad gives me an island, we can all party on it,” Cass promised them solemnly, and they all whooped. 

Sometimes Cass had the sense that Dad would be much happier if she just asked for an island, or another horse, or something concrete and easily attained. Tim had already asked him for a six month training trip with Richard Dragon, which he had flatly vetoed and resulted in a fight. So much as Tim and Dad ever fought, which involved a lot of clipped sentences and intense stares. Steph had commented more than once that it freaked her out, and that they should just start punching each other like a normal family. 

She had very little room to talk - Steph openly admitted that neither of her parents had remembered her birthday for years, and she hadn’t celebrated it since she was very young. She said it proudly, almost arrogantly - eager to prove that she could live without anything, and that she didn’t need what everybody else had. Tim was the same way, even if he played it more cool than hot. 

They had all made a point of celebrating Steph’s fifteenth birthday at the Manor. Tim had bought her a taser, Cass had bought her a snowglobe, and Alfred had told her to blow out the candles on her cake. In a spurt of parental confusion, Dad had bought her a car. Tim and Steph took bets as to whether or not Dad remembered that he hadn’t actually adopted her, and Cass refused to tell them the truth. Which was, of course, the fact that he was uncertain and erring on the side of caution. 

Cass was uncertain too. She did not want the island or the Bahamas or the yacht, but she also did not understand why this made her a woman or an adult or a popular kid. She thought that birthdays were for celebrating growing older. 

“Nah, you don’t get it,” Steph said. She jabbed a finger at the Pinterest board, flashing the ‘Best Sweet Sixteen Inspo Ideas!’. “It’s just about feeling like a princess for a day. You know - everybody spending money on you for no goddamn reason, getting a car and a lot of presents, celebrating your youth or whatever. Fucking your boyfriend after your party. Usual teen girl shit. Every teenage girl loves a day that’s just about them and what they want.”

They were lying on their stomachs on Cass’ bed, tablet and phone arrayed in front of them. Tim was leafing through a Buzzfeed Listicle of ‘Top 10 Sweet Sixteen Ideas!’, lips pursed. Cass craned her head with interest, looking at the pretty Pinterest pictures. Pinterest was her favorite website. She liked to make boards for every room of Wayne Manor. 

“That’ll be a little difficult,” Tim said, “considering that we’ve been sharing our birthdays for years. And she doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

“We can have sex after the party,” Cass told Stephanie loyally. They high fived, romantically. 

Tim groaned. “Remember when Bruce gave us a talk about sleepovers in my bed?”

Steph cackled, adopting a growl that sounded less like Batman and more like she was washing her mouth out with rocks. “Please act more developmentally appropriate. If that harlot Stephanie must sleep over, you two can sleep in the same room instead -”

“Like virginal debutantes,” Cass said solemnly, and all three of them broke out into laughter - Steph’s loud and cackling, Cass’ light giggles, and Tim’s wide smirk. 

“Seriously, though,” Steph said, after they all calmed down from the sheer hilarity of Steph’s Batman impression. “You two can do whatever you want. It’s pretty fucking awesome. Can we do Hawaii? I bet Bruce owns, like, a beach house in Hawaii.”

“We can party in a beach house in Hawaii,” Cass attempted, and she knew that she hit the mark when Steph grinned widely. “It will be very romantic.”

“Hell yeah! Sex on the beach! ”

“What do the kids at your school do for their sixteenth, Steph?” Tim asked, almost aggressively changing the topic. “Did they all play princess too?”

But Steph just shrugged. “You think kids at my school have a fancy party? We just get together and have cake and drink. Buying swanky new SUVs or something is for you people, not me. Nobody I know did anything nice.” She looked away tightly, just for a second, before smiling at Cass. “So let’s do something with it! Blow-out party in Hawaii!”

“We can invite Young Justice,” Cass said slowly, warming up to the idea. “So we don’t have to worry about identities.” She swiped down on her Pinterest board, watching the inspo pictures of sunsets and beaches scroll past. “Or have two different parties, with our normal friends and superhero friends. We can have a bonfire on the beach…”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Steph cheered. “The girls at my school are going to be so jealous!”

But Tim just clicked his phone off, turning it around and thumping it on the duvet almost aggressively. “What’s the point of all of this stuff?” His eyebrows set in a hard line, and something tight was tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Since when do we waste our time with extravagant parties?”

“Uh, since we all have friends?” Steph waved a hand in front of her face. “What’s wrong with celebrating how awesome you are with the people you like?”

“Since when is our birthday about them ?” Tim sat up from the bed, collecting his phone and tablet before sliding off. “Whatever. Someone has to go work the Graham case.”

He didn’t slam the door shut behind him, but Cass knew that he wanted to. She and Steph watched him go, listening to his prim and sharp footsteps echoing down the hallway. 

Finally, Steph remarked, “When is he going to realize he uses work as a coping mechanism so he doesn’t have to think about his problems?”

“I don’t know,” Cass signed, “he’s too busy working to think about it.”

“Word.” Steph glanced at her, then at the door, then back at her. “Want to grab the lock?”

Cass grinned. 

Just like Tim, Steph knew most things. 

She would disagree. Steph disagreed on reflex whenever anybody complimented her or acknowledged her talent, which made her constant desperation for acknowledgement of her talent by an authority figure difficult. The situation was further heightened by the fact that this authority figure was usually Dad. Sometimes Steph and Tim got into a subtle passive-aggressive face off where they would argue who Dad loved less. Steph argued that Tim had been adopted by the man; Tim argued that it had been an act of pity. Cass, who was secure in her relationships and loving of her family, had nothing to contribute. 

We’re all the same, Steph would argue. We all take what we want. We don’t need dumb Batman telling us that we’re good enough. So stop stressing out, Tim!

That was one of the many things Steph knew. It wasn’t what Tim knew - coding or physics or forensic science or almost anything. It wasn’t what Cass knew either - how to fight, destroy, and kill. It was a lesson far more difficult to learn, and one that neither Cass or Tim had ever quite mastered. 

Steph wasn’t always the best vigilante, but Cass found her a very good superhero. At the very least, she was Cass’ hero. 

It was Steph who explained to Cass the dumb importance a lot of people put on virgninity and the stigma on sex. She gave a quick brush over the patriarchy (“ Total bummer”) and familial deification of fathers as the heads of households and the symbolic God in the family (“Dads giving you away to your husband are weird, I think more people should punch their fathers”). She even delved into the experience of maturity and adulthood as an American woman in the 21st century.

“Being an adult is made up,” Steph said, roundhouse kicking a ninja in the face. “Look at Batman. He’s in his thirties and he’s running around dressed up as a giant bat.”

“Arrowette says he needs therapy,” Robin agreed, smashing his bo staff on the forehead of a ninja and dropping him to the ground. 

Cass threw a flash bang in agreement.

The ninja problem had grown worse lately due, apparently, to League of Assasin politics that were resulting in the organization fracturing. Damian leaving had apparently, to borrow a phrase from Alfred, stirred the pot a little. Tim grumbled frequently about having to clean up Damian’s messes again , but not where Dad could hear. 

The downside of the ninjas was that they were borderline impossible to track down and it was unreasonably difficult to identify them. It was difficult to even ascertain their countries of origin. Cass could usually tell what country somebody was from by their stance - occasionally, down to region - and Tim was more than capable of following the League’s trail of funds, but the community was too well entrenched in Gotham to completely quash. It was this whole political and underground movement that Cass didn’t really understand. She wasn’t even sure that Japan had anything to do with it at this point. Did it ever have anything to do with it?

That left all three of them cornered in a Gotham sewer, leaving everybody to pull on their rebreathers as Steph smugly lorded her full-face mask over the rest of them. Bodies of ninjas floated limply in the sewage, and Cass and Tim resigned themselves to dragging the ninjas out of the water so they wouldn’t drown in Gotham sewage. Bad way to go. 

“I don’t need therapy,” the man dressed as a giant bat beating up ninjas in the sewer said. He bent over one of the bodies, taking off the mask and frisking him. “No identifying features or marks. Robin, any progress on -”

“Finding out who’s hiring these guys, and for what? No idea.” Tim carefully arranged one of the ninjas against the wall, lying like dolls on a shelf next to her brethren. Somewhat cagily, he added, “If you let me use my FBI virtual desktop -”

“You are not committing government espionage against a foreign national, Robin.”

“You should let Robin overthrow Bialya for his birthday,” Cass said loyally. “It won’t hurt anyone.”

“Anyone we like,” Tim muttered. 

“We need that trail, Robin,” Batman ground out, and Tim guiltily fell silent. Cass frowned as she nerve struck a ninja faking unconsciousness. “ Without destabilizing foreign countries.”

“I’m working on it,” Tim said evenly. His shoulders were tense with frustration and - bitterness? “I’d get it done faster if you let me use all of my resources.”

“It’s not worth the risk. You can’t compromise your ethics for faster results.”

Tim ducked his head, looking away from Batman as he rifled through a ninja’s pockets. His gauntlet clenched on the thick weave of the ninja’s costume, so tightly that it almost creaked. 

“Uh,” Steph said, crouched over a ninja and peering at his neck, “this guy’s from the Bowery.”

Everybody stared at her. Batman dropped the ninja he was frisking with a thump and carefully stepped around the bodies to stand next to her. “How do you know.”

To his credit, three months ago he would have dismissed her out of hand. Everybody underestimated Steph, but people as smart as Batman didn’t do it for very long.

Steph tugged the mask off entirely, pointing at a mark on the neck. Tim and Cass followed Batman, craning their heads to check out the ninja. Cass didn’t see anything special: just a tattoo, a series of three dots next to each other. 

“You find that tattoo in almost every culture,” Batman said flatly. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I mean, yeah,” Steph said, “but look at the fuzzing on that dot on the left. And the indent on the right. That’s Lil Sharp’s handiwork. All of his shit gets so fuzzy, he messes up everything. In Gotham gang tattoo language from...shit, Memorial Penitentiary? I think the three dots mean three murders, and that placement on the neck means loyalty. He probably got it after he was released.” Steph leaned back, grabbing his hand and tugging off his glove. She inspected his hand, eyes narrowing behind her mask. “Yeah, he works at the docks. Check out those calluses. That’s not a ninja’s calluses, that’s a dockworker’s. The League’s recruiting from poor ex-cons again. Ugh, I hate these dudes. It’s so exploitative.”

“What is the League of Assassins doing recruiting from the Gotham working class?” Batman asked sharply. “Their cult’s unified by spirituality and adherence to the martial arts.”

“I dunno, maybe they’re getting desperate.” Steph stood up, cracking her back and looking at Tim. “Any fun new money laundering fronts near the docks, Robbo?”

Tim chewed his lip, a nervous tic he hadn’t quite beat out yet. “I noticed a new import/export company opening up under a few shell corporations, and I figured it was just the cartels...but the sheer amount of money, that has to be the League...but why…?”

“Their fighting was well-trained, but basic,” Cass reported firmly. She hadn’t put it together herself, but with what Tim and Steph were saying… “Almost...mass produced? No individual training. They could train someone to the level we just fought in three or four months.”

“Good work, all of you,” Batman said, and they all preened. “Let’s report this and return to base. We can follow up on this lead in the morning.”

Steph cheered, punching the air. “I call shotgun!”

“You always call shotgun,” Tim muttered, but they all always let her have it. That was partnership. 

Cass and Tim elbowed each other In the backseat of the car on the way back, and Steph loudly pretended to change the radio that only played police broadband, and Batman’s attempts to stop her almost swerved them into a curb. As always, cameras poked out of the windows of the cars beside them and flashed as they took pictures. Cass made a V from behind the tinted glass, sadly aware that they couldn’t see her. 

“Batman, let me roll down the window.” Steph banged on the window, as obnoxiously as physically possible. “Batman. Batman, my adoring paparazzi want to see my face.”

“Stop touching the window.”

“The car next to us has a dog,” Cass said, pressing her face against the window. “I want to take a picture with the dog.”

“Yeah, Batman, open the window. Why are you keeping a dog from your only daughter?”

“We have a dog,” Batman said.

“Is that a Tesla?” Tim asked, craning his head and glancing behind them. “I want the Tesla for my sixteenth.”

“Ugh, seriously? Muskrat’s such an asshole, don’t support his garbage company.”

“The specs , Spoiler,” Tim intoned mysteriously. 

“Give me the dog,” Cass said, thumping at the window. “Batman, I want to see the dog!”

“I can’t believe we’re waiting in traffic in a miniature tank and nobody’s even named the tank,” Steph said loudly. “Why has nobody named the tank? We can call it Patricia or something!”

“The car’s a boy,” Tim said. He paused thoughtfully. “...we can name it Pat. Or Kon.”

Batman’s gloves creaked on the wheel. Everybody shut up. 

Yet another sleepover, arranged via text with Steph’s mom as Cass and Tim sprinted to beat each other to the showers. The third sleepover of the week, and the second without an acknowledgement text from Steph’s mother. She pretended loudly not to care, Cass and Tim accepted the fact that she didn’t want to talk about it, and Alfred shepherded them off to bed at three in the morning. Tim frequently bemoaned how their bedtime hadn’t changed, while Steph had to point out that three in the morning wasn’t much of a bedtime. 

Only Cass hung back, letting Steph and Tim argue about comic books and run upstairs to their bedrooms without her. She nodded and smiled at Alfred before reopening the grandfather clock and gently descending the cave steps in her pyjamas. 

Dad was still sitting at the Batcomputer, the screens looming over him and casting his face in harsh white lights. Cass leaned on the back of his chair, poking her head over his shoulder. She was too tired to bother puzzling out the words, but they looked like his increasingly long list of notes about the League. Still working the case, just like Tim. She wondered if he also worked so he wouldn’t have to think about stuff. 

Dad and Tim were almost too similar to each other. Damian had vaguely hinted that he and Dad had been the same way. Cass wondered if she was anything like Dad at all. Nobody ever told her. 

“Do you want me to do the debutante party?”

Dad’s fingers halted over the keyboard where he was typing, before he sighed and swiveled around. He had showered and changed out of his sewer’d costume, and in the soft glow of the computer screens Cass could pick out the beginnings of a few grey hairs. Steph would call him a silver fox, before preemptively grossing herself out over calling Dad attractive.

“I want whatever you want,” Dad signed. “I just wanted to let you know the ball was an option. I know you’re friends with the other girls. I didn’t want you to feel excluded.”

How could she not ? Was it even possible to feel excluded when you knew you could never belong?

“I don’t need a debutante ball or a Sweet Sixteen to show off to the other girls,” Cass signed slowly, trying to figure out her own thoughts. “I’m just worried that Tim might feel...left out.”

Dad frowned at her. Cass was usually left hinting to each member of the family what the others were feeling, which would have been uncomfortable if she wasn’t used to it. “Tim hates interacting with anybody outside of costume. Why would he feel left out?”

Why would he? Cass lifted her hands, then dropped them. She didn’t know how to confess that Tim hadn’t always been like this, or how to explain. He used to have normal friends, where he talked about video games and PC building and a thousand things that were not Robin. He used to hang out with Ariana and Ives, but once he got to high school he dropped contact with them. He even used to spend time with that boy Bernard at Gotham Academy, the same one he refused to introduce her to and changed the subject whenever she brought him up, but apparently something had happened and they weren’t talking anymore. He wasn’t talking with anybody outside of the suit anymore. Granted, he had far more friends in the suit than she did, but...

“Tim’s not going to ask you for what he really wants,” Cass finally said. She didn’t know how else to put it. “Please listen to what he’s not saying, Daddy.”

“It sounds like wants another lesson in privacy ethics,” Dad grumbled, but he opened up his arms for a hug anyway. Cass hugged him tightly, burying her nose into the crook between his neck and his shoulder. “Good night, Cassie.”

“Good night, Daddy. Love you.”

She meant to talk to Steph about it. But when she got back to her room she found Steph curled up on Cass’ bed - as usual, ignoring her own guest bedroom - with her head buried in her knees. Her mother hadn’t even responded to her heads up about the sleepover, and why didn’t she even care , Steph could be out running drugs for all she knew and her idiot mom was too busy drinking to even notice -

And Cass forgot to bring it up at all.

Listening to people was easy. Understanding them was harder. 

Tim and Cass were acutely perceptive, or so Dad noted in their yearly performance review. Their visual acuity was great, and attention to detail unmatched. Once Cass learned to speak, her vocabulary for describing what she saw grew by leaps and bounds. 

As Cass’ favorite movie said - seeing isn’t believing, believing is seeing. 

Steph, as noted on her performance review, (“I don’t work for you, why are you grading me -”) was thoughtless and impulsive. She jumped first and looked second, spoke without considering her words, and remembered every birthday. Dad told her that this was going to get her killed one day, at which point Tim would wryly remark that they could all die just as well from a man with a gun and a lucky shot.

But, for all that Cass could recognize when somebody was traumatized or in love or furious, she never knew why. For all of that Tim could make ruthless chains of logic that broke people down into their disparate components and see what they weren’t saying, people were rarely logical. Steph was the only one out of the three of them who was capable of identifying why anybody did anything.

Cass liked to think that between the three of them, they made one excellent superhero and a functional person. 

People were mysterious and alien to Cass and Tim. She knew that they were strange to others, inscrutable with blank faces and silent gazes. But they always understood each other. Between Tim and Cass, there was no need for speech. Right?

“Please talk shit out for once in your life,” Steph said one evening, bundled up under blankets and cuddles. “I get that you’re freaky mind twins or whatever, but telepathy isn’t exactly conflict resolution.”

“What’s conflict resolution?” Cass asked. 

“Bruce needs to bribe your etiquette teacher to teach you social skills,” Steph said, in physical pain over having to say it. “Look, you remember how Bruce and Damian’s mutual lack of communication skills messed up their relationship?” Cass did. There had been a PowerPoint. Damian had not appreciated it. “If you and Tim never talk about stuff, you’re going to end up just like Bruce. That’s a fate worse than death, Cass. I’m not marrying Bruce Wayne.”

“I’m cuter than Dad,” Cass said loyally. 

“You do not want to hear Catwoman’s tea on - you know, never mind. I didn’t want to hear it either.”

Cass and Tim took Steph’s advice on reflex, but this time Cass didn’t really want to. It just seemed too uncomfortable. Words were clunky and awkward, and inevitably left room for miscommunication and hurt. They had all hurt each other with words more than once. That had always been what was good about Tim and Cass - they had never needed words. If they didn’t even have that, what did they have? Were they not partners anymore?

Cass didn’t know how not to be Tim’s partner. He didn’t know either. Hopefully that would be enough.

It took another three days before Cass worked up the courage to talk to Tim about it. Their birthday was the day after tomorrow, and Cass optimistically hoped that this ‘communication’ thing would clear everything up so they could all be happy and have fun during their birthday. Something had to make up for the fact that they were all in space for their 15th. Worst birthday ever. 

They were sparring on the mats in the gym area of the cave - the one with the unbelievably terrifying weights that Dad and Damian used, and the gymnastics area that Tim and Cass favored. Steph, because she had something to prove, had her own pile of much smaller weights in the corner. She would deadlift three hundred pounds if it killed her, she swore. It would kill her, Tim said. It would be very hot, Cass did not say, although Tim knew anyway. 

Their spars were so familiar it was second nature. Cass pushed forward, pulling her enemy into close quarters and giving her access to vulnerable strike areas and pressure points. Tim tried to keep her at a distance, using his bo staff as an extension of his body. Light, sharp smacks of hands against wood, the thump of feet on mats, the heavy and rhythmic breathing between them, provided the melody to their choreographed dance.

As the spar wore on, Tim’s microexpressions began to flash with anger. He tightly clenched his fights around his bo staff, and his strikes carried more power and greater decisiveness behind them. His characteristic thought and almost scripted fighting fell by the wayside, replaced by tightly repressed fury and intensity.

Finally, Cass landed a good hit on his jaw, and he was sent spinning to the ground. He landed face first on the mat, groaning, and Cass silently watched him push himself up with trembling arms. He climbed back to his feet with excruciating slowness, grabbing his bo staff and dragging himself to his feet. 

Cass made a slight motion with her hand - enough. Tim angled the bo at her - I can go one more time. His right leg was trembling slightly. Cass tightened her mouth, repeating the motion. No. 

Tim dropped his staff on the ground, scowling, and he turned around to grab a wet towel and water bottle. She did the same, hesitantly gripping her CamelBak and twisting the top back and forth in her hands. His back was to her, dripping the water over his sweaty hair. He was growing it out from the short and floppy look into a longer, thick shag. Dad hated it, but he didn’t tell him to change it. 

He wasn’t looking at her. There was nothing that could be said - or, at least, nothing that she could easily say. 

“Are you okay?” Cass asked.

Tim turned to face her, surprised. Thick drops of water were trailing down his hair, landing in soft and steady drips on the mat. He frowned - ‘why?’. 

“I just…” Cass switched to sign, but still found herself floundering. She displayed as much love and concern as she could, but it just made Tim furrow his brow further. She grasped for something to say - something that wasn’t too scary to even bring up. “Do you want a birthday party?”

But Tim just snorted, taking a final swig of the water bottle so he could put it on the ground. “I never want a birthday party,” he signed. “That’s always you. But I don’t care. Let’s just do whatever you and Steph want.”

He wasn’t lying. Nothing in his body read that he cared, or that he had an opinion at all. Tim knew better than to try and lie to her. But…

Was it really about the party? What was it about? Why was this so hard?

“It’s your birthday too,” Cass said. “I want you to have fun.”

Tim shrugged - another ‘I don’t care’, or maybe a ‘drop it’ - and picked up a towel, patting his forehead dry and slinging it around his shoulders. Cass did the same, rotating her arms in preparation for their cool-down stretches. “I have fun all the time.”

Cass squinted at him, calling bullshit.

“What?” Tim said, somewhat defensively. “Kon and I have fun. We do fun things.” Cass squinted at him further. “Look, just because we aren’t picking out matching wedding dresses like you and Steph doesn’t mean I don’t like him. He’s the one who wants to keep it casual. You know, not cramp his style or whatever.”

“Kon is not very honest,” Cass repeated, but when Tim rolled his eyes she dropped it. Superboy lied to everybody - himself most of all - but no matter how good Tim was at cutting through his bullshit, he had a blind spot when it came to accepting that people actually liked him. “Why don’t you want to have fun? Friends and parties and Hawaii are fun.” She faltered, just a little. “It’s normal.”

“We aren’t normal , Cass.” Tim retracted his bo, flipping it in the air and letting it fold back into a rod the size of his forearm. He scowled at her, expression darkening. “Why are you always so caught up in pretending? You don’t have to be like those people.”

“Like my friends?” Cass asked, hurt. “I want to be like those people. I like having these things. Why don’t you?”

She saw it, clear and unwavering - the fifteen year old that lived inside this almost-sixteen year old, the fourteen and thirteen year old. The young boy that had everything and never understood its value. 

After all of this time, why were they still fighting about it?

“They’re distractions.” Tim fought to smooth his expression, to render it unplaceable, but he clearly knew it would be a waste of time in front of Cass. He was angry, and he didn’t want her to see it. “That normal life you’ve always wanted so badly isn’t all that great, Cass. It kind of sucks. Do you have any idea how lucky we are to have Robin and Batgirl?” Tim’s chest rose and fell with a particular weight, a smothered heaviness. “Robin’s important. We’re making a real impact, actually helping people. Robin means something. Why would a dumb birthday party matter more than that?”

“My life matters more than that,” Cass said, and she didn’t realize she was clenching her fists until she forced herself to relax them. “I’m not embarrassed about wanting a happy life. Or birthdays or a wife and children. I’m more than that. Don’t tell me I’m not.”

Tim stared at her for a long moment. Finally, he said, “Can we drop this?”

They did. Cass didn’t want to talk about it anymore either. What could she tell him that he didn’t already know? 

Tim knew that Cass didn’t care about Batgirl, not the way Tim cared about Robin. The truth and justice and righteousness wasn’t as real to Cass as her desire to prevent pain and stop death. Dad had not adopted Batgirl; Steph was not dating Batgirl; and her friends were not friends with Batgirl. Cass did not know how to be anybody else but Cass, and she did not particularly want to. She did not understand why Tim was so unhappy, and she was afraid to discover why. So Tim told her to drop it, because they were living in two different realities that could never reconcile.

Tim understood all of this. He knew. He just didn’t want to talk about it. 

In that respect, they were still the same.

The day before their birthday, Dad walked into the den holding a phone in complete bafflement and slight fear. 

Cass, Steph, and Tim were huddled together on the den couch under a large blanket watching MTV’s My Super Sweet Sixteen . Cass was in the middle, with a big bowl of popcorn on her lap, and Steph and Tim would take large handfuls as they yelled at the screen. 

 The show clearly frightened Dad almost as much as the phone, but the Dark Knight bravely weathered the throes of teenage reality shows to push the phone at Cass. “It’s for you.”

Cass blinked at the phone - Dad’s private cell, rarely touched. Who was calling her on Dad’s phone? Anybody who knew her always texted her…

She took the phone carefully, pressing it against her ear as Steph paused the show. “Hello? This is Cass Wayne.” She glanced at Tim, silently asking if she answered the phone correctly. He gave her the thumbs-up. 

The other end of the line was silent for a second, before a deep male voice coughed. “Cass? It’s Damian. Do you have a second?”

Cass straightened, before passing the bowl to a confused Steph and quickly slipping off the couch. “Yes. What’s...up?”

She carefully exited the room, ignoring Dad’s confused look and closing the door behind her. She walked a little further down the hallway, almost nervous. 

“It’s not an emergency,” Damian said quickly. “I just...Father and I were speaking regarding the League of Assassins case. And he mentioned it was your birthday. So...I thought I might...say hello. And Happy Birthday.”

Cass hunched her shoulders, unable to fight the smile or the strange pang in her heart. “Thank you! I’m turning sixteen.”

“That’s an important age,” Damian praised, and Cass smiled wider. “Are you having a debutante?”

The question abruptly panicked Cass. “Should I be having a debutante?” Cass asked, picking at her over-large sweater. “Dad says other high society girls do it, because it means that they’re a woman now. But I don’t feel like a woman.”

Damian huffed something that could have, perhaps, been a laugh. “You aren’t. I always wanted to obey all of those old traditions when I was a child. Frankly, it was a waste of my time. Still, do what makes you happy. Don’t worry about what makes Father happy.”

“Daddy said he would be happy if he didn’t have to plan a party,” Cass obediently repeated. 

“Then remember to extort something else out of him. Don’t let him grow complacent.”

“Yes! Thank you, Damian.” Cass smiled again, heart beating rapidly with excitement. “Are you coming down? We can have a family party. Alfred always makes cake, and -”

“I’m in Beirut on a case, unfortunately. So that would be difficult.”

“Oh. Okay.” Cass tugged at the sleeve of her sweater. “Is it an important case?”

“Very important, unfortunately.” Cass wondered if that was true. She couldn’t exactly tell over the phone. “How about I visit Young Justice once I get home? The team’s overdue another lockpicking lesson.”

“Yes, please!” That sounded like so much fun! Cass loved it when Damian taught them things. He was the only one who ever gave Cass a real fight. Cass wanted to be just like him when she grew up. “You have to bring me a gift. Alfred said that’s the rules. I want a nice dress like the Morrocan one you showed me.”

“That was a runway line - never mind. I’ll find the dress. Have Alfred text me your measurements.” 

Yes! Cass punched the air. Dad said she had too many designer dresses, and that he didn’t want her to end up like those girls with closets the size of houses. Older brothers were so good for circumventing fathers. “Thank you, Damian! Please buy Tim a matching suit, also for my birthday. For his birthday you should buy him a sword. He wants a sword just like yours. And sword lessons!”

“If you say so,” Damian said, bemused. “When is Timothy’s birthday?”

Cass faltered. 

A little too late, she said, “It’s the same day as mine. July 19th. Did you forget?”

“You two have the same birthday?” Damian asked. A stone sunk in Cass’ gut. “That’s quite a coincidence. I’m surprised Lady Shiva even told you when you were born, frankly. She was never the type -”

“I don’t have a real birthday,” Cass said harshly, and Damian shut up. “Tim gave me his. That’s why we share one. It was really nice of him.”

The line was a little too quiet, just a little too long. Cass didn’t feel excited to talk to Damian anymore. 

Just a beat too late, Damian said, “Happy Birthday to Tim, then. I’ll put in an order for that sword. Let him know it may take a few months to forge, the smith is very exclusive. Tell Father that -”

“You should talk to Tim,” Cass said in a rush, cutting Damian off. “Tell him Happy Birthday too. Because it’s our birthday. Remember the dress, the suit, and the sword!”

“I’m not sure if -”

But Cass had already opened the door to the den again, interrupting Steph taking advantage of having Batman as a captive audience to detail to him the entire plot of My Very Sweet Sixteen . She leapt over the scattered pillows, holding the phone pointedly at arm’s reach.

“Tim, Damian called! He wanted to tell you Happy Birthday and tell you about your present!”

For the first time in months, Tim’s face completely lit up. He threw off the duvet and reached out to grab the phone, even as Father’s expression carefully stilled and Stephanie abruptly radiated suspicion. 

“Damian! Hi, it’s Tim!” Tim ruffled his hair, leaning forward in his seat on the couch. “Thanks! It’s no big deal, you know, just my sixteenth. What about you, what are you doing?” A pause. Dad looked at Cass. Cass frowned at him. “Oh, that’s cool. I mean, yeah, we’re working that too. We’ve had a big breakthrough here, maybe - right, right.” A pause. Tim chewed his lip anxiously. “Right, yeah. No big deal, no sweat. Don’t even worry about it.” Another pause. Cass sat down next to Tim, winding her sweater sleeve around her finger, as excitement dawned over Tim’s face. “Really? Thanks, Damian! That’s so awesome! There’s no rush, that’s fine!” Another beat, as Tim grinned even wider. “You know, Dad’s getting me the Tesla for my birthday, maybe we can -” Tim cut himself off abruptly, freezing his expression. “Yeah. Yeah, no sweat. Do what you gotta do. Maybe later, okay? Okay! Bye, Damian!”

He hung up the phone, passing it back to a hesitant Dad, but when he turned to Cass and Steph again his eyes were still alight with excitement. Cass smiled back at him, but Steph’s lips were pursed. 

“Damian remembered my birthday!” Tim cried, grinning. “He said that he was going to get a sword commissioned. The same sword he had when he was my age - remember that one, Cass? The fourteen inch emerald shamshir? I practically wrote an essay about that thing on one of my Batman forums. This is gonna be so cool!”

“He’s buying me the Sofia El Arabi dress I wanted,” Cass informed him smugly, “that Dad told me I didn’t need.”

Dad groaned, kneading his forehead. “I’m not buying you a larger closet, Cassandra. We are not going to become one of those new money MTV families.”

“Her closet is already the size of her giant-ass bedroom. Give up. Buy her more dresses, I’m not done stealing all of them.” Steph shoved a mouthful of popcorn in her face, spraying kernels all over the thousand dollar carpet. “You need to make that Princess Diaries moment happen, Bruce. What’s the point of being rich otherwise? Be Batman? Waste of time.”

Then Steph and Dad were fighting again, and Tim was turning to her with a face that suddenly looked five years younger. When had he begun looking so old, so tired? Cass felt so gangly and awkward and young all the time. Why did Tim seem so old and mature?

“He actually remembered,” Tim whispered to her - only to her. “This is the first time he’s ever called us. Do you think he finally…”

He trailed off - too afraid to say it. As if saying the words would manifest that vulnerability, making real the shameful truth. A common and confusing fallacy, an idiocy that infected everybody but Tim and Cass - that something was only real so long as it was said. Like Batman, the truth hid in the shadows of silence.

Without words, Tim asked her if this year would finally be different - if someone like Damian would finally want to be around him. 

For the first time in her life, Cass lied to Tim - and said nothing. 

“Okay, are you ready?”

“It has to be exact,” Cass insisted. “Just like we practiced!”

“Chill, we’re all ballerinas here.” Steph flexed one of her fingers, drawing up the HUD in her mask and blinking through the display. “So are we jumping at midnight, or are we landing at midnight?”

“According to my calculations, if we jump off four seconds to midnight, we’ll hit the ground exactly on time.” Tim tapped rapidly at his gauntlet, flickering through wind and temperature readings. “Unfortunately, we’d also be kind of dead, so let’s go for on the jump.”

They stood next to each other, cape to cape, on one of their favorite buildings. It was an old gothic cathedral, the kind with elegantly wrought gargoyles and beautiful little curling details under jutting eaves. The most beautiful buildings, Cass knew, were the kinds that had art where nobody would ever see. Nobody but Cass and her family. 

Batman was standing next to the car in the alley, completely ignoring them and going through Damian’s final report on the League movements. When Cass waved at him he looked up, shooting her a single stiff thumbs-up. Cass grinned. He found it very funny.

“Two minutes ‘til, boys!” Steph called. “Nobody do any crime for the next two minutes -”

Cass leaned into Tim’s ear, letting her breath ghost on his neck. “I’m not doing the debutante ball.”

He angled his head slightly in acknowledgement, and let his eyebrow twitch into a question.

But Cass just smiled at him. “I don’t want to do any of my birthday without you.”

“One minute!” Steph said, and Tim jerked his face away before Cass could see his expression. She peered over the edge of the roof, watching the glittering cars sluggishly crawl underneath their feet. Nothing but streaks of red and silver lights, trailing their ways through wet and glossy streets.

The wind blew cold, stinging wet droplets on her cheeks, and if Cass turned her head she could see Tim’s shaggy mop of black hair slowly darkening with water. The endless sound of Gotham was loud, even high in the cathedral - the towering tenement buildings echoed the sound, sending the sirens and yells and fights reverberating through the skies. Beside them, men in shirtsleeves leaned on their rusty fire escapes and smoked cigarettes. The dull stench mixed with the smoke and fog of the city, reducing the buildings and eaves to little more than dreams and memory. 

Cass pulled up the atomic clock in her mask, exactly in sync with Tim and Steph’s, but it was likely unnecessary. Steph was counting down loud enough for all of them - and they would jump on Steph’s call, not the clock’s. 

“Fifty seconds in! Ten - nine - eight - seven -”

Cass lifted her grapple, Tim right alongside her and Steph a beat afterwards. She instinctively aimed towards the highest eave, and watched Steph angle for a nook just beside while saving room for Tim’s below. 

“Four - three - two - one! Jump!”

“Your dramatics ,” Tim muttered, just as they all somersaulted off the top of a building. 

Cass whooped with joy, turning one-two-three, before firing her grapple and letting herself swing through the air with her lifeline in her hand, to either side of her. 

2015 

“So,” Damian said desperately, “what are we doing for your birthday?”

Cass slid off her headphones and squinted at him.

Damian hovered at her bedroom doorway, one hand on the doorframe like an awkward suburban father letting her know what’s for dinner. He smiled at her, reeking of anxiety and desperation. 

“I don’t care,” Cass said, and pointedly went back to her tablet. 

Damian stared at her for a second, then too. Cass could not more obviously be watching recorded productions of Bolshoi Ballet’s Cinderella. A stuffed marmoset on the wall shelf above Damian’s head loomed over him, teetering on a precipice. Damian eyed it warily. 

“We can go to that French place you like,” Damian volunteered. “The one with the mille-feuille you loved.”

“What ever .”

“Alright. Just...let me know.”

Damian closed the door behind him. Cass snuggled deeper under her covers, pulling them over her head and propping up the phone in front of her, left in silence to stare at the elegantly dancing women and not see them at all.

The next day, Cass spent six hours in her dance studio again. She had resumed going to classes three months ago, but she was still massively behind on practicing for her role in Romeo and Juliet. Coach was already threatening to take her off Juliet, and Cass was not a backup dancer. 

  She danced until her feet ached, losing all sense of time and purpose. It worked, in its own way. When Cass was moving she didn’t think. Until she was about fourteen, she rarely thought in words at all - just pictures and feelings, vague impressions that limited her ability to even understand her own feelings and thoughts. Tim had read a lot of papers on early linguistic acquisition in children. He had said it was a miracle she was functional. Cass had tried arguing that she did know a language, it was just the language of death. Tim had said that the language of death wasn’t a language. Tim had never understood ballet, or Romeo and Juliet - no matter how many recitals he attended. 

For six hours, Cass didn’t think about Tim. But when she stopped - when her legs gave out and she landed on the polished wooden floor, heaving thin breaths - she found herself terrified. For six hours, she hadn’t thought about Tim, and Tim hadn’t existed at all. She had been alone, safe and isolated in the language of death. 

Cass cried again, feeling somewhat relieved. She didn’t understand why everyone thought repressing things helped. It was so lonely. 

It had been about five months since Tim died. Before, Cass had thought that she understood death - or that she understood what it meant to die. She now understood that death was not so much the act of dying as it was the long molasses months that stretched out after it, rending grief so commonplace it was almost tedious. 

Life has been confusing lately. Cass hadn’t known that either - that death could render a world strange and confusing, all of its neatly ordered sections jumbled up randomly and carelessly. Even the media seemed confused - the whole world just as out of order as Cass. She hadn’t expected Gotham to be so strange about it - that people would care, or that they would discern some kind of meaning from it where there was none. Or, at least, none that they understood. 

Bizarrely and somewhat unexpectedly, Cass’ friends had closed ranks around her. She didn’t attend many parties or social functions anymore - Dad hadn’t hosted anything since it happened - but when she did go out she found herself phlanaxed by attentive teenage girls eager to distract paparazzi. Her ballerina friends stayed late at the studio to help her catch up on her steps, and were mysteriously yet constantly sharing food with her. Coach had, in a stunning and out of character moment of sentimentality, hugged her. 

She could see them hide the magazines from her - ‘THE JOKER’S FINAL VICTIM’. ‘DEATH OF A DYNASTY’. ‘WAYNE CURSE STRIKES AGAIN’. ‘THE TRAGEDY OF THE WAYNES, THE TRAGEDY OF GOTHAM’. Cass didn’t understand any of it, and nobody wanted to explain it to her. She didn’t particularly want to know. 

A week after Tim died, there had been block parties in the streets lasting four days straight. Fireworks had cracked endlessly across the sky. Cass had practiced in her studio. Screams of delight were heard in Gotham city. Dad stayed in his study. The newspapers ran nothing else. Damian did not say ‘I told you so’. That, at least, Cass understood.

As the world turned strange, the people around her stayed consistent. Dad was acting consistently by forgetting that she existed. Alfred was acting consistently by pretending that he didn’t have feelings. Only Damian turned as alien as everybody else. The brother that was always absent, always distant and awkward, always a murderer, had changed deeply.

Damian was remembering that she existed. That was the worst part. 

When she showered and ascended the steps for dinner, she was surprised to see both Steph and Damian at the dining room table. Steph was at her beat laptop, mashed at one edge and covered in stickers of cartoon characters, grabbing at her hair and tugging at the roots. Damian sat around the corner of the table, at its head, and exuded waves of patience even as Steph gnashed her teeth.
“Steph.” Cass stopped and stared, and Steph and Damian finally noticed she had walked into the room. “What…”

Steph flushed, redirecting her attention to her laptop and avoiding Cass’ eyes. “I had to fill out paperwork. And Mr. Brother over here won’t leave me alone about it.”

“You asked for my help,” Damian said, baffled, but Cass just shook her head. Let her have this. “Look, Steph. We can sign you up for study classes. Even workbooks would be fine. Cass’ tutors are spending a few hours a week on this. There’s no reason for you to give up now.”

“And I’m saying that there’s no point,” Steph snapped. She often snapped or yelled at or bitched at Damian, who implacably absorbed all of it like a stone. “Do you have any idea how many kids at my school are even taking the SAT? They’ll call me a nerd!”

“That’s why you don’t want to take it,” Damian said flatly. “The judgment of your peers.”

“Yes! No! Ugh! Fuck you!” 

Cass walked into the kitchen and found Alfred. He wasn’t cooking or anything - just staring blankly at the TV, watching an old Dr. Who rerun again. Cass lightly touched him on the shoulder, getting his attention, and he lightly smiled at her. Cass politely ignored what he had been doing, he politely didn’t acknowledge that they weren’t talking about it, and he silently passed Cass an apple from the fruit bowl before taking out the pans for dinner. Cass and Alfred didn’t talk much. They understood each other.

In the dining room, Steph was still railing at an uncaring god. “Why can’t you just leave me alone about this? How is it any of your business anyway?”

“You are the one who came here and asked me about the conditions of the will,” Damian said, excruciatingly slowly. Cass cautiously approached the table and sat down next to Damian, across from Steph, as if she was accessing the forbidden monkey tribes as an impartial observer. “You are receiving the money regardless. The money isn’t the problem here.”

“Of course the money’s the problem!” Steph yelled. Cass munched her apple, eyes wide. “Now I, like, have to do it! Where do you get off sitting here and trying to plan my future for me?”

“Do you mean where did Tim get off?” Damian asked pointedly. Cass took a harsh bite into her apple. “When he gave you a college fund? It wasn’t to control you, Stephanie. He just wanted you to have options.”

“Fuck you!”

Cass watched as Steph thunked her forehead down on the laptop, not nearly as upset or angry as her words indicated. She was just stressed. When Damian looked at her, lost, she conveyed this as best she could. He clearly still didn’t understand, and he gestured slightly at her - ‘will you handle this?’. Cass refused to give him the easy way out. 

Still, Cass was not as stubborn as Stephanie, and she had given up on living her life trying to spite Damian four months ago. Steph almost actively avoided the house whenever Damian was around - which was why Cass was surprised to see her. Damian had come home several days ago for reasons that were likely related to her birthday. Or, maybe, to Tim’s birthday.

“You wanted to go to college,” Cass said finally. “Tim wanted to help you do it. He would have done it anyway.”

“And I told him he wasn’t allowed,” Stephanie muttered into her arms.

“I know you’re scared about your future,” Cass said. “It’s easier having no options than making choices. But this is good.”

For some reason, Damian winced. “Making your own decisions about your life is important,” he said weakly. Right. Assassin stuff. “What do you want to do when you get older, Stephanie? You can do whatever you like. With the trust fund Tim left, you don’t have to work if you don’t want to.”

It had been a pretty impressive trust fund. Cass, already uber-wealthy, had received his stuff instead of any money, but the rest of Young Justice had received sizable college funds. Some had received more than others - Suzie had received a sizeable safety net for once she exited foster care, and Anita received two extra college tuitions and additional money for the children/parents. Cissie’s money had been earmarked for her use only; Cassie had received Tim’s inherited art collection with instructions to distribute it among museums. Whatever Kon had received, he didn’t tell them. Stephanie had gotten more money than anybody, because Tim had loved her. She resented this highly. 

“How am I supposed to know ?” Steph asked miserably. “Do you think I’ve ever thought about this? I barely even bothered going to school before Spoiler. If it wasn’t for dumb Bruce and his dumb conditions -” You weren’t allowed on the field if you were making below Bs in any course, and in a stunning act of Bat-stubbornness Dad had extended this rule to Steph. “ - my grades would be in the toilet. I’m too stupid for college.”

“She has a 4.0,” Cass told Damian. 

“Because my school’s garbage and easy,” Steph snapped. “I don’t - there’s nothing I want!”

“I thought you wanted to be a doctor.”

Everybody jumped, even Damian. Dad stood in the doorframe, holding a mug of coffee - it was six at night - and looking politely dissociated from his surroundings. He was wearing the same robe he had been wearing constantly lately - the ‘I’ll just be going down to the Batcave in a few hours so no point in getting changed’ one. He had never quite gotten out of the habit of faint surprise when he saw Steph someplace he did not expect her to be - like his dining room, or the Batcave, or a rooftop - but lately he had been even more confused to see her. It was no surprise - he had been looking straight through Cass too. 

“What are you talking about?” Steph blurted. “When did I say that ?”

Dad frowned, heavily dropping into the chair next to Cass. This close to him, it was impossible to mistake the bags and shallow pallor of his skin, but Cass was almost used to it by now. Almost. “Years ago. You had slept over. We were eating breakfast. I asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up.”

Steph flushed hotly. “I was fourteen! And you were my friend’s dad! And Batman! I just said whatever dumb thing came to mind! I couldn’t exactly say I wanted to be a high school dropout for a living.”

“But you love helping Leslie at the clinic.” Dad accepted a cup of water from Alfred as Steph’s face grew redder and redder. “Didn’t you spend all of last summer there?”

“How do you remember that?” Steph hissed. “Since when do you keep track of my life?”

“He keeps track of everyone’s lives,” Damian said flatly.

“Not mine !”

Dad’s face creased strangely, in a move that only Cass would recognize as sadness. “Medical school takes exceptional dedication, strength, and intelligence. You have all of that. Money is no object. If the college fund isn’t enough, I’d pay for it. What’s the problem?”

Everybody gaped at Dad. 

It was the nicest thing Dad had ever said about Steph, and more affirmations of her character than he had ever strung together. It was almost more affirmations of anybody’s character that he had ever put together. A ‘good job’ from Dad had always left Steph, Cass, and Tim riding high for a week. It was more than he had said to them outside of the suit in two weeks. 

From the kitchen, Alfred said, “It would be nice to have another doctor in the family.”

“Yes,” Dad said, to Steph’s near heart attack. Damian wasn’t faring much better. “My father would be so happy.” He looked faintly into the distance, eyes watching something that wasn’t there. “We’ve had doctors in the family since the 19th century, I think. It’s traditional to pass down Abraham Wayne’s first stethoscope. That would be nice…”

“Of course, Miss Stephanie, you ought to do whatever makes you happy,” Alfred said, lighting up the stove. “I believe that was what Master Tim intended to provide.”

But Cass was watching Steph. Cass could read Steph’s body better than anybody but Tim, and in certain respects she could read her even better than Tim. But what was happening to her, the dawning realization waking up in her heart, was stranger and more obscure than anything so easily read in the body. 

It was a kind of supreme terror. Any consideration of the future always brought terror and paralysis. In many people - the majority of people, across the world - thinking about the future made them want to fall down and die. They wanted time to stop moving and freeze, and bring no more bad things. That had been Steph, when Cass had first met her.

But her terror now was different, and far more inexplicable. It was the terror of a young woman staring down the barrel of the rest of her life, and realizing that she had a whole life ahead of her. A life filled with good things. A proud family, a prestigious career that she secretly wanted, and a future. Money and safety. Opportunity. Anything she wanted. A partner, in Cass. 

“What’s for dinner, Alfred?” Steph asked, because she was as uncomfortable with emotion as any of them, and she hated Cass seeing her cry. 

The topic was dropped, and Cass pretended that she didn’t see the swirl of strange bitterness and confusion and love in Damian. 

That night - or that very early morning, after a long night quashing a stupid plot of Mad Hatter’s before it even begun - Cass lay awake in bed. She stared at the ceiling. 

Tim used to leave sometimes. Young Justice had camping trips, and they got stuck in a hell dimension sometimes. One time he had to play baseball for the fate of the universe, or so he said. Sometimes Dad and Tim would go to Mongolia to follow up on a lead, and Cass and Steph would hold down the fort at home. Sometimes Steph went on trips with Mia and did ‘the team-up thing’. Occasionally she would run off with Rose and pretend she was an edgy anti-hero. Cass usually stayed at home. Cass was always at home. 

She would always miss him, almost every second. She would turn to her left and remember that he wasn’t there - that he was in hell or space or Barcelona. She would prepare for patrol and take a short shower so he could get in after her, before remembering that her shower could be as long as she wanted and he wouldn’t complain. Most days, when all four of them were on the field and it was relatively quiet, Dad and Steph worked one patrol route while Tim and Cass would work another. When she fired a grapple, she looked over her shoulder to see if Tim was following. Take care of your brother.

Cass always knew where Tim was. Too many years glancing left for a silent explanation, and too many years covering her right and protecting him from the enemies he wasn’t strong enough to fight. She had a sixth sense for him, always aware of where he was standing and if he needed her. Cass, in relationship to Tim. That was what being partners meant.

She hadn’t stopped feeling him. It was like a phantom limb - she was always aware that he was just behind her, but when she turned around he was gone.

When she tried to explain it, nobody understood. When she cried, people felt uncomfortable. When she was in pain, people told her it would pass. Now, five months later, things had changed. She cried less often, and it wasn’t as painful to think of him. But she didn’t think of him less, and the phantom limb had never gone away. She wondered if it ever would. She wasn’t sure if she wanted it to. 

Cass slipped out of bed, and walked down the hallway to Tim’s room. It was shut firmly, the handle somewhat dusty. She opened it, and slipped inside.

Tim had been in the middle of building a computer when he was kidnapped, and the pieces were still strewn around his desk. It was strange and incongruous - not just the moment frozen in time, but the strange spurt of life in Tim’s normally sterile room. He had always kept it immaculately clean. The bed was perfectly made, with one corner rumpled, and some slippers poked out from the bottom of the bed. The left one was at an angle.

After four years, Tim had reluctantly populated his room. Or maybe he just couldn’t help it: his school textbooks had to go somewhere, so they might as well pile on the bookshelf. He had to bring in two different stacks of plastic organizers, including several meant for jewelry, for the PC building hobby.  His skateboard was hung carefully on the wall, his alternate decks displayed on either side, and a shelf of skating equipment and paraphernalia was arranged underneath. He had a small rack of luxury designer street shoes - some of them for wearing, and some of them for proud display in a move that baffled Alfred. His photography equipment was isolated to the converted darkroom that Dad had arranged - at about the same time as Cass’ dance studio - but a stray film camera perched on his bedside table. There was only one laptop on his desk, as his study had most of his other electronics.

There were five different footlockers stashed underneath his bed. Cass and Dad had already gone through all of them when they were sorting through his things. It was all photographs. The first three were entirely of Batman and Robin. Damian was scowling in all of them. One was shots of Gotham. One was half-full, pictures of Kon and Cass and Steph and Young Justice sliding around. In every photograph, Cass was smiling. 

Cass wiggled underneath the covers, still slightly crumpled from the last time she had done this. She breathed in and out deeply, taking in the faint scent of dust and old buildings and greasy tech parts and vulcanized rubber. 

She breathed in and out deeply, and extended her hand to brush a phantom limb.

Cass made her move the next day. 

“So what are we doing for my birthday, Daddy?”

Both Dad and Damian froze. They were all eating breakfast together - Cass and Damian unusually spry from an extremely boring patrol yesterday, and Father dead on his feet with thick bags around his eyes. It always took him a few hours to properly wake up. Lately, it seemed as if he could go through the entire day without really waking up. 

Cass could read it very clearly on Dad’s face, although he would not say it. He hadn’t expected her to bring it up. Maybe he had assumed that everybody was just like him, and that this birthday would be one of mourning and dramatic sulking. 

“I thought you said that you didn’t want to do anything,” Damian said, panicked. 

“I changed my mind.” Cass didn’t stop staring at Dad, putting the thumbscrews on him. “You didn’t forget, did you?”

Dad cleared his throat hoarsely. “Of course I didn’t.”

“So didn’t forget that it was my birthday too?” Cass asked mercilessly, and Dad flinched. “You weren’t planning on spending the whole day only being sad?”

“That’s enough, Cass,” Damian said. Alfred, from where he had been ironing in another room, purposefully drifted near the doorway. Cass twitched an eyebrow at Alfred, who nodded. “Thursday is going to be difficult for all of us, and -”

“Yes, it will,” Cass said patiently. “It will be sad. But days can be more than one thing. It can be happy and sad. Our family can be lonely together. It’s our birthday. There is room for both of us.”

Both Dad and Damian looked struck. There was something strange in Dad’s body, a mix of too many things to count. The omnipresent weight of grief and failure, and the slack in his expression that spoke of recent and painful sadness. The distracted and distant slope of his back and the lax grip of his fork in surprise. But there was another ingredient in him, one that Cass just couldn’t identify. She almost turned to Tim before remembering. 

In Damian, there was only shame and surprise. But Damian always looked ashamed.  

“Something small might be in order,” Alfred said from the doorway, and Cass gave him the thumbs-up. “The opera and a dinner Le Bernadin, perhaps?”

Cass perked up. La Bernadin was her favorite restaurant. There was live music!  “I want Qin Dynasty! And lemon cake for dessert.” 

Qin Dynasty and been the mutual favorite of Cass and Tim’s - something they would have picked together. Dad’s face creased softly. “We can do that.”

“I shall set a place for Miss Stephanie,” Alfred said. “Perhaps a private occasion between the two of you for lunch.”

“Spending time with your best friend sounds good,” Damian said weakly. Cass and Alfred exchanged dead-eyed looks. “Lots of...fun. Maybe you and I can…”

“We are going shopping!” Cass announced loudly, and for the first time in five months Dad smiled. 

She smiled back at him, bright and a little bit forced and a lot determined. She let him see it: that this was hard for her too, and that his suffering was shared. 

But Cass was turning one year older, like it or not. She was still alive. And Cass had always been determined to live, despite everything. 

Cass was the last to arrive.

She had obsessed over her clothing to the last minute, and she had never really gotten the hang of ‘time’ anyway. By the time she finally got out the door, the chauffeur had been waiting patiently for ten minutes. Alfred always gave her the stink-eye when this happened, but he never had to pick between twenty different outfits just for lunch.

It wasn’t unreasonable. She hadn’t seen them since the funeral. If she dressed nice, would they judge her for being shallow? If she dressed down, would they see her as an imposter? Was it worse to obviously not fit, or to try to fit in and fail?

Cass never used to worry about this. It had never even registered to her. But nobody could be a child forever but the dead, and Cass was growing older every year.

Despite everything, Cass still arrived at the diner only five minutes late. It was a thoroughly and uniquely Gotham diner, the kind that natives always bragged only existed in a certain neighborhood in a certain borough in a certain city that everybody desperately pretended they enjoyed living in. The vinyl booths were ripped in ten different places and the menu hadn’t been replaced in ten years, but every inch of the walls were occupied in framed newspaper leaflets of famous Gotham historical events. The kind that happened once a month. Every diner owner always put up their favorites, and you could get a real sense for the specific passions of one Gothamite. Many even had merchandise or souvenirs tacked to the wall. Every single one still had a jukebox, never replaced. Everything from sports victories to celebrities to supervillain fights were immortalized in Gotham diners - celebrating a history that commemorated another day survived.

Diners like these were Steph’s favorite, second only to the hot dog carts that Tim refused to eat from. It was strange being in one without her. But Steph had been a little distant lately, for reasons that stretched beyond Damian, and Cass wished something as simple as a shared meal at Joey’s diner and nostalgia would fix it.  

Everybody was already crowded in a booth in the corner, as far away from the sluggish barnacles of other patrons as possible. None of them noticed her enter or walk up, and Cass only barely remembered to step cartoonishly heavily and clear her throat so she wouldn’t make anybody uncomfortable.

They all jumped anyway, but judging from the smiles they had already grown used to it. Cass hoped, inanely, that her outfit of shirtdress and leggings was casual enough. She was wearing a tan cross-body purse? Was that casual? Did Ariana think she was weird -

“Cass!” Ariana said, and she quickly jumped up to give her a tight hug. Behind her, Ives smiled slightly. Across from Ives, sprawled faux-casually against the sticky wall, Bernard gave a jaunty two-fingered salute. “I’m so glad you could make it. Come on, sit next to the weirdo.”

“Funny way of saying visionary ,” Bernard said, pressing a hand to his chest importantly. “I’m simply unappreciated in my time.”

“Bad reviews on your Batman biopic on your conspiracy thread again, buddy?” Ives asked, faux-sympathetically. 

“Film school will understand,” Bernard hissed. “Film school will care .”

“New sentence, but go off.”

“How have you been?” Ariana asked brightly. She had obviously agonized over her outfit as much as Cass had - likely because she knew Cass was coming, and always felt self-conscious over how elegant and beautiful Cass was in comparison to her. Cass didn’t always like knowing everything about people. “Have you ever been to this diner before? It’s an old favorite of ours. Bernard hates it, though.”

“I can see the cockroaches in the kitchen,” Bernard said flatly. “You people live like animals.”

“I haven’t. But I like diners.” Cass was rewarded with a relieved exhale from Ariana - she had been afraid that it wasn’t fancy enough. Ariana seemed to have slight trauma from attending an elite boarding school. “You look beautiful today.”

Ariana blushed deeply. “Thanks! You - you too. I love the sleeves on that dress.”

“Yeah, the puffy look’s so cool,” Bernard contributed unexpectedly. “Didn’t Henri Gutierrez show off sleeves like that on the runway this year?”

Cass brightened. “Yes! Henri gave this one to me. See, he sewed slits in the side for mobility. He said it was a ‘tomboy, but elegant’ look’.” 

Everybody stared at her for a second, processing what she had said, and Cass’ gut abruptly sank. Her ballerina friends always thought it was so weird when she said stuff like that. What if -

But Ives barked a laugh, and Bernard huffed and rolled his eyes, and Ariana giggled. They were all smiling in strange, exasperated relief - a relief that Cass didn’t understand. 

“You guys are twins,” Ives said wryly. “Remember when Tim flashed his Air Jordans on us? Signed ?”

“His shoes?” Cass vaguely remembered that. She mostly tuned Tim out when he started talking about his shoes, honestly. He could pass an entire stakeout that way. “Signed by who?”

“It’s basketball,” Ariana said sympathetically. “It’s okay, I never cared either.”

Oh. Upon retrospect, they did go to a lot of basketball games. Tim only really cared about ‘esports’, but Dad had a quota to fill of public appearances and business deals. Come to think of it, Cass did remember a very tall man doing something with Tim’s shoebox once. “Do you like basketball?” Cass asked Ives and Bernard. “You can come. We always meet all the men afterwards. They’re very nice.”

Ives dragged a hand over his face. “Bro. If I take any more of your money I’ll scream .”

“We get them for free.”

“Fuck that,” Bernard said, “I’ll scream anyway.”

“What’s everyone getting?” Ariana asked brightly. “Ives is not allowed to get the cheesesteak.”

“Why am I not in charge of my own cholesterol?”

“Because you’re not responsible with it!”

Then everybody was back to having fun. They yelled exaggeratedly at each other, waving their hands, and reacted in pretend-fury to the smallest of slights. Ives and Ariana bickered with easy familiarity, and Bernard always had an assertion or claim to make that offended Ives so deeply he had to contest it. Bernard riled everybody up, Ives couldn’t stop himself from rising to the bait, and Ariana rolled her eyes at Cass. She clearly enjoyed having somebody to share her exasperation with, and it made Cass smile a little wider. 

The waitress - tired, recovering from a cold, annoyed at the gang of rambunctious teenagers - eventually came by to take their order, and everybody talked over each other for their order. Ives tried to order the cheesesteak, but Ariana overruled him and they launched into a familiar fight before Bernard boredly ordered a salad for him. Cass ordered a chicken fried steak. 

They fell into silence when the waitress left, abruptly self-conscious. The desperate and forced happiness faltered just a little, and everybody was left staring at their paper placemats or grimy menus. Ariana’s face creased slightly, and Bernard stared at the ceiling. 

Almost bravely, Ariana asked, “Chemo going okay, Ives?”

Ives groaned. Bernard sipped at his water. “Wow, bring up the cancer at our Tim Drake support group meeting. You know how to keep things light, Nana.”

“I don’t want to keep things bright,” Ariana said stubbornly. “We’re celebrating our friendship. And friendship isn’t just the fun things. So, is that guy at your support group still annoying?”

“He’s so fucking annoying!” Ives grimaced, and Cass noticed for the first time the discoloration of his skin and the bags under his eyes. Sloppy. Tim would have noticed the side effects of chemo immediately. “He’s always talking about homeopathic remedies. Like, sorry, dude, your essential oils aren’t saving our lives right now. That's scientific cancer treatment.” Bernard opened his mouth. “Do not say a word .”

“I’m not that tacky,” Bernard protested, before faltering a little. Bravely - why was it so brave? - he asked Ariana, “You said you drive Ives to his appointments, right?”

She nodded. “His mom’s busy working, and I have a free period in the morning. He has to take a taxi back, though…”

“Hey, I have a free period in the afternoon.” Bernard waved a hand as Ives scowled. “I can take care of taking him back. Great excuse so Mom doesn’t make me take up debate team.”

Ives creased the corner of his paper placemat sharply. “You seriously don’t have to do that, dude. I can handle it fine.”

“But we’re friends or whatever.” Bernard batted his eyelashes at Ives obnoxiously. “Come on, help me out. I seriously don’t want to do debate team. You’re doing me a favor.”

“Wow. Who knew that meeting at a friend’s reception would bring two assholes together in friendship and brotherly love,” Ives said flatly. “You seriously don’t -”

“Come on, I’m feeling left out!” Bernard dramatically put the back of his hand on the forehead. “Ariana’s helping, Tim’s helping from beyond the grave -”

“Tim’s helping?” Cass asked.

That cut everybody off. Not uncomfortably, or awkwardly - just cut them off. 

Ariana smiled at Cass, eyes creasing. “Stalker #1 knew about what was going on with Ives.”

“I hadn’t told him,” Ives grouched. “How did he know?”

“Stalker. Anyway, in his will he set up payment for the whole treatment. Only his mom was supposed to know and everything. Ives’ just a busybody who found out anyway. He’s been super salty about it.”

“The guy stopped talking to Nana and me two years ago,” Ives bitched. But he was looking away from her, staring steadfastly at an article framed on the wall. Unfortunately enough, it was about Batman and Robin. “It didn’t make any sense. It was just so stupid.” The framed article was from years ago - Cass recognized Damian’s Robin outfit. He was scowling, obviously.  “He barely answered any of our texts. A semester into high school he stops hanging out with us, period. Whatever! People lose touch after middle school. It happens.”

“We just didn’t think it would happen to us,” Ariana said, picking at her thumb. 

Bernard snorted. “Little asshole stopped talking to me junior year. Freshman and sophomore year - we’re best friends! He forgets important shit and flakes out all the time, but whatever. Then we hit junior year and we aren’t talking outside of classes anymore. Barely responds to texts, never wants to hang out. Sure, whatever. People drift apart. Tim barely ever put any work into friendships anyway.” Ives and Ariana grimaced in agreement before Bernard abruptly slapped the table. “Then you check Reddit one day and on the first page of Reddit -”

“I walked in while my mom was watching the news.” Ariana picked at her cuticles.

“Browsing my CNN app in the middle of my boring-ass chemo appointment,” Ives said. “You know how fucking cartoonish that is? During chemo ?”

“The headline just called him ‘Wayne Heir’,” Bernard said, making air quotes. “And I’m like - who’s the poor bastard this time? The muscley gay one? And it was my poor bastard. Isn’t that just fucking stupid.” 

“Then we get invitations to the funeral , like, five minutes after it happens. Then we’re all standing around at a reception in a synagogue, which I’ve never even been inside and which I had to hide from my shitty Mom, and I don’t know freaking anybody there.” He waved his hands, working himself up. “And I’m like - friends? This dude had friends? Since when did he have friends ? And I’m standing in the fucking corner so I don’t have to look at Bruce fucking Wayne, and I’m right next to two other badly dressed idiots who are muttering to each other that they had no idea Tim had this many friends -”

“It was nice seeing you again, Cass!” Ariana said brightly. 

“ - and it was great meeting all of you assholes - I mean, you assholes and Cass - but I just don’t get it.” Bernard’s expression twisted, resentful and sad and angry. “Who even invited us?”

Had they been wondering? They hadn’t mentioned. Cass knew that they were in a group chat together - connected by some strange thing she could never understand - but she only realized they were still talking and getting together when Ariana reached out to invite her to this meeting. She had called it a birthday celebration. What a nice word to use - celebration. 

“I did,” Cass said, surprised, and everybody stopped to stare at her. “Did you not know?”

They all gaped at her. Weakly, Ariana said, “But we only met those few times…”

“You were his best friends,” Cass said, confused. “Why wouldn’t you be invited?”

They all looked at each other, unspoken words passing between them. Why couldn’t Cass understand? What language were they using that she didn’t know? A language other than the language of death?

Finally, Ariana hesitantly said, “We weren’t really friends by the end. All of his real friends were there, people we didn’t even know…”

“You were his real friends.” Did they not know? They all looked at her as if they didn’t - as if Cass was disclosing a great secret, or a great revelation. “He did not mention you very much. It was painful for him. But when he spoke of you...he loved you all very much. So I invited you.” She set her mouth and nodded firmly. “A twin sister knows these things. Even things he does not say.”

Everybody abruptly looked away, embarrassed. Ives’ hand snuck closer to Ariana, and she gripped it tightly with both hands. They separated just as quickly, but Cass saw the way their bodies angled towards each other. There was deep love there. It was clear as day to Cass. Had they not been able to see it in Tim? Did they not know?

How sad. How lonely. For just a second, Cass found herself angry at Tim. She could not imagine loving somebody that much and never telling them. 

Or maybe she could. She tried to think of a time she told Tim she loved him with her mouth or hands, and failed. But she had said it in every other way. Tim had reciprocated, every time. That had been enough for the both of them. 

“We couldn’t believe we were in his will,” Ariana said weakly. “I can go to law school because of him. Ives is getting his chemo. Bernard’s getting his college fund. I had no idea he still…”

“I told you,” Cass said, “he loved you.” She paused for a second, uncertain of how to explain it to ordinary people. “He just had to say it in other ways.”

“Yeah, well,” Bernard said, “I’m so glad too much money makes up for him dropping all of us like a hot potato.”

Then their food came, and Ariana asked Cass what she was doing for her birthday, and Cass got to talk about all of the fun she was going to force her family to have.

She talked about Dad and Damian. The table listened in abject interest, having rarely heard about the subject from Tim. She talked about Alfred, and how wonderful he was. She talked about her girlfriend, and Tim’s photography, and her dance recitals, and Tim’s half-built PCs. She talked about every birthday they’d shared. 

It was the most she’d said in a very long time. Her words were slow and halting, embarrassingly simple or badly said. But nobody interrupted, and nobody seemed to mind. They just listened - laughing at Tim’s stupid moments, or smiling when he did something kind. Ariana wanted to see a picture of Cass in her tutu; Ives had a funny story about Tim wiping out on his skateboard. Bernard asked Cass where she wanted to go to college; Ariana wanted to attend Vanderbilt for law and Ives was aiming for Yale and biomedical engineering. Ariana wanted to do pro-bono immigration legal services for people without papers; Ives wanted to help invent prosthetics for people who lost limbs. Bernard wanted to make documentaries, and tell every kind of story.

“I like nature documentaries,” Cass said solemnly.

Bernard grinned at her. “I’ll make one for my senior thesis just for you, Ms. Wayne.”

A poisonous feeling bubbled in her gut as Bernard regaled them with the latest draft of his tell-all documentary on Batman. It felt terrible - like an itch in the base of her throat, a tight constriction of her lungs. Halfway like she wanted to cry, and halfway like she wanted to punch somebody. 

She was angry at Tim. These people were so nice. How could he tell her that they were distractions, that they didn’t matter? That a life with these people, laughing in diners over hamburgers and driving each other to chemo appointments, was a waste of time? He had stopped talking to each of them, and it had hurt them badly. She could read it in every inch of their bodies. Now they were left grieving a boy that had died five months ago and a friendship that had died years ago. 

Their pain, past and present, was real. How could Tim tell her that it hadn’t meant anything? How could Damian have prioritized his own resentment over sparing time, any time, for the younger siblings who idolized him so much? How could Dad wallow in his own pain so selfishly that he didn’t want to celebrate her birthday? 

Why couldn’t Cass just understand? She didn’t know why Tim had stopped talking to his friends. She didn’t know why he hated Tim Drake so much, and why he could only tolerate Robin. She had never been able to decode the persistent sadness that dogged his footsteps, and she had never been able to make him talk to her about it. Or maybe she had just never asked. 

Cass burst into tears.

To their credit, nobody at the table looked surprised or uncomfortable. It was hardly unexpected. Strangely, it didn’t even seem unwelcome. Everybody always felt awkward when Cass started crying, but she just couldn’t stop.

Ariana slid the napkin dispenser across the table to sit in front of Cass, and Cass awkwardly grabbed a few napkins and wiped at her eyes. She silently held out her hand, palm up, and let Cass reach out and take it. She squeezed tightly, and when Cass looked at her all she saw was that quiet, sad smile. 

“If you want to talk about it,” Ariana said, “that’s totally what we’re here for.”

“Yeah,” Bernard said, taking a big bite of his Gotham-style hamburger. The secret ingredient was sauerkraut. “This is kind of the ‘Death and Dying’ support group, if you haven’t noticed.”

Ives nodded, leaning back in his seat with his arms crossed. “Trust me, this is totally my designated cancer bitch-fest space. They’ve heard it all.” He paused a beat, almost uncertain. “I feel totally shitty complaining to my mom about everything. She’s stressed enough already. So, like, I bet your family are all super stressed about it...and your friends definitely don’t get it...but we do. And we’re not close enough to the situation that talking about it stresses us out. So I like to think we’re good people to talk to about this.”

“I’ve been thinking of a way to tell you that for ages,” Ariana said. She squeezed Cass’ hand tightly, and Cass heard everything she wasn’t saying. “But, like, you’ve already heard ‘oh, I’m totally here if you want to talk’ a billion times. So we wanted to tell you in person.”

“And celebrate your birthday!” Bernard did jazz-hands. “Best birthday ever, I’m sure.”

Cass sat there in silence, unable to summon anything to say. But they didn’t ask her to say anything, and everybody went back to joking with each other and sharing funny stories, and when the waitress came by to clear away their plates they ordered four big slices of chocolate cake. The shittiest birthday cake she’s probably ever had, Ives informed her, but she’ll love it. It’s all lard. Ariana wouldn’t let him have any of it. 

Cass hated how long it took her to put her thoughts together and express herself. It was so frustrating, never being able to fully participate in conversations or say what she meant to say the way she meant to say it. Feelings, thoughts, and ideas raged in her chest, and she had to slowly force them through a bottlenecked sieve until they came out to a pale imitation of what she meant.

It wasn’t until Bernard signaled for the check that Cass spoke. She hoped it made sense. It probably didn’t, but - well, feelings rarely made sense. 

 “I don’t know why he stopped talking to you,” Cass forced out. Everybody quieted, giving her space to speak. “All I know is that...he was very sad. And he thought walking away from you would make him less sad.  Tim...always had a solution to every problem. But sometimes his solution was bad. I know leaving you made him sadder. I think he could not bear the love you gave him. Or he could not believe it.” Cass exhaled heavily, clenching her hands to stop them from shaking. “But it was nothing you did. He was very stupid. I am sorry this...isn’t something that can be fixed. I just hope that - that this makes it hurt less.”

 They all stared at her in quiet and abject silence. Cass scrubbed at her face with a napkin again. She wasn’t sure if this was the answer to her question - if Tim really stopped talking with these nice people just because he was stupid - but it felt right. And it soothed the anger, just a little. It made him her brother again, instead of a cruel stranger. 

The waitress placed the check on the table, and Cass silently took it and slipped her card inside. Ariana and Ives were looking at each other, something private stretching between them, but Bernard was just staring at the article on the wall. Batman & Robin save...somebody. Cass thought that might be Poison Ivy in the photograph. She had given Cass a flowerpot of pink flowers one time. Alfred had helped her plant them in the garden, and she liked showing Poison Ivy pictures of them growing. 

That wasn’t what Bernard saw when he looked at the photo. When Bernard looked at the article, he saw something strange. Something that made him very fond and very sad. Just a little hopeful. But many people felt hopeful when they saw Batman and Robin. 

“So,” Bernard said finally, tearing his eyes away from the article, “in celebration of our favorite idiot and depressed asshole, do you guys want to do something after this? I don’t think one lunch is enough party for our birthday girl.”

“We can go back to your place,” Ariana said. She seemed lighter, her happiness a little sadder but less strained. “I still have to beat you in Smash Bros.”

“Ganon is the worst main, and you will never beat me,” Bernard said flatly. “But definitely not. My mom’s home, so that’s a no go.”

From some insane impulse - from some desire, deep in her heart - Cass said, “Can we do my house?”

Ives groaned. “ Not Bruce Wayne’s house! I don’t want to step inside the lifestyles of the rich and famous, here!”

Whiny. Cass turned to Ariana. “We can try on my clothing. I have a big closet.”

“We’re going to Cass’,” Ariana said immediately, grabbing her purse. “Come on, stop fucking around, let’s go.”

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Bernard cried, pumping his fist in the air. “Rich people closets, here we come! I better walk out of there with a goodie bag of designer sunglasses, Cass.”

“Steal Tim’s,” Cass said. “Reparations.”

“Hell yeah! Stealing glasses from a dead guy!”

“You’re freaks,” Ives said. “I hate you. Don’t steal shit from my closet when I’m dead from cancer.”

“I’m gonna steal shit from your cancer baby ass, Ives. Don’t test me.”

But Ives came anyway. Some people always did. 

That night on patrol, Cass watched Damian.

There was no other word for it: Damian was perfect. From the way he grappled across the streets, to the way he scared off carjackers and took down muggers. He could crack a joke when somebody needed calming down, and he could terrify criminals as well as Batman in his red-splashed costume. He did his job so well he made it seem effortless, and he worked with ruthless efficiency and complete success - from taking down supervillains to cutting off drug and weapons shipments. 

Damian Wayne was perfect in every way. Cass now understood how it felt to work with her. 

They fought side by side, back to back, in complete synocrity. Their education had been by different teachers, but it had been of the same school. It was effortless to work with each other, and with a few nights of practice their teamwork became a dance. It helped that Damian was an easy partner. His form was picture perfect, every muscle tight and controlled. Damian never made an unintentional move, and there was never a centimeter out of place. Not even the League of Assassins would find fault with his kata - always efficient and effective, never taking a hit but always landing his own.

Cass could count people who could beat her in a straight martial arts fight on one hand. Lady Shiva. Richard Dragon. Bronze Tiger - which was a fluke , she’d get him next time. And Damian. Not even Dad. 

Which made the fact that Damian was a repressed disaster who was slightly terrified of her even funnier. 

The old patrol team assignments - Dad with Steph, Tim with Cass - had shifted, Damian taking Tim’s place. This had subtly surprised Damian, who apparently didn’t know that Steph was always Dad’s default partner in the field. It had clearly panicked and confused him. He and Dad had been partners for eight years, and Steph was not an intuitive choice for Batman’s right hand in the field. And few people besides Tim, Steph, and Dad truly enjoyed working with Cass. She knew that she could be a confusing and inscrutable black box to people who did not know her. 

And Damian didn’t really know her that well. 

Patrol had been busy, if only because they had accidentally wandered into a mafia exchange of hostages. They, admittedly, hadn’t quite understood what side they were supposed to be on - Cass was inclined to mind her own business - but they busted it up anyway. The ringleaders had prices on their heads, and Cass had finally been able to squeeze information from O’Doyle about the quark batteries that Intergang was moving across state lines. 

Tim would have known more about the bust. Tim would have been able to trace the movement of the quark batteries using...radioactivity or something. Tim would have blackmailed O’Doyle into acting as a mole so they could infiltrate Intergang. 

Cass glared these sentiments deeply into Damian’s skull as they waited on the warehouse rooftop for their rendezvous with Batman. She radiated her thoughts with every inch of her being. 

It was a test. If Damian wanted to be her partner - not her partner , but even just partner - then he had to be able to pick up on her psychic resentment. Speak the language of death -

“I know what you’re thinking.”

Cass froze. Shit. He was perfect. 

But Damian continued, “I know my methods in extracting information from O’Doyle were violent. I’m sorry you had to see me that way. I will work on restraining myself, but -”

“What? I don’t care.” Cass hated violence, but that didn’t mean it bothered her. It was hatred that bothered her, not paltry violence. She couldn’t bear hatred in those she cared about, but Damian had carried no hatred in him. Just grim determination. But some part of her, desperate for attention, compelled her to add, “Robin could have extracted the information without hurting him.”

She was rewarded with a wince. But he didn’t deny it, or try to justify himself. He just said, “Yes, I believe so.”

They stood on the rooftop in awkward silence. Which was new. Cass never experienced awkward silence. Silence was her natural state. She didn’t care if it was awkward for the other person. And there was nothing about Cass that was awkward .

Damian fiddled with his gauntlet, double checking his weapons. Cass rocked on the balls of her feet. She radiated complex feelings about his role in her life at him. 

“Nice night,” Damian said.

“Hm,” Cass said.

It was an abject relief when Batman and Spoiler met them on the roof. They swung down directly, landing with dual silence on the cement. Steph began talking the minute they both landed, obviously picking up an argument that had only paused so they could focus on the grapple. Steph’s unique brand of incessant chatter in the middle of the very serious and ultra drama field clearly discomfited Damian, who seemed to take everything very seriously. 

“ - if you sponsor it, then the Commissioner and DA will support it. It’s hardly a replacement for our over-reliance on the prison system, but the recidivism rate in Gotham is so high that the prisons are useless anyway.”

Batman just grunted, edges of his cape trailing into the shadows as the girl in the eggplant costume lectured him. “I thought you didn’t support more punitive measures in the justice courts.”

“Yeah, because they’re utterly useless at reformation. Besides, who do you think gets those punitive measures? Like, hint: it’s the marginalized people!” Steph wagged her finger at Batman, who blinked sleepily. “Putting aside the transformative justice issue -”

“Please do.”

“ - this is a first step that could set a serious precedent for more effective supervillain rehabilitation.  Everybody in Gotham thinks rehabilitation is useless because Arkham’s such a joke. We can prove it’s not.” Steph propped her hands on her hips. “Like it or not, 75% of repeat offenders labeled ‘supervillain’ - which is a pejorative term, by the way - in the courts suffer from severe mental illness. You’ve been doing a good job at deescalation lately -”

“I’ve always tried deescalation,” Batman grumbled, somewhat defensively.

“ - but the new DA is running on a platform of capital punishment for ‘supervillains’, and it’s setting a dangerous precedent for capital punishment of severely mentally ill offenders across the United States.”

Damian was beginning to look a little attacked. “Spoiler, I hope that -”

But Steph just flapped a hand at him. “That was a ninja honor deathmatch, the rules are different, whatever.” She was facing Batman instead, hands propped on her hips and looking up at him. “Harley Quinzel is giving us a precedent here. Dropping charges against her under the condition of future altruism could change things. She’s an opportunity. Harley, Pamela, and Selena - they could mean something. I know others will follow them. Killer Croc wants to be a WWE wrestler!” She exhaled heavily, uncertain even how to phrase what she wanted to say. “Things are different now. Like it or not, Nightwing’s ninja honor deathmatch changed everything . We can stick stubbornly to the past, or we can let the future happen. Because it’s going to happen with or without you, Batman.”

Batman stared down at her. Steph stared up at him.

Finally, he said, “I’ll think about it.”

Cass glanced at a terrified Damian. “Every patrol is like this,” she said. “It’s funny.”

“I just follow him around everywhere and harass him. Like a sexier Jacob Marley.” Steph gave Cass and Damian a big, obnoxious thumbs up. “Nowhere is safe from me.”

Out of respect for Batman’s privacy, Cass had refrained from telling everyone that Dad very much enjoyed Steph’s relentless refusal to let him get away with anything. She challenged him on everything - from his casework to his strategies to his philosophies. They had started patrolling together because he was the best street agent and she was the worst, but somehow along the way they had gotten very used to each other. That was the highest compliment Batman could give somebody without adopting them. 

Robin had always been a dour figure. Between Damian and Tim, he could always match Batman in gloom and doom. But Steph always made people smile. Even standing next to Batman, she could get a laugh out of anyone. Nobody had expected that somebody so cheerfully loud and obnoxious could be so useful working with Batman - calming down victims, acting as a distraction, or just annoying people into a mistake. They were partners too, in their own way.

“Batman, we have a lead on the quark batteries,” Damian said, and Batman turned to him in obvious relief. “We also might have busted a hostage exchange…”

They all talked shop for a while, exchanging information, and Cass tuned out. Tim would - Steph would tell her anything important later. 

She watched Batman instead. At home, his shoulders carried grief and exhaustion and sadness, but as Batman he held nothing but focus and an odd sort of serenity. He was very good at compartmentalizing. Cass could tell that he wasn’t thinking about what the day after tomorrow - tomorrow, depending on the time - meant. He really was only focused on the case. Dad either felt very deeply, or nothing at all. 

But Damian couldn’t stop glancing at her - worried, anxious, and uncertain. Nobody else picked up on it. Not even Steph, who was too busy stewing next to Cass to pay attention to Damian. She had bristled strangely when she saw Cass and Damian working together, and it didn’t take Cass to figure out why. 

While Batman and Damian were talking, Cass casually slid next to Steph. Her posture was still tight with tension, so Cass quietly slipped her hands together and squeezed. After a second, Steph squeezed back. 

“Yeah,” Steph said. “ Super weird.”

Cass glanced left, waiting for the repartee, but there was only empty space. There was only Damian, standing away from them and talking intently to Batman. He looked quickly at her, and at Cass’ intense stare he quickly turned away.

There was no personal drama in the suits. That was a hard rule that even Steph respected - or, rather, she respected it until she felt as if Batman was having personal drama in the suit, at which point she would stop in the middle of a supervillain fight and yell at him about his feelings. He rarely appreciated this.

It wasn’t until they got back to the Cave, stripping off their masks and relaxing into their cooldown stretches, that Steph made her move. Dad had already pulled his cowl down and was updating the files on the computer with the new information, compiling a report to send to the Commissioner later. Cass hoped he asked for baby pictures. Barbara was so cute. 

“So how long are you going to hang around?” Steph asked abruptly, touching her toes with an easy limberness that Cass appreciated very much. 

Damian, from where he was leaning against the computer criticizing Dad, froze. His eyes widened in abject fear of Stephanie. Cass looked at him, unimpressed, until he answered the question.

“I’ll probably head back to Bludhaven on the 20th,” Damian said slowly. “But I’ll be returning home more regularly from now on. Maybe once a month. Or more, depending on the case.”

Steph just snorted, flexing her arms sarcastically. “Sure. Until you get into a bitchfight with Bruce again.”

Dad’s mouth tightened. “Stephanie.”

“This team doesn’t need a flake,” Steph said loudly. “Or two dudes with guilt complexes the size of mountains that make them attend our piano recitals.”

That got both Dad and Damian. They looked at each other uncomfortably - mutually debating ‘is this teenage drama or teenage trauma?’

“If you have something to say,” Dad said finally, “it’s unlike you not to say it.”

“Hey, I’m capable of some tact.” Steph brought her leg up and twisted around in her seat, letting the muscles loosen. “I’m just wondering why you want us to work in the field with somebody we don’t trust.”

That hit Damian hard. Steph fully understood how ruthlessly effective she was at picking out everybody’s weak point. But it just made Dad look tired, as if he had expected this question months ago and was only surprised that she had waited this long to ask. 

“I know I have a difficult past,” Damian said slowly, tactfully glossing over how he helped lead the League of Assassins for almost a year. “And I understand if that makes it difficult for you to trust me -”

“What? Bro, who gives a shit about you and your ninja clan.” Steph turned back around and stared at him - unflinching, unafraid, and unashamed. “We just don’t fucking know you. You can’t swoop in and take over for Bruce while he’s in a grief coma and expect us to act like you’ve been here all along like you’re Aunt Viv or something.”

Dad looked at Cass. Cass shook her head and held up a hand - ‘you did nothing wrong this time, let them duke it out’. Dad sighed in abject relief. 

For his part, Damian strongly looked as if he wanted to ninja backflip out of this conversation. “I’m not asking that of you, and I’m not saying I’ve been much of a brother. But I wouldn’t be much of a man if I didn’t take responsibility now.”

“You should have taken responsibility ages ago,” Steph said, seemingly bored.

“I can’t exactly go back in time and fix that, Stephanie,” Damian said. He crossed his arms, and Cass saw him actively struggle to think of the Right Older Brother thing to do. “But I’m not going away.”

“Yeah, sure,” Steph said dismissively. She rolled to her feet, cracking her back. “Can you give me one reason why I’m supposed to believe that? Or when you’ve, like, proved it?”

“I swear that I will prove it to you,” Damian said. The words rolled off his tongue strangely. He didn’t say it like anybody else would, even Dad or Cass. He said it in a strangely ancient way, as if the words meant far more to him than any of them could understand. 

Steph stared him down, jaw clenched. She was easily a foot shorter than he was, but in that moment she seemed much taller. Larger than life. After two hard years, she had become the very image of a superhero - even if she didn’t understand, and refused to see it. 

“Even when we’re jerks,” Steph said, “and you don’t like us?”

“Yes.”

“And even when we’re kidnapped by, like, Mr. Freeze?” Steph’s voice grew a little hoarse. “And you have to heroically save us even though we were stupid enough to get kidnapped?”

“Yes, Stephanie.”

Steph’s face scrunched up. “Even though I’m annoying and mean and Cass is quiet and weird? Even though I keep on showing up at your house and throwing bricks at people and pretending I belong here? Like Urkel?”

“Yes,” Damian said patiently, “even if you’re like Urkel.”

“Everything’s changing.” Steph’s voice was strong and steady, scratched raw and hoarse. “Are you going to be there ? Even when you find out the kind of people we are?”

“This is my oath to you.” Damian looked at Steph, then at Cass. Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at a still and silent Dad. “I’m committed to this family, and to you. I’m sorry I let my own hurt get in the way of that.” He paused, uncertain, before continuing, “I can’t promise that I won’t let you down again. I’ve - I’ve let you down quite a bit. I’m not going to try and make up for that. I realize it’s...much too late.” He worked his jaw, stressed and steady and uncertain and filled with conviction. “I’ve killed hundreds of people. But I don’t think I understood death until now. The man...the brother who understands death is the one before you now. I can’t resurrect the people I’ve killed. Or those I have let die. But I can do my best to keep you two alive. So...if you’ll let me...I would very much like to be that person.”

Steph stared at Damian, arms crossed. Damian stared back, unyielding. 

“She forgives you,” Cass told Damian. “Also, she thinks you’re pretentious.”

“I am pretentious,” Damian said, without missing a beat.

“I want ninja training,” Steph said. 

“You’re not getting ninja training.”

“I’m Batman’s partner,” Steph proclaimed arrogantly. “Everybody in this team has ninja training but me. It’s not fair. I want ninja training.”

“You’re better off without the ninja training,” Dad rumbled. He didn’t contest the ‘Batman’s partner’ thing, likely because he had narrowly escaped the bullet of Steph’s disapproval and didn’t feel like pressing his luck. “If we’re finished here, then all of you hit the showers.”

“Being a ninja isn’t that great,” Cass informed Steph. “Kind of boring. A lot of your dad shooting you so you can’t feel pain anymore.”

Damian looked very alarmed. “Ninja training doesn’t involve that. Did they do that during your ninja training?” Somehow, he was a little insulted, muttering to myself. “Was my ninja training worse than yours…?”

“Your mom went easy on you,” Cass informed him. 

“She did not! My mother was a strict taskmaster -”

“She told me herself. She said you’re delicate. That’s why she doesn’t do the bullet training.”

“You’ve - you’ve never met my mother -”

“Yes I have. Our mothers hang out.” Cass shrugged. “She said you were a gentle soul. Exact words.”

“My mother never -”

But Steph was laughing, and Dad was kneading his forehead, and Cass gave up the ghost by giggling loudly at Damian’s outrage. The tips of his ears were a little bit red. Cass had no idea that Damian Wayne himself got embarrassed easily. 

He was a bit of a dork. Not like Tim was, but it was still fun to rile him up. Nerdy and oblivious. Maybe even a bit of an idiot.

Steph glanced at Cass, just once. Cass smiled at her and nodded. Damian had been telling the truth, or a strange and foreign variant. His words held a truth that was more than an easy fact, more uncertain than anything objective and real. Rather, it was a truth that Damian was determined to create. Through sheer force of will - even if he was afraid that he was lying, even if he lingered in that uncertainty - Damian would make his words true. That was what an oath meant to him. 

In that moment, Cass had believed him. There was something of their father in him. She hoped that she shared it too.

 She should know better. She shouldn’t be so naive or trusting. But Tim had always been cynical enough for the both of them, just as Cass had been hopeful enough to spare. And if that hope wasn’t enough…

Well. Cass could probably take him. If Steph helped. 

Definitely if Steph helped. That was being a team. 

The morning of Cass’ birthday, she woke up a large hand softly shaking her shoulder.

She blearily opened her eyes only to find Dad standing above her. There were a few strands of blonde hair thrown over Cass’ face, escaped from Steph’s wild mane as she snored next to her. Her body was languid and loose, relaxed as it never was when she was awake.

Dad smiled at her softly, soft and rumpled in his work clothing. He seemed so big, like a strong sentinel lit by the dawn. In the bleary morning light filtering in through her bedroom window, underneath her comforter with her girlfriend near her, Cass lingered in warm sleepiness.

“Happy Birthday,” Dad whispered. He bent down to kiss her on the forehead, so light she almost couldn’t feel it. “Get some sleep. I’ll see you soon.”

Cass let her eyes close again, and drifted easily back to sleep. Five more minutes.