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Batman was missing something. Bad enough the assassin had managed the job, certainly. But not being able to find any hint of said assassin was maddening. By seventy-two hours into looking, he truly thought Alfred was going to drug his food rather than let him out the door.
He was, perhaps, at a point of diminishing returns. The thought of stopping, however, was unbearable.
Things ended up being a bit surprising, when the assassin found him. At the time, he was dealing with a minor distraction—a hold-up at an all-night bodega. It wouldn’t have taken long. The “criminals” in this case were two teenagers, probably from a block or two over. He had them disarmed and regretting their actions before the cashier could even get her hands on the till.
That lightning fast wrap-up might in part have been because of the assassin. Half the cashier’s size, they were in between the woman and the two kids with guns before Batman even realized there was a fourth person in the store. Once he had the kids on the ground, weapon free, he fully expected the bodega-cashier-saving-assassin to disappear.
Instead, they stood and watched as he talked with the kids, twin brothers whose dad had lost his job the day before, and whose mother was struggling with lupus. He gave them the information for Leslie’s clinic and promised she would see their mother the next day, no appointment necessary. Then he gave them the information for Catalina Hernandez, the woman in WE’s HR who handled community relations, including job placement for people Bruce sent her way. He’d email Leslie and Lina before sleeping and they’d help this family. One amongst thousands. He forced himself not to think about it.
The boys apologized to the girl behind the counter, who looked to be no more than college-age herself. She appeared shaky, but accepted the apology and declined to press charges. He tucked a hundred-dollar bill in the tip jar while she pretended to be straightening the e-cig chargers behind the counter.
And blinked, noticing the assassin was still there, staring at the Tastykakes like they were alien technology. Batman approached, and a gloved, impossibly small hand pulled back the black face-covering the assassin wore.
Then, with her face unmasked, the assassin put her hands out in front of her, as if waiting for him to cuff her. Batman looked down at what was unmistakably the face of a child and thought, yeah, he’d been missing something all right.
Cass didn’t have the words to explain, of course. All she could do was hold out her hands the way she’d seen in the drills where her father had taught her how to escape capture. Only, she was offering herself up for capture. She needed to be put somewhere where she couldn’t do what she’d done ever again. The feel of blood on her hands wouldn’t leave, the sense of having taken something that could not be returned.
Batman was big, like her father, but she had watched him since she’d done what she was supposed to. Since she’d killed. He was big and he was capable of hurting. He didn’t hurt people who were weaker or smaller than him, though, not unless he had to. She didn’t know what he’d said to those boys, she only knew that when he’d finished, there was hope in the lines of their bodies again, where it hadn’t been before.
He would do what was right. He would take her and put her where she wasn’t dangerous anymore.
It was less that Bruce made the active decision to bring an assassin most likely trained by and loyal to the Al Ghuls back to the cave, so much as that he thought, “Alfred will know what to do,” and got sort of stuck on the idea of not having to figure out what to do all by himself. The media, the board of WE, and the world at large might forget that Bruce was twenty-four, but Alfred didn’t.
The passenger seat of the batmobile dwarfed the girl. She sat with her hands clasping the seatbelt. He asked, “What’s your name?”
She shook her head, looking not defiant, but frustrated. Bruce tried, “How old are you?”
Biting her lip, she freed her hands from the seatbelt and held all ten fingers up, and then put all of them except one down.
“Eleven?” Bruce asked. She nodded slightly, and then shook one hand to show that it was an estimation.
Around eleven and either incapable of speech or unwilling to speak. Elevenish and one of the most dangerous, sophisticated killers he’d ever seen in action. After that, he was quiet, outside of letting Alfred know their ETA.
When he drove into the cave, the girl looked around in delight. It was so unguarded it took Bruce’s breath away for a moment. He parked and told her, “You can get out, but don’t wander off or touch anything.”
Children liked to get into things, didn’t they? His familiarity was not extensive. He was aware he had been one, but he wasn’t sure that was a sterling example of normality. Then again, this case probably wasn’t either.
She opened the door at the same time as him and climbed out, coming around to his side, which was when Alfred first caught sight of her. Still in the cowl, Bruce said, “Agent A, this is…well, she doesn’t speak, so I don’t know her name, but you might recognize the shape of her from the footage of—”
“Yes,” Alfred cut him off. He strode to where the girl was standing, her posture somehow both grounded and delicate at the same time. “Well, we’ll need something to call you in the meantime, will Miss do?”
She nodded, blinking. Alfred said, “Very well, you’ve turned yourself in for punishment, then?”
Another nod, and there was the tiniest tremor in her stance. Bruce would have missed it if he hadn’t been completely zeroed in on her. She didn’t move, though. Alfred tilted his head. “Did you want to kill in the first place?”
The shake of her head was furious, and for the first time, Bruce saw tears glint in her eyes. They didn’t fall, but they were there. Softly, Bruce followed up, “Did someone else want you to kill?”
She tightened up, her shoulders and fists clenching, and even without a nod, it was confirmation. Alfred shared a glance with him. He held out a hand to her, not touching, just offering, and said, “Come, miss, let’s get you some tea and sandwiches.”
Bruce watched Alfred lead the girl to the armchair Bruce sometimes used as a spot to think, and settle a folding table in front of her. He somehow made it the work of minutes to get upstairs, make a tray, and be back down, telling her what was in each of the sandwiches, and explaining his choice of tea and the steeping technique for it. She hung on every word, eyes widening with pleasure at each first bite, first taste.
She smiled at Alfred. It was awkward on her face, like she hadn’t had enough practice. That was how Bruce knew he was in trouble: he wanted nothing more in that moment than to help her learn.
Where she was from, food was dependent on performance, or on her need of it in order to perform, but not simply so that Cass wouldn’t feel empty and in pain. As she’d been given food, she kept expecting either the Batman or his agent to demand a show of her skills. Instead, the agent draped a really soft blanket around her shoulders and said, “It’s not quite the same as a bed, but why don’t you try and get some rest?”
Cass could and would sleep anywhere. She was even capable of sleeping standing up for short periods of time. Her father had kept her awake for months on end, outside of time she was left in adverse sleeping conditions, in order to drill that into her. With the addition of the blanket, the cushy chair was as comfortable, if not more so, than most of the beds she’d slept in.
She didn’t allow herself to drift off, though. The Batman and his agent hadn’t thought to move out of her line of sight. Maybe the way she’d worked to answer them in semi-linguistic ways had given them the sense that if she couldn’t hear them, she wouldn’t know what it was they were thinking.
Or maybe they just underestimated her skill. Either way, even in the armor, she could see the Batman’s unease, his agent’s calming influence. They were both uncertain of what to do with her, that was clear. Why, though? She’d turned herself in for punishment. Shouldn’t they just punish her?
If father knew where she was—
The Batman wouldn’t do that, though. He would put her in a cage, where she couldn’t hurt others, that was all. That was why she’d come to him. She took a deep breath. Uncertain or not, he’d see what was right, and he’d do it.
Bruce considered what to say for several minutes, but when he opened his mouth, what tumbled out was, “I’m sorry.”
“Whatever for, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked, and it was a genuine question, not the quiet sarcasm Bruce had been expecting.
“I shouldn’t have brought her here, made her a problem for you as well. I should have—”
Alfred put a hand on his wrist vambrace. “What else, pray tell, were you going to do with her? Have her put on trial and held where one of Al Ghul’s minions will undoubtedly come to collect her? Put her in a group home?”
Bruce nodded. He’d already had these thoughts, hence why they were standing here.
“She’d be safe here.”
“But would we be? She turned herself in. I’ve seen her kill. Whether she looks like a child or not, I cannot ignore the possibility that she’s been sent in as a spy, or even as a sleeper assassin.”
“All of that is true.”
Bruce waited, and then prompted, “However?”
Alfred didn’t smile, but the corners of his eyes tilted up. “The thing about children, Master Bruce, is that they are still being formed. Their moral compasses can still be turned.”
“You think even if she’s faking, we can win her over?”
“I believe we have a duty to.” Alfred spoke so softly Bruce nearly couldn’t hear.
Bruce drew in a slow breath. “All right. First thing’s first.”
Batman walked off, behind the panels of screens, where Cass could no longer see him. His agent came over and poured another cup of tea, asking, “Not tired?” despite the fact that she was feigning sleep. She opened one eye to peer out at him. He held out the tea. “We’ve decided you should stay with us for a bit. Master Bruce is just getting cleaned up. Then we’ll find a room that suits you and get you as settled as possible. We’re not quite equipped for the hosting of young women, but I imagine we can manage well enough for one night.”
Cass didn’t understand much of what he was telling her. It didn’t matter, the cadence of his voice was endlessly soothing, a balm on her nerves. Despite the way Batman had been too-still, the desire to run, to punch, do something evident in every line of his body, neither he nor this man had seemed angry at her, rather, merely uncertain.
The agent handed her the teacup, once again filled with hot, fragrant orange pekoe, not pulling hastily away when their hands brushed momentarily in the transfer. Cass catalogued the feeling, the way she did with all touch that wasn’t violent, tucking it away safely.
He began speaking again. “My name is Alfred, but you needn’t tell me yours if you’re not ready. Master Bruce will be back shortly to introduce himself. Are you enjoying the tea?”
He gestured to the cup with the last word and she took a chance at a nod, since much of the time she found that filled gaps opened by others. He pushed the tray of sandwiches in her direction. She kept her eyes on him, watching for any sign of threat as she reached out and nabbed a second one. They were delicious, bursting with flavors and textures she wasn’t used to, but found she liked.
She was finishing one when a second man entered the room, dressed casually in jeans and a Henley. It took her a moment—the man’s body language was altered enough from Batman’s to throw her shortly—but then she saw it, her eyes widening. He smiled at her, an expression full of mischief she wouldn’t have imagined on his face. He tapped his chest and said, “Bruce.”
Cass gave a little wave.
Bruce held out a hand. She stared for a long moment, thinking of all the ways he could use her eagerness for touch against her. Thinking she might deserve those things in any case, and wanting this too badly to care, she hopped out of the chair, and grabbed on tightly.
Her hand was impossibly small in his. Bruce stared at it, knowing it was a hand that had killed, but having a hard time computing the fact. He closed his hand carefully around hers and led them up the stairs and into the house.
Immediately, she began pointing at things and tilting her head, as if asking about them. Bruce glanced at the first thing, his grandmother’s art deco Sevres, and said, “My father’s mother collected vases. Mostly unusual ones.”
Next it was a detail in the woodwork of the bannister, then the Turkish Oushak carpet from the late 1800s his parents had brought back from a vacation that pre-dated Bruce’s birth, the gold veining of the marble in the foyer. It was almost as if color and art were entirely foreign concepts to her.
Alfred had followed them up, watching quietly as Bruce clumsily explained things he probably could have given full theses on. Without being certain as to what prompted it, Bruce asked, “I don’t suppose we still have the bedding from my old room? The quilt?”
“Yes, of course, Master Bruce.” With that, he turned and walked toward the stairs.
The girl squeezed his hand, her eyes wide, uncertain. Bruce told her, “He’ll catch up with us.”
She toed off her shoes and socks, and swooped down to grab both with her free hand, and never let go of him with her other. Stretching her feet against the cool marble she gave him a tiny smile, as if asking permission.
Rather than saying anything, Bruce toed his own shoes and socks off, scooping them up as she had, without losing contact. The small smile bubbled up into her eyes, and she oh-so-slightly brushed against him before moving back, as if she weren’t certain of her welcome, or what was allowed in terms of contact. He squeezed her hand again. “Come on. There’s a rug in your room that’s one of my favorites for bare feet.”
Cass looked at her hand when they reached the room and willed herself to let go. While she was much more versed on physical indicators during a fight, she was aware people didn’t just hold hands everywhere they went. Her hand balked at the instruction, and stayed right where it was, curled in the clutch of Batman’s. Bruce’s.
He didn’t seem to mind, taking her from point to point in the room that was big enough to remind her of whole training arenas. The bed in the center was bigger than any she had ever seen. There were several large windows along one wall, and even a set of doors that led to a small balcony. Though she searched, she couldn’t find signs of devices meant to keep here there. There were no obvious cameras, no clear locks requiring keys, nothing. It was probably just well hidden, still, it was nice not to have them glaring at her.
She paid attention while he demonstrated how to turn the shower and bath controls on and off, and how to use them. There were way more than she would have imagined. He took his hand back,, and Cass bit the inside of her cheek, but the next minute he was picking her up and placing her carefully on the vanity between the sinks in order to rummage through the drawers. Cass blinked as he pulled out a brand new toothbrush, a small, untouched tube of toothpaste, a cake of soap, even a sturdy wood comb.
“Hopefully you don’t mind mint toothpaste and the scent of French-milled soap. We can get you other toiletries that match your preferences soon.” With that, he pulled the fluffiest towel on the planet from a set of cabinets on the other side of the bathroom. He set it and the toiletries in a neat pile beside her. “Here, you’d probably like to bathe. I’ll go find you something to change into.”
With that, he walked out of the room and closed the door behind him, but there wasn’t the sound of a lock. Out of the sheer need to know, she let herself down and checked. It opened with a simple twist of the knob. Blinking, she closed it again.
Turning around, she considered her options. She’d never had a bath. She was used to showers, but only cold ones. Bruce had shown her how to make the water warm. It had, in fact, been the first thing he’d shown her. Slipping out of the black, skin tight armor, she stepped into the shower and stared at the controls for a good while, before deciding she’d already made the most risky decision of the night. Doing what he’d told her, Cass moved the dials until the water rained down on her, warm but not so hot it hurt.
The warmth was intoxicating, the way it cascaded over her. Surely she wasn’t allowed this. Surely, an alarm was going off somewhere, letting them know of her transgression.
Several moments later nobody had come. It was just her, in the steam and the warm currents. Reaching out, she flipped open the bottle that Bruce had said was shampoo and sniffed at it. It smelled fruity, maybe like apples.
This was not what she had expected punishment to be like.
Alfred made quick work of altering one of Bruce’s old t-shirts into something that would suit as a nightgown for the girl without falling right off her, even as he laundered the quilted comforter with the teddy bear in blues, greens, and yellows Bruce had slept under until he was nearly thirteen.
Bruce knocked on the bedroom door, and moments later she opened it, swathed in a towel that wrapped around her twice and fell nearly to the floor. Her hair was neatly combed, and Bruce could smell a faint whiff of toothpaste. Try as he might, Bruce couldn’t see anything but a kid in front of him.
He handed her the shirt and said, “This should do for tonight. We’ve ordered some clothing to arrive tomorrow, and after that, we’ll be able to take you to shop for things you choose yourself.”
She took the shirt and slipped into the bathroom. When she came out, the towel was gone, and the shirt hung well past her knees, but not far enough to trip her. She was fisting the material in one hand, the same way she’d shown interest in the texture of the floors.
Bruce walked into the room and said, “Come on, in bed you go. You have to be exhausted.”
She climbed onto the bed, exhibiting the same curiosity with it as the art in the house. Bruce’s stomach felt tight. He pulled back the covers. “If you get too hot, you can take these off, obviously. If you’re too cold, there are more in the trunk at the end of the bed.”
Considering what else had been done for him as a child, he said, “I don’t know that I’ve any kids books around, but we’ll get some of those too, and if you want I’ll read to you before you go to bed. Or you can read if that’s, if you’re—”
She shook her head, canting her face so that her eyes weren’t on him. He said, “That’s fine, I’m sure with the right teachers you’ll catch right up.”
That brought her eyes back to him, large and startled. Unsure of what else to do, he smiled slightly and said, “Night, kiddo.”
He was Batman, seeing movement was quite literally a matter of survival for him, but she didn’t telegraph at all, and was too quick for his mind to register what was happening before she was hugging him. Just as his mind was catching up, she darted back, her eyes all defiance and…and resignation. The look of a kid who knew she was about to be punished.
He wasn’t physically affectionate by practice. Bruce often thought he hadn’t the slightest clue what he was by nature. The only thing he knew, really, was that he couldn’t leave her to believe what she’d done was wrong.
Not a person who did things by halves, he sat down on the bed and pulled her onto his lap, where he could do a proper and thorough job of cuddling her. At first her breathing was quicker than normal and she stiffened, clearly waiting for correction of some sort. He said, “This is good, right?”
In response, she balled her hands in his shirt, and tucked her face against his chest. He said, “Yeah, this is good.”
Cass awoke tightly swathed in the sheets, in a way that was deliberate. It wasn’t constraining, it just mimicked another person’s hold on her. For a moment, she let herself appreciate the feel of it. Then she scrambled from the bed and went to the door, fully expecting they would have locked this one, even if they hadn’t done so with the bathroom last night.
It gave without hesitation at a twist of the knob. Closing it softly behind her, she headed toward the stairs they’d come up the night before. When she reached the bottom, she thought perhaps she should return to the room. Neither Bruce nor Alfred had given her permission to roam.
Just when she was about to go back up, Alfred came around the corner and asked, “Hungry, Miss?”
She didn’t think it was a trick question. They hadn’t played games like that so far. Too well trained to completely admit to the weakness of even mild hunger, she shrugged.
His shoulders fell minutely. He was inordinately self-contained for a civilian, even one of British upbringing, who clearly had military background. But she wasn’t fluent in a single language for nothing. She knew he was disheartened by her response. She just didn’t know what she was supposed to be doing.
He said, “Well, come along, perhaps I can find something that tempts you.”
She followed him to a large kitchen, where he ushered her into a seat at the oversized island. The marble topping on it had a different veining than the marble in the front hall, this one with more gold, which matched the knobs on the drawers. It was pretty.
“I know you like tea,” Alfred was saying, placing a tray between them with a delicately painted teapot, and two ceramic mugs. He poured tea into the mugs, and added a dollop of honey, stirring it with a glass stick. Placing hers in front of her, he said, “I’m thinking perhaps something simple. A cheese and basil omelet and fruit.”
He was watching her, but her knowledge of food extended to the fact that she needed it and was given types that had enough nutrients to fuel her body. Uncertain as to what he wanted, she tried smiling. He smiled back. “Gruyere, I think.”
Bruce woke to the sound of the movement sensor in the kitchen; the one he’d purposely tagged last night before going to sleep. Grabbing his phone, he saw that Alfred had texted, “Making breakfast for our newest inhabitant.”
He slipped into the shower, put on some jeans and a button-down, and headed toward the kitchen. When he arrived, Alfred said, “Coffee’s brewed, Master Bruce,” from where he was slicing a nectarine.
“Thank you,” Bruce said, heading toward the machine. “Good morning, kiddo.”
The girl waved before going back to the mug she was sipping from. Alfred plated an omelet and handed her the plate, before going back to working on the fruit. Bruce grabbed a yogurt from the fridge and settled next to her. “Did you sleep?”
She nodded. After a brief hesitation, she reached out toward him, tapping his chest lightly.
“Did I?” he guessed. At her nod, he said, “Yes, I did, thank you.”
She looked away, but not before he caught her little smile. Alfred said, “Eat, Miss, it’s better warm.”
She didn’t waste another second before digging in.
As Cass was finishing up the omelet, a woman walked into the kitchen with a large black bag. She bade Bruce a good morning and smiled warmly at Alfred, who poured a coffee for her. Standing at the island, she focused on Cass and said, “My name is Leslie. I’m a doctor, and I’d like it if you’d let me run through a basic physical with you.”
The repeated emphasis on her agreeing to things made Cass feel off-balance. It wasn’t bad, exactly, but there were so many decisions to make. For now, obviously Bruce or Alfred had asked the doctor to come out to the house. Cass didn’t want to be troublesome, that she knew. She hopped down from the chair.
Leslie said, “Excellent. Come with me, please.”
Cass walked alongside her until they came to a bedroom much smaller than the one she’d slept in. This one also seemed to be set up with a number of medical conveniences, but was not so sterile as the pictures Cass had seen of hospitals.
Leslie walked over to a pair of comfortable chairs facing each other, and sat, gesturing to the other one. Cass settled in it. Leslie asked, “Do you sign?” her pointer fingers circling around each other.
Cass knew about signing. She’d tried learning some once, thinking that as it involved body language, it would not anger her father. It had angered him. She didn’t like remembering that.
Shaking her head, she forced herself not to fist her hands, show her own frustration.
“Would you like to learn?”
She blinked. It was a slip, if her father had seen it, she’d already be biting back screams. Her father wasn’t here, though, and Leslie wasn’t moving. Rather, she was simply waiting on an answer. Cass closed her eyes and concentrated on the way it felt to scream, to make any sound at all, and pushed the most basic of shouts out of her throat, leaning forward, begging with her eyes for Leslie to understand.
Leslie’s eyes narrowed in concentration, and she opened her mouth, making the sound, “la, la, la,” slowly, so Cass could watch how she did it.
Cass mimicked it. Hers didn’t sound the same, wrong even to her ears, but it clearly got the point across, because she saw the change come over Leslie’s body. The doctor said, “You’re not physically or selectively mute. You haven’t been taught to speak.”
Cass nodded so forcefully it felt as though her head might fly off at the neck. Leslie said, “We can change that.”
The hope that beat in Cass’ chest was so intense, she wasn’t certain it wouldn’t rip right through.
It took Bruce less than twenty-four hours to find a premiere speech-pathologist who specialized in speech-trauma recovery and negotiate moving her to Gotham, as well as locking her into a yearlong contract with an option to extend. The pathologist, Kalena Gold, had listened to Leslie explain the situation and said, “I want to be clear: there is never any promise that a child, even one eager to learn, will build the skill this far along. Do I believe she can? Yes. Do I also think you should be hiring an ASL tutor in tandem with me and preparing yourself to accept her even if she can never voice words? I think that has to be a condition of my acceptance of your offer.”
Bruce managed to swallow his anger at the suggestion he’d consider her damaged over this, over something taken from her, forced on her. Alfred’s hand on his, cool and familiar, was anchoring. He said, “That had been my plan prior to discovering she was capable of and interested in vocal speech. I see no reason to alter, particularly if you think it would help. Is there someone you would recommend?”
“Mahalia Cole, if you can get her. She’s adjunct at Clemson, and wants tenure track at Northeastern, so I can’t say if she’ll be willing to take a non-academic contract.”
“What would she think of the opportunity to create a program with whatever funding she wanted at Gotham U?”
Ms. Gold laughed. “You’d have to ask her. Northeastern has cache. Gotham has a reputation for having the most corrupt police force in the nation, and one of the worst income disparities in a developed nation, period.”
Unable to deny either point, Bruce said, “We’re all works-in-progress, are we not?”
She canted her head, considering him. “I suppose we are, at that.”
The sign for Mahalia Cole’s name was a cross between the sign for butterfly and the one for bee. Cass didn’t know that when Mahalia introduced herself, her fingers moving slowly. She discovered it later. She learned the reference even later.
Mahalia barely came up to Bruce’s chest. She wore her hair in an afro and had a signature teal lipstick. Best of all, even when she wasn’t talking with her hands, her body language was open.
Kalena Gold had only a few inches on Mahalia, but Cass would have put money on Kalena being able to bench the other woman. Under the way she looked soft at first glance, Cass knew the look of someone who lifted on a regular basis. Her black hair was always tucked into a ponytail, the only jewelry she wore was a simple red coral pendant with the Hebrew word chai etched into the surface, and if she owned any clothing that wasn’t jeans and funny print t-shirts, Cass would have been shocked to find out.
Between the two of them, it was determined that the only reasonable place to start was teaching Cass the alphabet, spoken and signed. Cass threw herself into it, barely stopping to eat, practicing until her fingers hurt, until her throat was sore, pressing on because, well…when had that ever been a reason for her to stop?
It was Bruce who noticed her knuckles swelling, the way she seemed more tired at meals. She’d done her best not to let on—and her best had saved her beatings on more than a few occasions—but Bruce wasn’t like her dad. He wasn’t looking for faults. He was looking at her. It was harder to know how to hide, or even if she should.
When he took hold of one of her hands at dinner after the third day, she readied herself for broken fingers, a lesson on not learning fast enough, maybe. Instead, he said, “This needs ice,” and got up, busying himself with making ice compresses to fit themselves to her knuckles. Alfred, in turn, converted the chicken dish he’d made into finger food so she wouldn’t have to mess with silverware.
They’d begun eating again in silence for a few minutes before Bruce said, “I know how badly you want to talk to us. Or, well, I can only imagine. And we want you to be able to, very much so. But more than that, we want you to feel safe and healthy. Language will come. Both Dr. Cole and Ms. Gold have mentioned you’re an incredibly adept pupil. Kids your age go to school, they do homework, but they also spend time playing and relaxing. You need all of that.”
Cass wasn’t certain she did. She’d gone without all of it for so long. It seemed possible she just wasn’t like other kids, that she wasn’t actually a kid at all. If Bruce wanted her to try, though, she would.
“You look exhausted,” he said, the words quiet.
Slipping the ice compresses off, she reached out and took a careful fistful of his shirt. Without hesitation, he pushed his chair back from the table and pulled her onto his lap and into a hug. “Hugs first, huh?”
Cass pressed her ear to his chest and listened to the beat of his heart. Hugs first.
Talia blinked first. Bruce suspected she would. For all her loyalty to her father, her own morals were considerably more complex, especially when it came to children. Alfred clocked the minute she entered the city, but as she came alone, Bruce said, “Leave it. If she has information, I want it. If she’s here for the girl, getting into Gotham’s easier than getting onto the Manor grounds.”
She came to him two nights later, while he was on patrol. Or, rather, she waited for him to come to her, settling herself right above where a smalltime bank heist was taking place. When the police were on the scene, Bruce sat a few roofs over with her.
“Detective,” she said, smiling, her lashes lowered.
Bruce gave her the most repressive look he could manage, which, in the cowl, had repressed more than its fair share of bullshit. She, naturally, laughed. It was annoying how much he liked the sound. Then again, it was annoying how much he liked a number of things about Talia. “Who is she?”
“Cain’s daughter. And he will come for her.”
“I suppose he’s welcome to try.”
Another laugh, this one sharper. “You’ve overlooked her breaking your rule.”
“I’ve decided coerced child soldiers are a solid exception. Not condemning her gives her the chance to have a choice in the life she leads. There’s been no indication she’d choose Cain’s path, now that there’s another option.”
“Such a flexible view of things,” she said, the sarcasm stronger than a punch.
He ignored the sentiment in favor of driving home his point. “If anything, it’s as if he truly managed to turn her against her own nature just long enough for the murder to be accomplished. Only he didn’t, did he? He used the fact that she truly wanted him to love her.”
Her silence was sharp.
He would have laughed if there weren’t a traumatized child and a dead body involved. “Did Cain even bother giving the weapon he was busy building a name?”
“Well, you know how fond we assassins can be of our weapons.”
“Talia.”
“Cassandra. Her name is Cassandra.”
He glanced over at her, the softness of her tone taking him off-guard. “What are you going to do?”
She shrugged. “I have some business in Tashkent to see to. If what you’re really asking is if I plan to tell Cain anything, then I suggest you consider the pattern of my behaviors up until now. That is what you do, isn’t it? Seek out patterns?”
He held her gaze for a moment longer. Leaning in, he brushed her lips with his. “Thank you.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re something else,” she said, returning his brush with one of hers before standing up and disappearing over the side of the roof.
Cass was making yogurt parfaits with Alfred—he let her pick all her favorite berries—when Bruce came in and said, “Morning, Alfred, kiddo,” and went about getting his coffee, as always. It wasn’t until they had sat down, each of them eating their respective breakfasts, that he asked, “You’re safe here, you know that, right?”
She frowned. Nothing was safe, she was pretty sure. She’d seen lots of people who thought they were safe be proven wrong. But she didn’t think that was the point of the question. She thought he was asking if she knew he would do his best to keep her safe, so she signed, “Yes,” mouthing the word. Kalena was still working on the form of words with her, rather than making sounds.
“Good,” he said, putting down his coffee to sign it. He had picked up a number of basic signs to thread into conversation, and as much as she hadn’t thought she’d needed it, Cass couldn’t deny that it helped. He continued, “Because I had a conversation with someone who knows you as Cassandra Cain last night.”
Cass kept her eyes on him, like if she just stared at him, if Bruce was just in her sights, then what he’d just told her would be wrong. It felt like forever before she could ask, “Father?” with her hands. Her jaw was locked up tight.
“No,” Bruce said emphatically. “And not someone who will tell him. Nor does it matter if he finds you, because he will have to go through both Alfred and me to get you.”
Cass saw it in her head, her father coming, blood everywhere, Bruce unwilling to kill, him happy to. She shook her head frantically, not knowing what to say, knowing she wouldn’t have the words even if she had some idea. She drove the knuckles of her fists into her breastbone and then Bruce was there, untangling her from herself to wrap her around him. When she was clinging like a terrified lemur, he said, “You’re not his, Cass, you never were. I want you to be mine, if you agree. I want us to have papers that say you are.”
She leaned back a little, needing to see his face, the way he was carrying himself. There was no trace of anything but sincerity in him, except perhaps a sliver of desperation regarding her answer.
He kept his gaze locked with hers. “Papers that name you whatever first name you want, but have Wayne as the last name. And I’m…I’m going to talk to a friend who will be able to hear you, no matter where you are, be able to get to you no matter what. David Cain can’t have you, do you understand that?”
She knew he cared for her, understood that part. Alfred and he both did. Nobody could consistently fake body language. Believing was a whole separate thing. Four months was barely enough time to believe this was real, let alone permanent.
When she didn’t answer, just pressed her lips together, he said, “That’s okay, we’ll work on it. We’ve time. Nobody’s taking you away from me.”
Kalena was showing Cass and Mahalia pictures of her mom and dad in their home in Wahiawa. Cass pointed at a particular picture of her mom and back to Kalena, and Kalena said, “I know, we look a lot alike. I got my dad’s laugh, neatness bug, and lack of rhythm, otherwise, I’m all mom.”
Mahalia spent some time working with Cass on the words for “home,” “house,” “city,” and other geographical and locational concepts, with Kalena accompanying with pictures. When Mahalia announced herself done, Kalena used Cass’s comfort with the growing muscle memory in her hands to distract her while they worked on sounding out the words.
When the lesson was finished, Cass returned to looking at the pictures. She looked over at Mahalia and signed, “Family? House?”
“It’s just me and my dad,” she signed, walking to the computer. “He’s still in Houston, where I grew up. Mom passed a few years back,” she said softly.
She brought up a page of pictures showing a man with a smile just like hers, and a definite affinity for red. Everything he wore seemed to be red. Cass laughed and signed, “Red.”
Mahalia laughed in response, nodding. “Yeah, mom told him he looked handsome in it and that was it. I’m not sure the man owns another color.”
Cass tried to mimic the word “handsome,” and Mahalia went over it with her until she got it. Kalena asked, “Gonna tell that to Bruce?”
Cass signed and said, “Alfred.” She’d gotten the pronunciation of all their names down pretty well at this point.
Mahalia grinned. “Classy.”
Normally, by the time Bruce came home from patrol, Cass was in bed asleep. She never slept through him coming in to check on her, but she had promised him it didn’t bother her. For his part, he’d learned he could no longer fall asleep without a kiss to her forehead, the reassurance of tucking her in.
It was jolting to drive in and see her sitting at the computers, watching the streets. Alfred met him as he exited the car and said quietly, “She was insistent. Whole sentences, she must have been practicing.”
Bruce released the cowl and walked to where she was standing by the chair now. Kneeling so they were eye to eye, he said, “Hey Cass.”
She said, “Hi, dad,” in time with her fingers. At six months into lessons, she was far better than either him or Alfred at signing, but still often struggled with saying things aloud. She’d never called him dad before, and just hearing the word stole the breath he’d been exhaling.
Unlocking the gauntlets on his wrist, he pulled a hand from his gloves and brushed a hair back behind her ear. “What’s keeping you up?”
She pulled out the phone he’d customized specifically for her and tapped away until she was at the screen she wanted. It was a picture taken a few days before, when Cass had been teaching him and Alfred the signs for different types of furniture. He remembered hearing the digital snap sound and noticing Ms. Gold hand Cass’s phone back. Neither Ms. Gold nor Dr. Cole had shown the slightest intention to be anything other than fiercely protective of Cass, though, so he’d mostly stopped being overly concerned about them being around.
There was nothing special about the picture except for the fact that they were all laughing. Cass pointed to the picture and asked, “Family?”
Bruce looked over her head to where Alfred stood. He thought about his mother’s voice when she was singing him to sleep at night, his father’s clumsy, terrible attempts to teach him chess. He thought about the endless meals Alfred had cooked to make him interested in eating anything after their murders, how he’d kept the house and Bruce’s life waiting even as he went off searching for something, anything, in every dark corner of the world. Alfred’s expression was soft.
Focusing back on Cass he said, “Yeah, we’re a family. Even if you don’t want my name, that’s what we are.”
“I want.” She held his gaze. “I want Cassandra Wayne, daughter of Bruce Wayne.”
Bruce found he couldn’t open his mouth, couldn’t speak to agree. Instead, he swept her into his arms, and began heading up the stairs. Alfred was already on the way up asking, “Two am cocoa is called for, I believe.”
“Want,” Cass said, and once again, Bruce found himself laughing.