Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Her gaze lingered on the man in front of her, searching for something familiar. The man she knew wore a suit, a mask, and armour that seemed as much a part of him as his own skin. But tonight, he was just a man in a warm woollen sweater and black sweatpants. The bat symbol was absent, and the absence felt like an echo in her chest. He looked tense, his shoulders stiff, yet there was a softness to him, like he was allowing himself to breathe for once. The absence of the uniform seemed to invite a vulnerability neither of them knew how to acknowledge.

Slowly, she looked down at herself. She wasn’t in her usual grey-black bodysuit either. The outfit she wore now was unfamiliar but soft—a white sweater. It was loose, except for the neckline, which hugged her. The sleeves extended past her wrists, covering her hands completely. She didn’t know why, but the softness made her feel exposed. It was as if the comfort threatened to peel away the defences she’d spent so long building.

He smiled at her—at least, she thought it was a smile. The corners of his lips lifted, and there was a tension in his eyes that she didn’t understand. She tilted her head, trying to make sense of the gesture, then tried to mirror it. She pulled her lips back, revealing her teeth. He nodded, his eyes softening. She must have done it right.

She turned away, her attention drifting to the room. Two boys were there, both out of uniform as well. The older one, his fists clenched, stood with his back turned, eyes fixed on a bookshelf as if it held some deep secret. His body was tight, like a bowstring pulled too far. The younger one faced her, his expression gentle. His lips curved upward—another smile, maybe?—and his light blue eyes watched her closely. Something about his calmness settled her nerves. She liked that calm. It felt safe.

Her guardian’s hand squeezed her shoulder, and she glanced up, meeting her eyes. The older woman nodded toward the man. A signal. She hesitated, glancing back, trying to plead with her silently. But her guardian only waved her off, a quiet reassurance.

She walked past the boys, careful not to brush against them. Contact felt dangerous, too intimate. The man gestured toward the stairs, and she followed, her eyes darting between the path ahead and the shadows behind. The steps creaked under her weight, and she felt the uncertainty of each one. They reached a room—his, she guessed. It was large and filled with the faint scent of wood and something else she couldn’t name. The air felt warmer here. She paused at the doorway, taking in the space. The man’s posture had changed; the tension seemed to drain from his shoulders, leaving him softer, like the space had stripped away the last layer of his armour.

He touched her shoulder again, a gentle pressure guiding her forward. Was it meant to comfort? No, it was a nudge, a silent instruction. He pointed toward something in the room. Her eyes roamed, taking in the bookshelves that lined the walls on either side, filled with volumes she couldn’t read. On the left, a giant bed sat beneath a canopy, its layers of blankets and pillows stacked high. It looked like the beds in the fairy tale picture books she glimpsed when she dared to steal a moment from training, books where the princesses were safe and warm.

To the right was a desk, meticulously organized. Books stood in a neat row, papers stacked beside them. And on the floor, a vast, circular rug sprawled out, its fabric dark blue and inviting. It looked so soft, like it might swallow her whole and keep her safe within its folds.

She glanced back at the man, seeking his approval. His lips lifted again. Permission granted.

She carefully stepped onto the rug, first one foot, then the other. The fluff enveloped her feet, and she wiggled her toes, feeling the warmth seep through her socks. Socks her guardian had given her. She took another step, testing the space, waiting for the reprimand that never came.

It was softer than anything she’d ever felt. The plush fibres tickled her feet, a sensation so foreign that it pulled a quiet sound from her throat, something between a hum and a laugh. She felt like she was floating, as if on a cloud—though, in her imagination, clouds could only dream of feeling this gentle, this enveloping. Maybe heaven felt like this, she thought, if heaven was real. And, for a moment, she let herself believe it was.

As she turned, her gaze fell on a large hexagonal window, and beyond it, the moon’s pale light poured into the room. The silvery glow illuminated the floor and spilled onto the rug, bathing it in soft shadows and light. She forgot the rug instantly; something about that glow called to her. She crossed the room with a lightness she hadn’t felt before, an eagerness pulling her to the window.

The seat beneath it felt just as soft. She laid one palm on it, then the other, letting herself sink into the gentle warmth. Her eyes lifted to the sky beyond, where stars blinked against the black canvas, tiny beacons scattered like jewels. They looked like they were pressing through the dark, fighting to be seen.

A memory surfaced, distant but clear—her father’s voice, low and calm as they gazed at the stars together. Those were the only moments when she’d felt truly free, a pause in his relentless lessons, in the shadows he’d trained her to live in. Stargazing had been their brief escape, a world without commands, without edges.

A soft thump jolted her back to the present. Her body tensed, and she turned sharply.

He had taken a step toward her, wearing that same faint, upturned curve on his lips again. The expression softened his face, though she didn’t understand it fully. She tilted her head, wondering if she should mimic it again. He’d done it so often, and a part of her believed it must be important, a part of this strange language everyone seemed to understand but her.

He pointed at her, his fingers long, nails clipped, and very clean, though small scars traced the backs of his hands. She noted the calloused pads of his fingertips, wondering if they held the same memories of training that hers did. His gesture wasn’t toward an attack but lingered on her, then drifted, taking in the room before resting back on her. She felt the tension ease slightly but stayed cautious.

His hand gestured again, this time toward the door, then back to her, his eyes calm, patient. Was she supposed to fight him? Her brows furrowed, and she felt a surge of readiness, her body prepared for whatever he might ask.

But he only gave her that gentle, smaller smile. He walked to the doorway, pointing to himself, then to the hall. He nodded toward her, his expression softening, as though offering something fragile and precious. His hand drifted back to the room, a silent signal.

Her? This was… her room?

The meaning settled slowly, but when it did, she nodded, her eyes widening with realization. She barely dared to believe it. Her hands clenched the soft fabric of her sweater, warmth pooling in her palms as she took a steadying breath.

He offered her one last gentle nod before turning and disappearing down the hallway, leaving her alone.

She looked around, really seeing it for the first time, her eyes tracing over every detail. The bed, layered with blankets, soft and inviting. She stepped toward it, and then, without thinking, she leapt onto it. The blankets rose around her, swallowing her like the rug had, but deeper, thicker. The pillow cradled her head, and she closed her eyes for a moment, letting herself feel the warmth, the security.

This was hers. This soft, warm place, this quiet, safe room. The tears fell, and for the first time, she felt their warmth on her skin.

***

She sat in the window seat, eyes drifting over the stars. Gotham’s night sky was a heavy, polluted canvas, and the few stars that managed to pierce it felt rare and precious. Each one glowed like a distant promise, flickering softly as if just for her. It had been a few days since she arrived. Each evening since, she’d returned here, drawn by the quiet, by the small lights against the dark, which felt like a balm against the constant hum of tension within her. She curled her legs behind her on the ledge, hugging her arms around her knees. The softness of the sweater settled around her like a gentle weight, grounding her in a way her usual armour never did.

A faint click sounded behind her. Her ears caught it first, and instinctively, her eyes snapped toward the door. The boy from before—the smaller one, not the older one with the clenched fists—stood there, framed in the doorway. His pale blue eyes met hers, warm and steady, his expression calm and welcoming, the same way he’d looked at her downstairs. His lips curved upward slightly, a small smile that made her feel, just for a second, like she belonged. She tried to smile back, a small, tentative lifting of her lips. It wasn’t as easy, as fluid as the others’ smiles, but he seemed to understand, returning it with a gentle nod.

The boy approached, and she sat up, unwinding herself from the window seat, ready for whatever this might be. Her gaze fixed on him as he stopped a few feet away, close to her bed. He raised a hand, fingers outstretched, palm facing upward. She noticed something small and red resting on his index finger. He was offering her something.

She looked from the floor up to the object, curiosity flickering inside her like a small, cautious flame. Her instincts urged her forward, but something else—a quieter, cautious part—held her back. She watched him carefully, waiting for any sign of a threat or a hidden message. Instead, he raised his hand again, shaking his index finger slightly, as if to ask, Did she understand? The silent question hovered in the air between them.

She nodded, though uncertainty prickled in her stomach. He wanted her to take the red object, a shiny, almost jewel-like item. Jewellery? No, something else. Her gaze travelled back to his face, seeing the same calm, kind expression there. It felt safe, this gesture, something given without expectation. She tilted her head, and he responded with another soft smile, encouraging her to take what was offered. The question lingered—did she want this? Could she trust it?

Finally, her hand reached out, fingers brushing lightly against his before she plucked the object from his hand. She turned it over in her hands, studying the little item. It was wrapped in a glossy red paper, unlike anything she’d seen before. The boy held up another object, identical to hers but wrapped in blue. She watched as he unwrapped it with a quiet pop and placed it in his mouth. Understanding dawned; it was something to eat.

Following his lead, she peeled the red wrapping from her own, revealing a small, hard candy. Hesitating only a moment, she put it in her mouth. The sweetness was immediate, filling her senses in a way that was both foreign and wonderful. A bright, tangy flavour of strawberries danced across her tongue, lingering as the candy dissolved slowly. She let it roll around her mouth, savouring every second, the taste unfurling like a secret just for her. The hardness softened, melting, until only a trace of flavour remained, fading too quickly. She poked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, searching for more, feeling an unexpected pang of disappointment. It was gone, dissolved into sweetness and memory. She glanced down at the crinkling red wrapper in her hand, but it was empty.

The boy’s eyes remained on her, a gentle patience in his gaze. She met his look, one eyebrow lifting in silent inquiry. Did he understand this strange ache the candy left? Was it like her—a quick, bright sweetness in a world that felt so often dark? His smile widened, a quiet understanding softening his expression, and he nodded.

Her lips lifted in response, and this time, the small smile came more easily, settling onto her face like something meant to be there. Something in her chest felt lighter, warmer.

The boy stepped forward, his hand extended once more, his fingers turned palm down as he made a small, beckoning gesture. She held her hand out, and he carefully released a small pile of candies into her palm, a mix of red and blue wrappers that caught the light like tiny jewels.

More. There was more. She glanced up at him, gratitude welling up like a strange, quiet joy. She had more—enough to savour, enough to linger. She held them close, feeling their cool smoothness against her skin. It felt like a promise, something simple yet real.

A soft noise came from the doorway, and she jumped. In an instant, she was on the bed, the candies tucked safely beneath her hand, hidden from view. Her body shifted into a crouch, every muscle taut as she turned to watch the entrance, bracing herself.

The man stood there, the one who usually bore the bat symbol on his chest. His figure filled the doorway, and her gaze flickered to the boy. Her stomach knotted with worry. Would he be punished for giving her those candies? Her fault, that had to be it. Maybe he’d stolen them from the guardian, an act she shouldn’t have let him do. Her fingers tightened around the candies, the sweetness of their taste suddenly bitter with guilt.

Memories of her father’s rules echoed in her mind—no treats, no distractions, only the strict, rigid path he’d set before her. Sweets would make her weak, slow. They were luxuries she didn’t deserve. And this boy, he must not have had a father figure like hers to teach him that. Soon enough, he’d be disciplined; she could only watch, steeling herself against the scene she thought would unfold.

The man walked toward the boy. She couldn’t make out his expression, but her body tensed, preparing to act if needed. Before she even registered her decision, her feet began to shift, her instincts pushing her to step between them, to somehow shield the boy.

The man’s hand lifted. She was on the verge of moving when her body froze.

His hand gently rested on the boy’s head, fingers pressing softly, almost like a whisper. The boy’s shoulders eased as he leaned into the touch, his bright blue eyes glancing sideways, meeting hers for just a second. There was no pain or fear in his gaze, just a simple acceptance, a quiet happiness.

The boy turned his attention back to the man, who spoke in a low, gentle voice, his tone soft, soothing. She couldn’t make out the words, but their rhythm carried an unfamiliar tenderness. The boy responded, his words just as gentle, as relaxed as his posture. He looked… safe, comforted. Nothing in his stance suggested fear or discomfort. And the man—he gazed down at the boy with an expression she couldn’t decipher, something warm and open, something her father had never shown her.

Her eyes fixed on the man’s face, noting the softness in his smile. His lips curved in a way that was different, unforced, natural. It was something given freely, not commanded. She’d seen her father’s approval, but it was always strict, calculating, bound by conditions she had to earn. This… this was different. This was something she didn’t understand, yet she wanted it, ached for it in some way she couldn’t name.

Their voices mingled softly, too blurred for her to grasp their meaning. She wanted to tear her eyes away, but something in their closeness held her, like an invisible thread she couldn’t cut.

She was trained to read body language, to sense shifts in a room’s energy, to recognize threats. But this was different, elusive. The closeness between them was foreign, unknown, and it left her feeling… cheated, somehow, as if something essential had been kept from her all her life.

She didn’t notice that they’d turned their attention toward her until a large hand, calloused yet gentle, pressed softly on the top of her head. Her breath hitched. His fingers, rough from years of work, slid through her dark hair, fingertips brushing against her scalp in a slow, steady rhythm. He wasn’t pulling, wasn’t holding her still. It was a touch unlike anything she’d known—soothing, unhurried. The sensation sent a warmth across her scalp, tingling with each pass of his fingers. Her body began to ease, her tension melting under the softness of his touch. This wasn’t punishment, wasn’t control. He was petting her, like one of the stray dogs or alley cats she’d watched before, animals that sometimes found comfort in a stranger’s hand.

She looked up, meeting his gaze. That same look lingered in his eyes, the look he’d given the boy moments before. Warmth and acceptance, quiet yet unmistakable. And beside him, the boy’s eyes met hers, echoing that same calm, open expression.

She didn’t understand the feeling, but it felt… right. And as his fingers continued their gentle path through her hair, she let herself lean into it, her eyes slipping shut as she absorbed the warmth of this new, unfamiliar closeness.

Chapter Text

After that encounter, she realized something new, something she hadn’t ever let herself hope for. She wanted to learn to communicate—not just in the language of movement, of precise body awareness and honed instincts. No. She wanted to speak in their language, to hear their words and understand them, to be able to respond without guessing at the meanings hidden in their gestures. It felt almost impossible, but the desire was there, clear and undeniable.

It was confusing; her father had trained her well in the language of body movements and subtle expressions. He’d drilled into her the meaning behind a slight shift in stance, the way someone’s eyes narrowed or shoulders tensed. But here, in this house, in this city, those meanings seemed to change.

The small upturn of the lips she saw every day—it was supposed to be a threat, her father had said. A warning sign that harm was near, that she would need to be ready to fight if they wanted a show of strength. Yet here, the people seemed to use that expression to reach out to her, almost as if they were trying to share something gentle, something… friendly. They did it often when they looked at her, but they didn’t attack, never once did they strike or draw blood.

She was left in a constant state of puzzlement, wondering why they kept baring their teeth, displaying what she had been taught was a signal of impending danger. And then there was that treat, the strange red candy that had sent sweet waves of warmth through her body after she had tried that hesitant smile. Her father had never given her anything like that; rewards were plain, simple, and only after training. So why had they given her something so sweet for doing something as small as smiling?

When she later saved a psychic she’d seen on the news, he had pointed to his temple, then to his mouth. She tilted her head, her body still and watchful, but she understood his meaning. He wanted to help her, to teach her something she couldn’t yet name. And so, without a word, she let him.

Her body tensed, though, a faint tremor running through her. The feeling was foreign, unsettling, yet exciting. She wasn’t used to this kind of exchange, where someone wanted to help without a command or consequence.

“Need help,” he said, his words low and direct, each one settling in her mind like a spark in the dark. She understood, even if the sound felt strange, like an unfamiliar echo. He was speaking to her, not with gestures or signs, but with a language she could barely grasp. Her eyes widened, her lips parting as she processed the new sounds.

The psychic pointed behind her, and her instincts kicked in as she ducked beneath a punch aimed at her head. She twisted, grabbing her attacker’s arm and flipping him onto the concrete with a satisfying thud. But then the man’s shoulder shifted upward, and she readied herself for a left-handed strike. She waited, certain she had predicted his move, but then his right fist shot forward, catching her square in the chest.

The impact froze her, and a gasp escaped her as confusion flooded her mind. He should have punched with his left. She’d watched for his signals, her father’s teachings guiding her even now, but this man’s movements defied every expectation. She’d read his stance wrong—again.

A flicker of old fear crept in, memories of her father’s displeasure when she failed to anticipate an attack. Her eyes darted to the side, half-expecting to find his shadow there, his watchful gaze waiting to catch her mistake. But he wasn’t here. He couldn’t see her fail. She turned her focus back to her opponent, determination hardening her stance. This time, his shoulders rose as he went for her face, and she grabbed his right arm, ducking as his left swung unexpectedly toward her chest. What? Her mind spun. She’d always been able to rely on these tells, but here, they seemed like illusions, leading her astray.

She threw a glance at the psychic, a silent question in her gaze. Was this what he meant by 'help'? Had she exchanged her own silent language for one she couldn’t yet understand?

Her opponent threw another punch, this time a left hook, but at the last moment, he feinted and kneed her in the stomach. The impact stole her breath, and she staggered back, her mind scrambling to make sense of it all. She twisted, barely dodging the next punch. His face remained impassive, his gaze focused yet unreadable, as if he knew she couldn’t anticipate his moves.

The new language was no use here, she thought, frustration building within her. She was supposed to predict movements, not words. But now, all she was learning was that her father’s training, the only certainty she’d ever known, was slipping through her fingers. This language, these new sounds—they were distractions.

Another kick connected with her abdomen, and pain flared through her as she staggered. Her opponent threw another kick, and she seized the opportunity, catching his ankle and yanking it with a force that sent him sprawling onto the pavement. She delivered a swift punch to his cheek, but he twisted her wrist, flipping her over with a practised ease that left her breathless.

Her back hit the cold concrete, and he pinned her against a nearby wall. She twisted, bringing her leg up and landing a kick square in his stomach. His knee jabbed toward her, but she caught his fist as it came down, using all her strength to drive it into the ground. The impact cracked the sidewalk, and he groaned, pulling back and cradling his injured hand. He shifted into a defensive stance, his weight falling subtly onto his toes for a kick, his heel for a punch. Watching carefully, she sidestepped his next attack, grabbing his arm and twisting it behind him. As he struggled, she anchored her other hand onto his leg, blocking his attempt at another knee. Summoning her strength, she lifted him, flipping him back onto the concrete with a decisive thud. He lay still, unconscious.

She turned to the psychic, her brows raised in silent question. Had she done well?

The psychic beamed at her, his expression one of gratitude and awe. “Thank you, Batgirl!”

She tilted her head at the name. Batgirl. Was that what they called her? It sounded strange yet somehow fitting. She mouthed the word to herself, feeling the shape of it on her lips.

***

Batgirl, it stuck. When her mind would refer to her as she, her subconscious also referred to her as Batgirl, no longer an observer. Bat, the symbol. The creature of the night and of death, girl, who she was.

Batgirl.

Her forehead rested gently against the cool windowpane, her gaze fixed on the Gotham sky beyond. The stars glittered against the endless black, and she watched them, as if each twinkling light held something she was just beginning to understand. A smile tugged at her lips, small but genuine, as the stars danced in the night sky. She’d just returned from patrol. Her muscles were still humming with the memory, but now, as the quiet settled around her, they began to relax, the tension ebbing away. Her bones ached, but she stayed awake, savouring this quiet, peaceful moment.

“Hey… can’t sleep?” The voice was soft, familiar, and Batgirl turned, letting her feet drop from the seat to the floor. Her guardian, the red-haired woman, had rolled into the room, her expression warm yet edged with concern. She made a small gesture, pressing her hands together beside her tilted head, eyes questioning. Sleep?

Batgirl shook her head.

Her guardian sighed, running a hand through her flame-colored hair. “You have to sleep, you know.”

Batgirl didn’t respond, only watched as her guardian’s expression softened. The woman shifted, pointing to Batgirl, then to the bed, then the blanket, motioning as if she were tucking herself in. She wanted her to sleep, wanted her in the bed, warm and safe.

A gentle hand reached out, fingers brushing Batgirl’s cheek. Her guardian’s blue eyes were filled with a sadness Batgirl didn’t quite understand, a worry that left faint lines across her face. She let out a small sigh, her gaze drifting to the window. A frown creased her guardian’s features as she reached out, gently closing the curtains. The room dimmed, leaving them both bathed in a soft shadow.

Batgirl tilted her head, her eyes meeting her guardian’s. She felt something strange, a lump forming in her throat as their gazes held. How could she tell her that she understood… yet couldn’t find the words? And how could she ask why, when her guardian looked at her this way, so heavy with a feeling Batgirl couldn’t yet name?

“All right,” her guardian murmured, her voice low and comforting. Batgirl’s gaze returned to the window, her eyes reflecting the glimmering stars that still lingered in her mind.

“It really is nice, isn’t it?” her guardian said, following her gaze.

She nodded, a warmth filling her chest. Yes, it was nice. More than nice. It was… beautiful.

Her guardian’s eyes widened. “... You understood?”

Batgirl turned, letting a small smile lift the corners of her mouth, her eyes crinkling as her face softened.

The woman’s lips parted in surprise, and she took a deep breath, a smile breaking through her shock. “How?” she asked, looking at Batgirl with a mix of wonder and confusion. Batgirl let out a small sound, pointing toward her head, hoping it would explain.

“Your head?” the woman asked, brow furrowing. “Your… mind?”

Batgirl nodded, pleased to have found a way to communicate, if only a little. She raised a questioning eyebrow, her expression earnest.

The woman gasped, then nodded, her face lighting up. “Oh! Someone gave it to you? That’s why… that’s why you understand me!” Her eyes were bright, glistening with unshed tears as she leaned back in her wheelchair, letting her shoulders relax.

“I was worried,” she admitted, a hand running through her hair, her fingers catching a small tangle. “I thought I’d have to teach you the language from scratch, and, trust me, that’s not my strength.” She chuckled, and Batgirl watched, memorizing the gentle lines of her smile, the glint in her eyes that hinted at something beyond happiness.

“…Barbara,” the woman added softly, almost to herself.

Batgirl tilted her head, intrigued. Barbara. She turned the name over in her mind, letting it settle, as though it had always been there, waiting. Barbara. She’d heard that name before—many times. Now, she understood.

Her lips moved, shaping the name carefully. “Ba…baaba?”

A soft laugh escaped Barbara, and she shook her head. “No, Barbara,” she corrected gently. “Ba-ar-ba-rah.”

“Ba-ahr-rah…” The rolling 'r' felt strange in her mouth, a soft buzz lingering on her tongue. But the sound was close enough to bring a smile to Barbara’s face.

“You can call me Babs if that’s easier, but Barbara Gordon… that’s my name,” she explained. Her gaze softened as Batgirl tried repeating it again, feeling the name in her mouth, like a quiet bond between them. “Do you want to know yours?”

Chapter Text

Cassandra Cain. The name echoed in her mind, rolling awkwardly on her tongue. Barbara had told her that it was the name she’d been born with, given by her father. It felt unfamiliar, a stark contrast to the simpler, safer comfort of Batgirl. When she tried to say it aloud, the syllables twisted in her mouth—Cass-s-an-drr-rah—like a clumsy dance that left her feeling exposed.

That night, she sat by the window, bathed in moonlight. The stars above seemed to wink at her, silent companions to her restless thoughts. She whispered the name over and over, testing it, tasting it, until her throat was raw. The quiet room around her bore witness to every stumble, every awkward formation of sound. She repeated everything she could remember from conversations, letting the strange new language push and pull at her mind. She had to learn. She needed learned the language faster than any of them would know. Faster than any could imagine.

Sleep didn’t come that night. She barely noticed the shift in the sky from black to the first light of dawn until a soft click broke the silence. The door creaked open, and a small familiar figure stepped inside.

“You’re awake early.” His voice was gentle, careful.

Cassandra’s gaze dropped from the window to the boy standing by the door. She nodded in response, a small, slow movement. He took a few steps toward her bed and sat down, the mattress barely yielding beneath his weight.

“Babs told us,” he said softly,  Cassandra’s eyebrows furrowed in silent question. He shifted, and his pale blue eyes met hers. “So… I’m Tim. Timothy. But you can call me Tim!” A smile broke across his face, a wide, genuine expression that softened his features.

“Tim,” she echoed, her voice tentative, tasting the new syllables. The name felt different, but easier than Cassandra, more natural. It fit him.

He nodded, excitement clear in the way his shoulders dropped their tension.

"Tim!" She confirmed once more, this time with confidence.

“Yeah!” His eyes lit up as he laughed, a soft, relieved sound. “I’m really glad you can understand us now. We can talk and be friends.”

Friends? Cassandra tilted her head, a question in her eyes. He wanted to talk to her? He wanted to be her friend?

Tim nodded eagerly, as if reading her confusion. “Friends!” He spread his fingers wide, emphasizing the word with an open gesture.

“So, uh, what’s your name?” Tim’s voice was careful, as if he didn’t want to push too hard.

Cassandra opened her mouth, the weight of the question settling heavily in her chest. Speaking felt like stepping into an unfamiliar dance. Her tongue moved sluggishly, struggling against the strange, soft contours of the sounds. She swallowed, trying to push down the anxiety. Cass-s-an-d-raah. The 'r' twisted oddly, catching at the back of her throat. She realized, almost instinctively, that she didn’t need to roll it.

Cassandra. That was her.

“Cass-sandrrrah.” The attempt left her lips clumsy and uncertain. She shook her head, frustration creeping up as the shape of it didn’t sit right in her mouth.

“Ca-san-drah.” She tried again, the syllables coming out smoother, less jagged.

Tim’s eyes widened, and a smile began to spread. “Cassandra?” he repeated, his voice a warm confirmation.

Her own eyes lit up, hope sparking to life as she nodded, turning her gaze up to meet his.

“Could I call you Cass?” Tim’s smile softened, his tone almost shy. “Nicknames are what we do for siblings—it’s our own special way of calling someone.”

“Siblings,” she echoed, testing the word. It felt new, yet not unwelcome. Like an unopened gift she was finally brave enough to touch.

“Yeah, sisters, brothers,” Tim added, eyes glancing to hers with a spark of hope. “Family.”

Family. The word resonated inside her, a word she had heard Barbara speak last night, weighted with meaning she was only beginning to understand. Her lips moved, forming the word as she whispered, “Family.”

“Yes!” Tim’s smile broke open, bright and full, like the sunrise reaching into every corner of the room. The golden light caught in his eyes, making them shine like fragments of a starry sky. He seemed more alive, the worry lines at his brow smoothing out as he looked at her.

Cass. She could be Cass.

“My dad,” Tim said, his arms waving, “he’s the big scary Bat. But, he’s been really happy since you got here.” His fingers fidgeted as he spoke, a small smile still playing at his lips.

"And Dick—the grumpy one—he’s my older brother,” Tim said with a soft laugh. “He doesn’t live here with us, though. He’s in Blüdhaven. It’s another city.” He paused, eyes glancing at Cass to make sure she was following. “We live in Gotham, which is also a city. Do you know what a city is?” He didn’t wait for an answer, excitement bubbling up in his voice as he continued. “Yeah, yeah! So Blüdhaven is just another place like Gotham. It’s not far, only about thirty minutes away.”

Cass listened, taking in each word, trying to match them with the expressions and movements she’d memorized.

Tim let out a soft breath, his chest rising and falling as he collected his thoughts. “I know it might seem like he doesn’t like you,” he said, his smile apologetic now. “Because, well, he acts like a big jerk sometimes.”

“But the thing is,” Tim continued, his eyes glancing at hers, “he’s actually a really, really big softie. When he warms up to you, you’ll see it. It just takes time, especially since… well, he’s been upset with Dad ever since Ja—” His voice caught, and he coughed to cover the stumble. His gaze dropped, the small smile faltering but not disappearing completely. He kept his focus downward, the fall of his dark hair casting shadows over his eyes.

Cass’ attention sharpened, catching the momentary shift in him. He was still smiling, but it was thinner now, more guarded. She watched as his fingers curled slightly at his sides, a subtle tell of the tension he was trying to mask.

“Um, so basically,” Tim said, his voice a touch unsteady, “he’ll probably act that way until he trusts you. Until he knows you’re not going anywhere. Once he’s sure of that… well, then you’ll see.”

“Yeah, you get the point.” He shifted, a small cough escaping as he ducked his head. The strands of hair that usually fell over his forehead now blocked the bright blue of his eyes. For a moment, he didn’t meet her gaze, his breath uneven until he settled back into a calmer rhythm.

“Anyways…” His voice was soft, barely carrying the air of lightness he tried to project.

Cass raised an eyebrow, noting the way his hands fidgeted, the way his eyes flickered downward. Something unsaid lingered between them, a weight that hung heavy but unseen. She couldn’t read the sadness that seemed to touch him, couldn’t grasp why he’d stiffened for a moment, as if fighting something inside. But she felt the tension in her own body, a reflexive echo of his discomfort.

Tim glanced at the clock on the shelf and let out a small gasp. “Oh! It’s already seven. I have to get to school!” He sprang up from the bed, moving with the sudden energy of someone late for something important. “There’s breakfast waiting for you downstairs. Alfred always makes sure we’re fed. Come down when you’re ready!” He flashed another smile, a quick wave, and then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.

The room felt emptier than before, its silence stretching out like an unwelcome guest. Cassandra shifted, the absence of Tim’s presence making her aware of just how hollow the space could feel when it was only her. The bed creaked as she stood, feet pressing into the cool floor, grounding her as she moved toward the door.

The faint, rich scent of bacon wafted through the air, and her stomach growled in response, making her realize just how hungry she was. She followed the aroma, letting it guide her steps down the hall and into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Miss Cassandra. You’re up bright and early,” a voice greeted warmly. The man, she presumed was Alfred, his presence filled the kitchen with a steady, calm energy.

Cassandra tilted her head slightly, a small smile forming on her lips in response. The older man’s eyes softened, a chuckle escaping him as he gestured toward a chair. “Please, have a seat.” He moved fluidly to the counter, assembling a plate and setting out cups. “Would you like orange juice, or perhaps tea?” The sounds of cups clinking and the rhythmic steps on the tile filled the room as he worked.

“Cassssan-dra,” she managed, pointing to herself as she settled into the chair. The syllables still felt foreign, strange, but she was learning. Alfred, with his ever-present grace, smiled kindly and set both a glass of orange juice and a steaming cup of tea in front of her.

She nodded in thanks and took the tea, sipping it carefully. The warmth spread down her throat, too hot at first, but she welcomed it, savouring the sensation.

“A pleasure, Miss Cassandra,” Alfred said, placing a plate of food before her. It was colourful and inviting, with strips of bacon, fresh fruit, and a slice of warm bread. “If there is anything you need, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Cassandra’s eyes lit up as she tasted the bacon, the flavour filling her senses. It was delicious, unlike anything she was used to. Each bite of fruit was sweet, juicy, and fresh—worlds apart from the sparse, bland food she remembered from before. She smiled to herself, savouring every taste.

“Good morning, Cassandra,” came another voice, deeper and familiar. She glanced up to see Bruce—Tim’s father—walking into the kitchen, the corners of his lips curving upward in that same gentle way that always surprised her.

Bruce nodded at Alfred before turning his gaze to her. “My name is Bruce, if you didn’t already know.” He spoke softly, the words carrying a warmth she was still getting used to.

“Brussse,” she repeated, testing the sound as her eyes met his. His eyes, so much like Tim’s, seemed to look past her and into something deeper. They weren’t just looking at her; they were seeing her, and something else—something distant.

Her face brightened with a realization. “Bat!” she exclaimed, pointing at him, the name coming out more easily now. He's been called that a lot, and the memories resurfaced with a gentle clarity. It felt like a long time had passed since she’d first heard it, though it had only been weeks.

A small smirk crossed Bruce’s face, and he nodded, his expression softening. “Yes. I’m Batman,” he said, turning away to pour himself a cup of coffee. Cassandra noticed the subtle upturn at the corners of his lips, the glisten in his eyes. Happy, she recalled. That was the expression.

“My door is always open, Cassandra. Please, make this house your home.” His voice was steady, kind, and she watched as he took his seat, sipping the dark liquid as he unfolded a newspaper. The front page bore the bold headline about Red Hood, a new name in the city’s dark underworld. A shiver ran down her spine at the sight.

“Is there anything you need?” Bruce’s voice pulled her attention back to him. His tone was soft, the way he held her gaze told her everything she needed to know—he was genuine. Caring. Barbara had said he was. "Something for your room? Or more clothes perhaps, or anything to help you feel better, or comfortable?"

Her mind wandered back to what Tim was saying, “Ja?” It felt incomplete, but she needed to understand it. What was this word that Tim had mentioned with such hesitation?

Bruce’s expression shifted. His brows drew together, and for a moment, the kitchen seemed to pause. He set down his cup, sighing as his gaze grew distant and heavy with emotion.

“Did Barbara mention that?” he asked, his voice quieter now as he reached for her hand, a touch that was warm, reassuring.

“Tim,” she said softly, a simple word that seemed to say everything.

Understanding passed over Bruce’s face, a shadow of pain that he masked quickly, but not before she saw the tightness in his jaw, the way his fist clenched briefly.

He looked at her, his expression softening as he regained composure. “Do you want to meet him?”

Her eyes widened, and she nodded eagerly, feet swinging beneath her chair in anticipation. It was a person!

Bruce set his mug down, the soft clink of ceramic against the table punctuating the quiet room. He folded the newspaper neatly, pushing it aside as he stood. Cassandra hopped down from her chair, the echo of her feet hitting the floor barely audible as she followed him. Her mind whirled with questions, assumptions threading together. Ja’s room, she thought. But when Bruce led her outside instead, a breath of surprise caught in her chest.

The warm air greeted her like an old friend, brushing against her skin in gentle waves. It wrapped her in a soft embrace, the sunlight seeping through the fabric of her clothes and sinking into her skin. The sky above was a flawless expanse of blue, unmarred by clouds. Cassandra tilted her head back, her eyes following the path of light, feeling its warmth spread through her as she took a long, deep breath.

A sudden rustle drew her attention to a squirrel darting along a branch. She tracked its swift movements with wide eyes, her head turning, body shifting instinctively as she followed its path. Bruce’s hand found her arm, steadying her with a gentle, firm hold. His fingers, rough and strong but kind, squeezed her hand softly, anchoring her back to him.

“This way, Cassandra,” he said, his voice low and patient. He didn’t let go, guiding her forward. Her attention flickered back to the small creatures moving in the bushes, the birds singing high melodies that trilled through the crisp morning air. A rustle from the underbrush caught her eye, and a sleek, golden-brown fox bounded out, its fur shimmering in the sunlight before disappearing back into the green.

They stopped at a patch of greenery that stood apart, rows of stone blocks stretching out in orderly lines. The stones bore names and dates etched deep into their surfaces, some weathered and cracked, others newer, their edges sharp and clean. Flowers, bright and fresh, adorned the one they approached, and the grass here was lush, meticulously kept. It spoke of care, love, a reverence that time couldn’t erode.

Cassandra glanced at Bruce as he knelt, the movement slow, deliberate. His lips held a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. She watched the way his broad shoulders slouched, the way his hands came together in his lap, fingers clasped tightly. The smile looked wrong, like it carried an ache, a weight too heavy to share.

She shifted her gaze back to the stone, her heart thudding softly in her chest as she read the name inscribed there. The polished letters glistened in the morning light: Jason Todd-Wayne. Her fingers brushed the cool, solid surface, tracing each letter, her mind whispering the name silently, over and over.

The flowers around the stone shifted slightly in the breeze, petals trembling. The air seemed quieter here, as if it, too, held its breath.

“Jason, meet Cassandra,” Bruce whispered, his voice barely cutting through the stillness.

Cassandra’s eyes flickered between Bruce and the stone, confusion knitting her brows. Jason wasn’t there. Why was Bruce speaking to this cold, unmoving thing? It was just rock and engraved words, not a person. Her fingers pressed into the earth beneath her, feeling the damp, cool texture of grass and dirt. The realization came slowly, almost reluctantly—Jason was gone, like all the others who rested here. The ground beneath her hands was not just earth; it was a resting place for memories and people who no longer breathed.

A pang of guilt rippled through her, sharp and sudden. Had she reminded Bruce of something too painful? Her chest tightened, guilt coiling around her heart as she traced the curves of the carved 'W' in Todd-Wayne, each stroke of her finger like a silent apology.

Bruce seemed to sense her unease. He turned, his eyes meeting hers with a look of understanding. “It’s okay to be curious about people,” he reassured her. His voice drew her out of her spiralling thoughts, grounding her in the present. “You didn’t know who it was or what it meant. I was overdue for a visit anyway.”

The knot in her chest loosened just a bit as he squeezed her hand gently, his warmth anchoring her. “You don’t need to feel guilty."

Bruce’s eyes softened further, a rare, vulnerable glimmer appearing as he looked back at the stone. “It’s nice for Jason to get some fresh company,” he added, a faint, wistful smile forming on his lips. “He was probably tired of the same five faces every visit,” he joked.

“Thank you for joining me,” he said, his gaze shifting back to her. “I’m sure Jay thanks you too.”

Cassandra’s hand paused, fingers hovering over the last letter of Jason’s name. She didn’t have words for what she felt, for the mix of heaviness and warmth that filled her chest. But she nodded, a small movement that spoke more than she could say.

Chapter Text

Over the next month, Cassandra’s focus became sharper. She threw herself into learning, her mouth gradually forming words with more ease, though the stubborn 'r' sounds continued to challenge her. It felt weird when rolling them, but not as strange when they were pronounced on their own.

Every night, she stayed in her room until the early morning hours, sometimes as late as four or five, her mind churning through sounds and syllables. She would sleep through the day and then repeat the process all over again, her thoughts tangled with new phrases and words that felt heavy on her tongue. She needed to know—she had to learn—and that enough, became her own obsession.

The price was steep. Muscles she never knew she had ached from overuse, her cheeks and jaw sore from the hours spent forming sounds, from the endless repetition of each unfamiliar shape and twist of her tongue. The ache would subside, only to return the next night, her body struggling to adapt to demands it had never known. The strain became a constant, cycling through her body like a dull throb she couldn’t escape.

Her mind was constantly repeating the sounds, and trying to say it on her own. Her mind would turn and turn. Because she needed this, and she won't stop until it happened.

Yet as Batgirl, she felt herself slipping. Her opponents moved faster than before, their actions often unpredictable, catching her off-guard. Even when her instincts were right, she was slower to respond, her reactions just a beat too late. The English language—this new way of thinking and understanding—was clouding her reflexes, making her second-guess everything. She could see the move coming, feel the energy shift, but her own thoughts kept her trapped, her body lagging behind her mind.

And the others noticed. She could feel Barbara’s worried gaze lingering on her, could hear the softness in her voice, an extra layer of care whenever they spoke. And Bruce… he’d started avoiding sending her out, finding excuses for her to stay behind. He’d only bring her along if they were shorthanded, and even then, he would send her back before any real danger emerged.

Then, a few days ago, a boy named Damian showed up at the manor. He was Bruce’s real son, he had declared proudly, and everyone else, according to him, were nothing but imposters. At just eight years old, Damian moved with a precision she recognized all too well. He was everything she had been trained to be—sharp, fast, and skilled far beyond his years. And he could communicate.

She watched as he slipped easily into the role she was once meant to fill. Damian took her place in the field, and she could feel Richard’s already minimal support shifting too. He argued that she needed more time off patrol, saying she’d only get hurt out there. He kept insisting that until she could communicate properly, she wasn’t ready.

That’s what she’d overheard anyways.

The frustration churned inside her, but she refused to back down. She argued with Richard, using words this time instead of the fluid, silent language she knew. She fought him, even when the words felt clumsy and raw on her tongue. Sometimes her arguments failed, her mouth unable to keep up with the speed of her thoughts, but she pushed through. She had to.

Damian was relentless, too, and he wasn’t kind. He would challenge her, taunt her, his words sharp and mocking. 'Is that the best Batgirl can do?' he would sneer after every sparring match. His criticisms stung, not because they were harsh, but because there was truth in them. And she hated how much it hurt to hear it.

Richard’s temper only made things worse. He’d shout, his voice fierce and biting, anger flaring in his eyes whenever he spoke to her about safety, about stepping back. He would tell her she’d get herself killed, that she was endangering herself by holding onto the Batgirl identity. His gaze was sharp, his body tense, radiating a frustration that spilled over in every word, every look.

Cassandra concluded that she didn't like Richard or Damian all that much, and it was clear to all of them.

She could feel the fire building in her chest each time they argued. But tonight, the fire burned too hot, and she couldn’t take it. She turned on her heel and stormed out of the manor, still clad in her suit. The front door slammed behind her as she took off, running until she reached the edge of a building in one of Gotham’s quieter district.

She sat there, legs drawn close, her eyes fixed on the city below. The summer warmth had faded, replaced by the first hint of autumn. The air felt cooler, and she wrapped her arms around herself, breathing in the faint, earthy scent of the changing season. Only two, maybe three months until winter.

The realization hit her hard—time had slipped through her fingers. She’d been so wrapped up in her new world that she hadn’t noticed the weeks passing, nearly three months now. She’d been here long enough to feel the season shift, yet she felt as if she hadn’t moved forward at all.

Time was already flying, but here she was stuck, unable to progress.

She leaned against the rough gravel of the rooftop, feeling the sharp edges press into her skin, grounding her in the moment. She didn’t move, letting the evening breeze chill her skin, ruffling her hair and leaving goosebumps along her arms.

What hurts was that they were right, that she was useless to the team and to her allies.

She’d once been a perfect weapon, a precise force, able to see a fight before it began. But the one thing that made her unique, her language, her gift, had been taken away by a simple psychic, leaving her with no advantage, no edge. Now, she could barely keep up. She couldn’t anticipate anymore, only react, and by then, it was often too late.

Bruce had tried to help. He’d given her stacks of study materials, books, and notes, all written in his exacting hand, offering her lessons in language and tactics. They’d sparred in the training room countless times, and each match ended with her on her back, struggling to rise as he looked down, his expression unreadable.

But she saw it. She didn’t need words to know it: disappointment.

Cassandra didn't need him to tell her, she knew that he knew. And she felt terrible because she wasn't of any use anymore, she was just in their way.

“Don’t say it takes time,” she’d growled one night, pushing herself up from the mat, anger burning in her chest. “How long?” She met his gaze, her words rough but laced with desperation.

Bruce had hesitated, his shoulders sagging slightly before he answered, “Work hard, every day, and you’ll be good enough for the costume… within a year.”

It was a quick and painless way of telling her the obvious.

She wasn't good enough for Bat girl .

She wasn't Batgirl at all.

Cassandra sat on the rooftop, her gaze lifting to the stars scattered across Gotham’s dark sky, their cool glow soothing the heat that simmered in her skin. The wind whispered around her, brushing softly against her, as if trying to calm the storm that had been brewing inside for weeks.

She was in a different suit- not Bat girl's, that had been taken away from her.

Her eyes caught movement on the street below—a woman, walking alone, wrapped in a long black coat that moved elegantly with each stride. Even from a distance, there was something captivating about her—a self-assurance and grace that set her apart from anyone Cassandra had ever seen. She watched, entranced by the woman’s smooth, unhurried pace, her tall, straight posture, the quiet strength radiating from every movement.

She had seen beautiful women before, but this one was different. There was a power in her elegance, in the way her coat hugged her frame, emphasizing her curves while she moved with a lethal, graceful confidence.

Cassandra's breath caught as Barbara’s warning echoed in her mind. “She’s better than you are. Stay away from her.”

But she couldn’t. The pull was too strong. She had to follow, had to see this woman up close.

Lady Shiva. The killer of all killers.

Cassandra slipped into a change of clothes and trailed after her as she entered a small French restaurant. She didn’t believe for a second that Lady Shiva had come to Gotham for french food; there had to be a deeper reason, something more important. So she waited, biding her time, eyes fixed on Shiva’s every move.

But the woman was faster than Cassandra had anticipated. In a blink, she’d disappeared, only to reappear in a flash, her movements too swift for her to follow. She barely saw the first attack, a sudden strike that left a guard sprawling. Her eyes struggled to keep up, her mind lagging as Shiva’s form blurred in the low light, gliding with deadly grace.

Her target was a foreign woman, her face pale with fear as Lady Shiva closed in. Cassandra’s resolve tightened. She won’t get another kill. Cassandra sprang forward, heart pounding as she moved to intercept. Cassandra had no defence skills what so ever so she had to be careful. But she had the advantage, Shiva didn't know she was there—

A powerful punch connected with her face, and the force sent her reeling back.

Bruce had always reprimanded her for not wearing a mouth guard. Cassandra really wish she listened to him.

Shiva pointed her gun at the trembling woman, and Cassandra lunged forward, a desperate attempt to shield her. She knew one thing about Lady Shiva—she could never resist a challenge.

“You and me,” Cassandra managed through clenched teeth, breathless and determined.

Lady Shiva’s lips curved into a predatory smile. She responded with a brutal kick to Cassandra's chest, sending her flying back. She felt the impact echo through her bones, but it didn’t matter. Shiva had accepted the challenge, and they were locked in combat.

Cassandra didn't particularly like her new skill. The one where her brain spoke. Her conscious whispered and told her things. Warned her of danger. Instead of instincts that screamed to dodge.

Her brain wasn't as fast. And neither was Cassandra.

Shiva’s attacks came in swift, brutal strikes, each one a masterpiece of efficiency and skill.

A fist connected with Cassandra's stomach, stealing her breath, and a kick sent her face-first into the floor. She gasped as Lady Shiva moved with a precision that exposed every weakness, reading her like an open book, dodging her strikes with ease. This wasn’t a fight—it was a demonstration, an exhibition of everything Cassandra had lost.

And then, with a calculated, pinpointed strike, Shiva rendered her paralyzed from the waist down. Her body slumped to the floor, her limbs unresponsive as she tried, desperately, to move. Her fingers pressed into the cold wood, shaking with the memory of her first kill. It was the same nerve strike she’d used back then, the one that had left her victim helpless. Now, she was the one left vulnerable, her body betraying her.

Lady Shiva loomed above, returning to her target.

***

The last thing Cassandra remembered was the icy feel of blood pooling around her, the glint of a pearl bracelet scattered on the floor beside her.

When she awoke, she was in an ambulance. Disoriented, she blinked up at the sterile ceiling, her first thought one of confusion—Shiva left her alive. A mistake. But why? And as soon as the thought surfaced, it was followed by a surge of anger. She couldn’t stay here, not like this.

Ignoring the shocked expressions of the paramedics, Cassandra forced herself up, her mind already plotting her next move. Pain flared in her side, and the bandages around her body grew dark with fresh blood. But she wouldn’t let herself fall—not now. Not after she’d come so far. A fire burned in her, consuming her self-doubt, her frustration, all the words she couldn’t find to voice her rage.

It wasn't a feeling that sat well in Cassandra's stomach, it made her sick.

It burned in her mind, as her thoughts and instincts went together. They agreed, not to give up on the mission.

The pearl bracelet Shiva had left behind felt cold against her wrist, grounding her as she pushed herself forward, step by agonizing step. If she let me live, there must be a reason, she told herself, her legs trembling as she fought to stay upright. Her breaths came in short, shallow gasps, and the warmth of her own blood seeped through her clothes, staining the fabric a dull red. But her mind was clear, sharper than it had been in months. She had to find Shiva.

“We’re a lot alike, you and I,” a voice murmured from behind her. Cassandra spun around, her muscles straining, only to see Lady Shiva watching her, a faint smile playing on her lips. “In terms of colouring,” Shiva added, a spark of amusement dancing in her dark eyes. “Not combat skills."

Cassandra steadied herself, swallowing against the pain. “Didn’t… kill me. Why?” Her words came out stilted, breathless, the effort of speech making her vision swim.

Shiva’s smile widened, almost indulgent. “Why would I? I am a warrior, not a murderer.”

“But… the girl…” Cassandra gasped, each word punctuated by the struggle to stay upright.

Shiva’s gaze flickered, an emotion crossing her face too quick to catch. “In the restaurant? If I wanted to kill her, she would be dead. I attacked her because she had bodyguards, your kind,” she said, voice sharp, “seem to need a victim before you'll put up a fight. Not that you did."

Ah, Lady Shiva didn't walk into a trap, Cassandra did.

“I heard you were good,” Shiva continued, almost bored. “Imagine my surprise when I found out how...pitiful you were. But that you won't even fight like we both know you can. You're obviously a trained assassin, so why did you keep play fighting?"

Cassandra struggled for the words. “Don’t… kill…” Her breathing was ragged, her legs shaking beneath her.

"I see, my bracelet." Shiva stepped forward, her palms were facing outward, waiting.

Cassandra glanced at the bracelet, then back to Shiva. She felt her pulse quicken, a plan forming as she took the bracelet off. As Shiva reached out to take the bracelet, Cassandra struck, her fist connecting with Shiva’s cheek in a solid punch.

The woman staggered back, a laugh bubbling up from her throat, rich and dark.

Cassandra took a shaky breath, the words slipping out in fractured pieces. “I need a favour."

“A favour?” Shiva raised an eyebrow, the amusement still flickering in her gaze. “After that cheap trick?” She tilted her head, lips curving. “I let you live, and now you are attacking me again, for no reason?"

"You..see..the...moves." Cassandra gestured, hoping that she would get what she meant. "I...want...to.. again." Her eyebrows creased together, and she glanced at the woman, as she struggled to put her question into words.

Shiva’s eyes softened, her gaze piercing. She didn’t break eye contact, and for a long moment, the two of them stood in silence.

“Yes, yes. I see it now,” Shiva murmured, her voice low. “The gap in your style. I can give you back what you lose rather quickly, in fact. But there's a price.” Her expression turned sharp, resolute. “A year from now. A duel to the death, as befit for warriors."

Cassandra’s heart pounded. The terms were brutal, uncompromising. She didn’t kill, but...

She could be good for a year, earn Batgirl back. Or be mediocre for the rest of her life.

Chapter Text

Batman noticed almost immediately. Cassandra’s movements were sharper, her body lighter, her reactions quicker. She felt it too—a clarity that she hadn’t known in months. Her mind quieted, the overthinking stilled, and her body responded instinctively once again. She felt alive, capable. Damian wouldn’t replace her.

The rush of joy that followed was almost overwhelming. She wasn’t useless anymore. She could help Bruce. She could help Barbara. She’d prove it to all of them—to Tim, to Damian, to Richard, to everyone, that she was Batgirl, and no one could replace her.

But there was a quiet ache somewhere in the back of her mind. A reminder. The clock was ticking. Seconds turning into minutes, minutes to hours. Hours stretching into days, and the days become weeks. The seconds that will become a year. Her year.

One year is only 31,536,000 seconds. She had time.

Damian wasn't anything. He was just a child. He was angry, rude and spiteful to anyone who dared challenge his place. She won't let him win. She won't let herself be sidelined again.

She was tired though, tired of thinking, tired of training. She won't complain about how sore she felt. How her muscles screamed and begged to have her rest.

But she wanted to scream. Scream out how her throat hurt and everything ached.

Cassandra found herself alone at Jason Todd-Wayne’s grave. Her footsteps were soft on the damp grass as she knelt before the headstone. She stared at the carved name of the dead man. Dead boy. He was only fifteen years old. He had been barely younger than her. He didn't have enough time. He had less time than she did.

Her mind wandered to the empty space beside her. What would her gravestone read? When she dies, when she's to be buried. Would Bruce bury her here? Or in a potter field somewhere?

Would her grave say Cassandra Cain?

Or Cassandra Wayne?

The moonlight bathed the graveyard in a pale glow, illuminating the rows of stone. Her body ached as she leaned back, her arms supporting her weight as she stared at the ground beneath her.

What was it like, dying young?

Was Jason satisfied? At peace? Or did he die wondering the same thing, if he’d done enough, if he’d mattered?

She knew she should feel fear, knowing that she would die in a year. But instead, she felt… calm. Resigned. She had made a promise to Bruce, to herself. She would never kill again.

The crunch of leaves and the snap of twigs broke the stillness. The footsteps were heavy at first, then softer, more deliberate. Cassandra didn’t turn, but she recognized the rhythm. Richard Grayson. His steps were calm, unhurried, carrying no threat.

“Hey, Cassandra,” he greeted gently, crouching down beside her. His arms rested on his knees, and he leaned forward slightly, his posture easy but his expression weighted. “It’s late. What are you doing out here by yourself?”

Cassandra didn’t respond, but she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. His gaze was fixed on the headstone and sadness radiated off of him. It felt dark and bitter.

“I was looking for you,” Richard admitted, breaking the silence. His voice was soft, regretful. “I wanted to say I’m sorry for how I’ve been treating you.” He sighed, tilting his head to meet her gaze. His eyes, soft and blue, held a quiet sorrow. She felt as if she could see herself in them and the night sky seemed trapped within his irises. “I was scared,” he continued. “It doesn't excuse my actions but I think that’s the best way to explain it.”

Cassandra tilted her head slightly, listening as he spoke. The wind rustled the leaves above them, the cold brushing against her neck and sending shivers down her spine. It felt strange, hearing his words and reading his body language at the same time.

“Bruce has a thing for picking up strays. You’ve probably noticed that.” He smiled faintly, his eyes still on the headstone. “Especially ones who like to fight. I guess we’re alike in that way.”

Richard paused, “you reminded me so much of me… of Jason.” He trailed off, the silence filled the air that hung in the breeze. Her hair softly tickled her nose. “I was scared you’d end up like him.”

Cassandra’s chest tightened. She glanced away, staring at the ground as his words sank in. The heaviness in her heart was sad, but it wasn't the bad type. It wasn't the sad that burned. It was the type of sad that she could live with, that she knew would go away eventually.

“I said things I shouldn’t have said,” Richard's voice was somehow softer. “You’re just as capable as anyone else. You don’t need my protection. And for that, Cassandra, I’m really, deeply sorry.”

She glanced up at him, her lips parting as she thought of what to say. “Can I call you…Dick?” she asked, the nickname awkward but sweet on her tongue.

Richard blinked in surprise before letting out a soft laugh, his expression lightening. “What?”

Cassandra smiled faintly. “Nicknames are what we do for siblings. It’s our own special way of calling someone.” She recited what Tim had told her. She supposed that Dick was the name he actually went by, but she felt the need to ask for permission. To be able to call him by the name that meant brother.

Dick smiled, a real one this time, and reached out to ruffle her hair. "Yeah, you can."

His hand was warm and gentle, and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. The laughter bubbled up from her chest, quiet but genuine, as the sound of his own laughter joined hers.

Cass’ gaze lingered on Jason’s grave for a moment longer before the cold of the night grew too strong, and Dick led her back to the mansion.

***

Cass wiped the sweat from her forehead, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Her heart pounded loudly in her chest, the rhythm echoing in her head like a drumbeat.

Dick sprawled out over the mats, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His sweat-drenched hair clung to his forehead, and his back gleamed under the dim lighting.

“You. Kick. Way too hard,” Dick wheezed, breaking into a breathless laugh. His smile widened as she stepped toward him, her hand extended to help him up.

Her fingers, slick with sweat, clasped his larger hand, and she pulled him to his feet. “Not hard enough,” she said between breaths. “I missed—”

“Hey!” Dick cut her off with a mock-offended look, his tone playful. “You beat me. Again. Isn’t that enough already?” He pouted dramatically, letting out an exaggerated huff as his lower lip jutted out. “All my training, wasted. And here I thought I was supposed to be the teacher.”

Cass couldn’t help but roll her eyes at his antics. A laugh bubbled out of her, light and unrestrained. It still felt a bit unnatural, for her body and mind working together. Her brain no longer tripped her up but instead caught details she would’ve missed before. But, it felt good to trust herself again, to feel in sync.

Dick tossed her a water bottle, the cool plastic a welcome relief against her hands. She caught it easily, taking a long drink as he flopped back down onto the mat, chugging his own bottle. A few stray drops escaped his lips, tracing a path down his jaw before disappearing into his shirt.

“You really got your ass kicked, huh?” Tim’s voice rang out behind her, and Cass turned to see him standing in the doorway, a smug grin plastered on his face.

Dick shot him a glare, sticking his tongue out childishly.

Damian trailed in behind Tim, arms crossed tightly over his chest, an unimpressed scowl firmly in place. His foot tapped against the mat, the motion quick and sharp. “That was hardly impressive,” Damian grumbled. “Both of your stances were weak. It was a pathetic match.”

Tim didn’t miss a beat. He pulled out a water sprayer and aimed it at Damian’s head. A quick squirt hit the younger boy’s hair, and Damian yelped indignantly, stepping back.

“Bad! Bad Damian!” Tim scolded in a mock-serious tone, wagging the sprayer like a disciplinarian’s finger. “Stop being rude. Don’t make me squirt you again.”

Damian’s glare intensified as he wiped at his damp hair. “This is child abuse! When Father returns, I will—” His protest cut off abruptly as Tim sprayed him again, this time directly in the face.

Cassandra snorted, unable to contain the laugh that burst from her lips. Damian sputtered, coughing as the spray hit the back of his throat. “I will kill you,” Damian growled, his voice low and threatening. “And I will feed your corpse to Titus.”

“Sure you will,” Tim gave him another squirt.

“Hey! Stop that!” Damian yelped, breaking into a run as Tim chased after him, the sound of his laughter echoing down the hallway.

"Well," Dick stretched, his arms high above his head as he moved to a stand. His knees wobbled slightly, and Cass chuckled at his lack of balance. “Tim always said he wanted a dog to train,” Dick said, glancing toward the hallway where Tim and Damian had disappeared. “I just never imagined he’d start with a nine-year-old.” He sighed, shaking his head with a smile as a soft laugh escaped him.

Rolling his shoulders to loosen the tension, Dick looked at Cass, a grin spreading across his face. He draped an arm around her shoulders, ruffling her hair with his free hand. “Come on. Let’s grab pizza before patrol tonight.”

Cass smirked, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Last one there is a rotten egg,” she darted towards the door without waiting for a response.

“Cass!” Dick was frozen in place for a second before taking off after her. “No fair! I wasn’t ready!”

***

The rest of the year passed by fast.

Time was a thief, and Cassandra felt its weight pressing harder with every second.

At first, it had seemed like she had all the time in the world—a full year to prepare, to live, to be Batgirl. Then she had months.

And before long there were only 93,531 seconds left until her duel to the death with Shiva.

She really wished she could just get rid of this feeling of dread in her chest, of anxiousness. She wasn't where she was a year ago, she wasn't anywhere close. She wasn't ready.

Cassandra wondered if anyone ever truly felt ready.

But, this was the life she had chosen, one without promises, one without the guarantee of tomorrow.

Dick had become her older brother in every sense. His laughter lingered in her ears even when he wasn’t around, a warmth bubbled up in her heart whenever she thought of him. He dragged her to ice cream shops, insisting she try every single flavour, grinning like a child when she wrinkled her nose at anything too sweet.

Barbara, though different from Dick, had her own way of making her feel loved. Shopping trips, evenings spent braiding each other’s hair, quiet conversations that made Cassandra’s chest ache in the best way. Sometimes, she wondered if that’s what having a mother felt like.

Cassandra even tolerated Damian more now that he stopped treating her like a rival. He was like a puppy that had finally calmed, no longer snapping but curling up by the fire. She wished she had more time to know him, to understand him better.

And Bruce. Bruce had been so gentle with her. Even when he wore the cowl, his gaze held a warmth that comforted her. She no longer blamed him for taking Batgirl away; she understood now. He’d given her her first birthday—a real celebration, complete with cake, silly hats, and noisy party blowers. He sat beside her when she read, his patience unwavering as she stumbled over words. He gave her lessons, always kind even when she knew he was frustrated.

She would miss talking to Jason’s grave. Even though she couldn’t see or feel him, talking to him brought her a strange comfort. The earth beneath her fingers was soft, as if Jason himself was holding her hands, telling her he was there, listening.

She wished she had known Jason, just as she wished she had more time with Alfred—the man who patched her up without complaint, who taught her about the world with his stories and his gentle scoldings. He was so much different than what she imagined a grandparent would be but he was everything. And more. The way his wrinkles curved and bent as he smiled. His accent. And his kind voice as he told her about different foods and drinks that existed

And Tim Drake. Tim, who was awkward and so unsure of himself. Tim that would always stumble on his words but always helped. The first who invited Cassandra to the family, gave her candies, a gentle smile, and warm eyes. The first person she had ever called family and meant it. Her first sibling. The first one she let herself care for, because he cared back.

Cassandra wished she had the guts to say goodbye to him.

When there were only 7,245 seconds left, her throat tightened, a heavy lump formed and it refused to go away.

Bruce knocked on her door 153 seconds after.

He sat beside her, silent at first. Cass leaned into him, resting her head against his broad shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her in an awkward but comforting hug.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered. It was like he knew.

Her eyes burned, but she forced the tears back, biting the inside of her cheek. The warmth of his words wrapped around her like a blanket.

“You’ve been doing so well,” Bruce was never the best with emotions nor words, but every one felt heartfelt. “If I was ever overcritical or hard on you, I want you to know you have never failed me. Not even once. I can’t even begin to tell you how proud and grateful I am for you. I just wanted to let you know… that it’s okay to slow down. To relax.”

"It's okay to take a break, to lose a day or two of practice." Bruce whispered gently and her heart screamed. " I know you don't like to listen, and I know I've told you this so many times... in fact, you're probably rolling your eyes right now and wondering how to block out my voice." The corner of his lips quirked up. "But I want you to remember that it's okay to take care of yourself. You’re loved, Cassandra. You’re human. I hope you’ll remember that.”

His hand rested on her head, his palm warm against her short black hair.

“Batgirl will still be Batgirl, even if she sleeps for a few extra hours. And you’ll still be our Cassandra—no matter how many words you’ve learned or haven’t learned. Take your time. It’s okay.”

He pulled a few papers from where they’d been tucked under his arm, handing them to her. The letters were clear and easy to read, the words didn't move, nor did the ink run. The way it was typed and written, it was neat and the black letters popped against the printer paper. She took them with trembling hands, her heart racing as she read the title: Adoption Agreement.

“I thought it was time to make it official. You don’t have to sign them now, or ever. But I want you to know—you have a home with us. Always.”

She let out a shaky breath, clutching the papers to her chest as she leaned into Bruce’s embrace once more.

The man was giving her the option to become his daughter. A Wayne.

It took all of her might and more to not break down into tears.

Cassandra Wayne.

***

There were 1,206 seconds left. Cassandra stood on a bridge, her hands resting lightly on the cold rail as she gazed down at the water. It looked dark and murky, rippling faintly with the current.

Around her, the city continued as if nothing were about to happen. People went about their nights, unaware of what this moment meant. Of what she was counting down to.

“Don’t jump,” Cassandra said softly, tilting her head. “Not worth it.”

A figure shifted a few feet away, hunched and still. His skin was grey and dull, his eyes hollow and defeated. His back was stooped as though the weight of the world had pressed him down, and his black and grey hair was faded and thin.

The man’s sunken eyes flicked toward her, startled. “How—?”

She didn't bother waiting for him to finish.

Barbara. Cassandra’s mind drifted, and her throat tightened. She had so many questions that will forever be left without answers. It was too late to ask, too late to thank her. Too late to hear the woman's voice one last time. Barbara had given her a home, a purpose, a life she could never have imagined. Barbara Gordon would always be a mother in Cassandra's eyes, blood or not.

The streets stretched out in silence, her feet dragging across the pavement.

142 seconds left.

Lady Shiva found her in the centre of the park. The air was still, the green grass swayed gently under the pale moonlight. The park was peaceful, a perfect resting place. Cassandra’s legs had carried her here without her realizing.

“Ready?” Lady Shiva's head was held high, her gaze was unwavering.

68 seconds till the end.

Shiva moved closer.

42. 37. 30.

Cassandra met her halfway.

22. 18.

Lady Shiva was truly beautiful under the moonlight, her features highlighted by the interplay of shadow and pale light.

7. 6. 3.

“Ready,” the word fell softly from her lips, the last note of calm before the storm.

Lady Shiva moved to strike her with full force. Cassandra’s body reacted instinctively.

A block.

A dodge.

A punch. Another kick.

Cassandra gave everything she had. A jab. A miss. An attack.

Shiva was relentless, her power and speed unmatched. Cassandra couldn't distinguish her own heartbeat from Shiva's.

Shiva’s lips curved into a smile. It was blinding. Breathtaking. It was everything.

It was the most beautiful thing Cassandra had ever seen.

But it didn’t last. The smile faded, and the light in Shiva’s eyes dimmed.

Cassandra was on the ground.

The world seemed to still. Silence wrapped around her like a blanket, muffling everything except the sound of her own ragged breathing.

Her lashes brushed against her cheeks as she closed her eyes tightly. The grass beneath her fingers felt soft.

Is this what it feels like to die?

The silence wasn’t frightening. It wasn’t comforting, either. It simply was.

Was she ready?

Was she satisfied?

No. Her mind settled firmly on the answer. Only fools were satisfied.

And she was no fool.

Chapter Text

When Cassandra was a child, her days were filled with pain. She constantly trained, her muscles burned and her body ached under the relentless pressure.

She remembered a man, her father, teaching her how to kill. His methods were calculated, his lessons harsh. Cassandra’s mind, still soft and impressionable, was like clay in his calloused hands, shaped and moulded to his design. She wasn’t a child to him—she was his experiment, his pride, his joy. Until the day she ran. Until the day she killed a man. She was only eight years old.

David Cain had given her a gift: the ability to read the language of the body. She could see the whispers in every twitch, every subtle shift in movement. The body spoke, and she understood. The way a pulse quickened, the way tension crept into muscles before a strike, the stories etched into scars and bruises—it was all there for her to read. She could see what was coming before it began, a puppet master with strings no one else could see. 

Everything that makes them move, everything that makes a human. She understood.

***

Cassandra gasped as pain exploded in her chest, her throat tightening as she coughed and struggled for air. The world blurred, spinning wildly, and she blinked hard, trying to focus.

When her vision cleared, the pale night sky was gone, replaced by a grey ceiling. The air was stale, lacking the crisp, damp scent of the outdoors. She sat up slowly, her limbs heavy, her body oddly numb.

“This tea... replenishes your strength.” a voice said, low and calm. “Considering that you just died. You might like some.”

Cassandra turned her head. Lady Shiva sat across from her, a steaming cup of tea in her hands. The faint, soothing aroma of jasmine with a hint of citrus filled the air. On the table before her, another cup waited.

Cassandra hesitated, then rose on unsteady legs and approached the table. She wrapped her trembling hands around the warm ceramic, the tea’s heat grounding her.

"So, tell me what it was like,” Shiva asked, taking a sip from her cup. “Death, I mean.”

Cassandra didn’t answer. She brought the cup to her lips, the tea’s warmth spreading through her as she drank.

“Never mind,” Shiva said, waving a hand. “Difficult question. What I don’t understand is why. Why did you want to die?” Shiva placed her cup on the wooden table. The wood was rough and hard, but it wasn't chipping or breaking at the corners.

Cassandra also set the cup down as her gaze dropped to the table. “I… killed a man.”

“Just one?”

“I watched him die."

“So? You mean to tell me—ah, your gift." Shiva leaned back, her expression unreadable. “You realized you must pay the same price. Karma. That I understand.”

The room grew heavy, the air thick with tension. Cassandra’s shoulders hunched under the invisible weight, her hands trembled ever so slightly. It was hardly noticeable.

She finally felt at peace to look around and spoke. “Where are we?”

“This place?” Shiva gestured around. “The temple of the Thuggee cult. Organized around the worship of me.” Her lips curved into a faint smile, though her tone carried no mirth.

Shiva rose, walking over to a curtain. With a swift pull, she revealed a wall of photographs. Faces stared back—men, women, some clean and composed, others splattered with blood. All of them were dead. Cassandra’s eyes darted from one to the next, unable to linger on any for long.

“Who did all this?” Cassandra’s voice was a whisper.

"He did." Lady Shiva pointed a finger to a middle aged, tall and bald man with wrinkles at the sides of his eyes. He was collapsed against the wall.

“He’s dead.” Cassandra’s voice was certain. She didn’t need to see the unnatural angle of his head or the lifelessness in his eyes. She could feel it—the absence of life, the stillness that followed. “You have to stop."

Shiva laughed softly. “I'm Shiva. I can't be stopped.” She drew a blade, its edge glinting in the dim light. “But perhaps, you’d like to try.”

Without warning, Shiva struck. Cassandra dodged, her body moving on instinct. The blade whistled past her, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the dance between them.

They moved like water, each strike and counter strike fluid and precise. Cassandra’s breath synced with Shiva’s, their movements mirroring each other. Every kick, every punch, every dodge was a step in their deadly waltz.

It felt natural, like breathing.

Their eyes never leaving each other.

The rhythm broke when Cassandra struck Shiva, sending her staggering back. And Cassandra realized something.

“You want to die,” Cassandra said, her voice quiet but firm. She stepped forward, her movements deliberate. “I see you, Shiva. Searching the world. For your death.”

Cassandra caught Shiva’s next strike, twisting her arm and landing a punch to her stomach.

"Keep searching."

Shiva fell to the ground, her breath ragged. Cassandra knees gave out beside her, her own body trembling with exhaustion.

“I’ll kill you,” Shiva whispered.

“Not tonight,” Cassandra replied, her lips curving into a faint smile as they laid there.

***

The sun rose from the far east and set in the west. Its light spilling over the horizon like liquid gold, chasing away the shadows of the night. In its wake, the world stirred. Darkness melted into a quiet symphony of life—birds taking flight, their silhouettes painted against the morning sky. They flew in endless wanderings, leaving places behind, never truly returning, always seeking something unseen.

The world felt vast and infinite, yet so small when looked at from above. For a fleeting moment, the stillness of dawn brought a fragile kind of peace, a warmth that wrapped around the soul like a soft blanket on a cold day.

Cassandra laid in her bed at Wayne Manor, eyes half-lidded as sunlight played through the curtains. The beams danced across her room, illuminating her space. Her breathing was even, her chest rising and falling softly. For once, her heart felt at ease, no longer racing from fights or missions. She had a new lease on life.

Until Lady Shiva returned to collect.

Cassandra didn’t mind. It wasn’t something she feared—not anymore.

The door creaked open, the familiar sound drawing her attention. “Cass…” The voice was gentle, soft like a whisper against the morning. Cassandra turned her head to see Barbara Gordon standing there, her bright green eyes shimmering in the sunlight.

Barbara was crying. Silent tears rolled down her flushed cheeks, catching the light like tiny diamonds. Her jaw trembled, but she held her posture with strength. To Cass, Barbara was beautiful, but in moments like this—she was stunning. Her rosy red hair, curled at the ends, fell in soft waves, a few stray strands tucked behind her ear.

Barbara stepped closer, her fingers brushing a strand of Cass’ dark hair. Cass leaned into the touch instinctively, drawn to the warmth and affection. She could feel Barbara’s breathing, soft and shaky, like a fragile thread holding her together.

“Why?” Barbara whispered, her voice heavy with a pain that cut deep. It made Cass want to cry herself.

Before Cass could answer, a new voice interrupted. “Barbara.” Bruce’s tone was low and firm. He stood in the doorway, his broad frame outlined by the morning light spilling in behind him. It painted him in shades of contrast—warm light against the stoic figure of a man who carried too much.

Barbara glanced back at him, her lips pressed tightly together. She wiped her face quickly, her hand trembling as she did, and nodded. “I’ll leave you two to talk.” With one last glance at Cass, she left, the soft click of the door marking her absence.

Bruce stood still, he was angry. He looked like a wall—an unyielding barrier between Cass and the world beyond.

She felt so much from Bruce, a lot of it was emotions that she could never explain or decipher fully, nor understand. The emotions that she got from him, from his expression, to the way he carried himself, was always a different story than what the man would speak aloud.

"Cassandra." There was an underlying tone, hurt. Not by the physical sense. No. The man felt pain in an emotional sense. "Do you see the world around you?" He spoke. But he was still so hard to read. And she was trying, but even her eyes had limits.

"I..." Cassandra was unsure of her words. She didn't want to mess things up, say the wrong thing. "Yes."

"Really?"

There was a flash of anger in the black pools of his irises. And her eyebrows furrowed, his emotions were messy. "Yes…"

He took a step closer, the shadows following him like loyal companions. “The world. The state it’s in.” There was no curse, instead only a rise in his voice, but not quite a yell or scream. “Martian Manhunter is dead. Green Lantern is being accused of murder. Gotham’s criminals are regrouping, and Lady Shiva—” Bruce sighed and ran a hair through his hair, his eyebrows scrunched up in the middle, and it didn't fit right to see his shoulders bent and slouched. “And I find out Lady Shiva was in Gotham, my Gotham. And you decided that it was the perfect idea for you two to have a go? I actually thought you figured something out, but no, you were impatient and idiotic-" 

"But-"

"No buts, Cassandra!" His voice more of a yell, and his gaze turned to meet hers, his arms crossed. "I thought I lost you."

The words hit like a blow, and for a moment, Cassandra couldn’t breathe. Her chest tightened, and her hands clenched at her sides. “You took Batgirl away."

Bruce’s eyes darkened. “And I should’ve kept her away.”

The words stung. “You don’t trust me.”

“I trusted you to be responsible,” Bruce shot back. “And you proved me wrong.”

The room was silent, the weight of his words hanging between them like a physical barrier. Cassandra’s fists clenched tighter, her nails digging into her palms. Without thinking, she swung at him, her fist aiming for his chest.

Bruce caught her wrist easily, his grip firm but not painful. He didn’t say anything, just looked at her. Cassandra pulled away, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

She hated him. She hated Bruce. She hated the way he made her feel—small, like a child being scolded. Without another word, she turned and left. She heard her name being called, it sounded so much more distant then it was before.

***

The next day, Bruce was gone.

Cassandra found his morning newspaper on the dining table and his seat empty as it would be for days to come.

Cassandra spent her nights, wandering the hallways. She tried and searched everywhere, she knew every detail of his body. The way he would walk, his shoulders would slump tiredly and the bags under his eyes would stand prominent on his pale face.

The only instruction given was to not go outside. And this time, Cassandra decided that maybe, it was time to sit this one out. The outside world was locked out—no phones, no internet, no news. Days blurred into nights, and the only thing left to do was wait.

And wait.

And wait.

***

When the news of Darkseid's death and the defeat of his forces broke, the world erupted in celebration. Cheers echoed in streets that had once been filled with fear, and there was a collective sigh of relief.

The Wayne Manor, on the other hand…

Superman’s imposing figure darkened their shadows. His presence, once a beacon of hope, now carried the weight of loss. Cassandra stood quietly as he delivered the news, her throat dry, her hands cold. His face, normally resolute and strong, now bore the lines of exhaustion. His bright eyes, dimmed with sorrow, seemed older—like he’d aged decades during their lock down.

His voice cracked slightly when he spoke, though the words were clear. “I’m afraid Batman didn’t make it.”

A simple statement.

And yet, it made her whole world come crashing down.

Cassandra felt her heart drop to her stomach. A memory drifted through her mind—the scent of lilies on a summer morning, fleeting and sweet, slipping away before she could hold on.

The world outside might have been celebrating, but Gotham… Gotham was breaking. Without Batman, she descended into chaos. The police force was overwhelmed, no matter how hard they fought. The criminals were emboldened, like vultures circling a dying prey. Gotham was left abandoned, betrayed by the absence of her protector.

And no one could fill his place.

To the world, Batman was eternal—fighting in the shadows, never giving up. That was the story they told themselves.

But Cassandra knew better.

Alfred continued to be the glue barely holding their fractured family together. Staying up, always cleaning or cooking, his movements more robotic and automatic. He was getting older and it was starting to show.

Barbara buried herself in her work as Oracle. In her small, quiet apartment, the constant clatter of keys echoed through the space. She spent endless hours in front of her monitors, searching and digging for anything that might give information. Her fingers danced over the keyboard, and the sound filled the room with noise. She wanted to fill it up with noise. Any noise was fine. As long as it wasn't the voices of her thoughts.

“Dick, it’s the only way,” Timothy said, his voice sharp like the edge of a blade.

Cassandra lingered in the shadows of the hallway. They didn't know she was there and listening, but that didn't matter now, did it? The whole manor could hear their arguing anyway.

“I can’t. I can’t be Batman.”

Richard was cold now, his gaze dull and unfocused. He had no expression, no words of wisdom to speak, no advice, nothing to give. 

Timothy’s reply came quickly, desperately. “Gotham needs someone. It needs Batman.”

Timothy was tired. He hadn't slept in a long while, living off of power naps. There were moments Cassandra caught him drifting off in the cave or on patrol. It was quick, he would snapped his eyes open within the moment his head dropped.

There were times when Cassandra was afraid.

She feared that there would be a time where he'd drift off at the wrong moment, he'd fall off a rooftop in his sleepy trance and break his neck. Or be a bit slow to dodge a knife or a bullet.

“Bruce didn’t want me to do it. It’s in his will—”

Timothy cried a lot. She saw him in his room at times, sobbing into his hands. His cries would echo through the manor's empty and long halls. His tears rolled down his soft cheeks. His shoulders were stiff and he would curl into a ball. The darkness in his room would take hold of the teenager and it never gave back.

“To hell with his will!” Timothy yelled. “There’s already a rogue Batman out there, killing people, leaving bodies in the streets and he doesn't care! It's either you take back the cowl or you let Gotham rot in its own shit." 

'He's violent...brutal, a bad man.' Cassandra had told Jason's grave. It was the only company she had now. She would sit in front of the tombstone, her legs tucked into herself tightly and her hands pressed against her chest. Her nails dug into her skin and her body was warm.

“There has to be another way.” Richard reasoned, but his voice had cracks. It wasn't stable and his hands trembled.

Tim laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. “Another way? Tell me, Dick. Tell me what we’re supposed to do. The whole network is here, Knight and Squire are here, Spoiler, Batwoman—tell me what are we going to do about this, how long until we can't hold our own—how many more people have to die before you step up and fucking do something?”

'Timothy thinks Bruce is still alive,' the breeze had rustled through the leaves. Her eyes stung and she felt the warm tear roll down her cheek. 'Part of me wishes...that he's right about him still being out there. But I also want closure, I want to be sure he's not suffering out there, wherever he may be.'

Without another word, Richard stormed out of the room, brushing past Cassandra without sparing her a glance.

'I want to help—but I can't. I feel as if...I'm stuck here. Trapped behind walls. And I know that I have the freedom to go outside and help. I just can't.'

"Tim?" Cassandra spoke, her voice soft as she entered the room.

Timothy lifted his head to look at her. "Oh, hey Cass." His lips forced a small smile. It was an awkward attempt. A grimace would have been more fitting.

She stepped closer, the floor creaking beneath her. “How are you feeling?”

Timothy sighed, rubbing his temples. “Like shit. I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, it’s just… it’s too much.” His hands fell into his lap, trembling slightly. “I’m sorry you had to hear all that.”

"It's fine." Cassandra offered a small smile. "It really is." It wasn't, but it would have to be, at least for him. 

“The Batman imposter,” Cassandra began to say. “He fights like Bruce. The moves...they're similar. Just more...angry?" Her brows furrowed and she was met with the stare akin to an owl. "Who is he?"

Timothy tensed, his gaze flicking to hers. “No one,” he muttered, the words clipped.

'I feel lost. I felt like I was so concentrated on getting better as Batgirl, that I missed everything around me, and when I noticed, it all hit me so suddenly, like a wave crashing down.'

“But—”

“I said it’s no one!” The outburst was sudden, sharp, and filled with frustration. Cassandra flinched, taking a small step back and her hands twitched as they raised over her torso defensively. Timothy immediately softened as he realized what he did, his expression crumbling into regret. “I’m sorry, Cass. I didn’t mean to—”

“You should rest,” she interrupted gently. Her voice was calm, but her hands were still trembling at her sides.

He nodded, though his eyes remained heavy with unshed tears. “Yeah."

'They don't tell me anything, and sometimes I want to pretend I don't see the things I can. It's easier to pretend to not notice, then having to confront the issues we have.'

Cassandra never did find out who he was.

***

The last time Cassandra saw Bruce, they fought.

Their last words to each other had been filled with hate and disappointment. She hadn’t forgiven him, and now, she never would.

It was hard to move on.

Autumn once again came quickly, the leaves on the trees turning shades of orange and red and they fell, decaying on the streets.  

She found Richard in the Bat cave.

'Richard's Batman now... I guess it fits.' She spoke to Jason whenever she could. He must have been so lonely with everything going on. 'He fired Timothy. And uh, Timothy left, I think he really believes that he's still out there somewhere. He’s calling himself Red Robin now.” She paused, her throat tightening. “And Damian… he’s Robin now."

Richard sat at the computer, his hands moving about and typing. The room was still cold, it hadn't warmed up since his death. It had a certain stench and feel that couldn't wash away. As if the place had grown to know his owner.

Damian was somewhere, she didn't really care. If Damian had been insufferable before, he became even worse after becoming Robin. But, she pitied him, he didn't know what emotions to show or what to do. He was only a child who just met his father and now that he was gone, he grew more aggressive, colder.

Her heart hurt when Richard looked over at her. His lips curled up in a smile, it never reached his eyes though.

'Richard's...he's a very strict batman. He doesn't feel like my older brother anymore. It feels like they all died when Bruce did.' Her eyes had squeezed shut and she bit on the bottom of her lips until it was raw.

"What brings you down here?" He questioned. She glanced around, not knowing what to answer, and her feet lightly tapped on the cold stone floor.

"Aren't you cold?" Cassandra changed the subject as she shivered and her body trembled. Her body temperature was already always low, and she could feel the goosebumps on her skin.

"It's not that bad," he chuckled and tilted his head.

It was. Her toes were cold, and her nose was freezing, the tip turning a shade of scarlet.

"Did you come here just to say hello?" Richard continued. She couldn't read his eyes, but he sounded amused.

"Who's that?" She ignored him and looked at what was on the Bat computer.

'I don't want Batgirl anymore, I don't want to do this anymore.' The grave stayed silent, like how it had always been.

"Stephanie Brown, Spoiler."

Cassandra had seen her around before, her steps were light and swift and she moved like a dancer. She was close with Timothy.

"And who's that?"

"Red Hood."

"Oh."

Richard nodded and leaned back. "Yeah."

He didn't add any information about them, just silence filled the gap.

"Did you eat yet?" He asked, looking her over, and she shrugged.

'Please, just tell me what to do, someone…'

***

Stephanie Brown was nice. Well, Cassandra thought she was. From the first moment Cassandra met the girl, her eyes shone bright. She held her head up high and her voice loud, like a clap of lightning. Stephanie was a bright woman, her mind fast and smart, even though at times, she was a tad slow.

But Stephanie was perfect in Cassandra's eyes. The woman's hands were always soft and gentle with her. And she smelled like flowers. Like lilies and dandelions. Sweet like honey.

Apparently, Stephanie had been frequenting the manor for the past few years, but Cassandra didn't really notice until the very end.

And by the very end, they sat on a rooftop watching the city of Gotham. It had started to fall into the deep dark pit again. The streets were darker. Colder. People were scared again.

"It's cold." Cassandra said, her legs brought close to her body. The winter wind was a harsh breeze. It wasn't pleasant.

Stephanie simply laughed softly, and Cassandra felt a small warmth against her body as Stephanie draped her own jacket over her.

Spoiler had been one of the many heroes that stood up when Batman died. She did all she could and helped where it was most needed.

Her bright smile was contagious. And the small interactions between the two always made Cassandra feel as if she couldn't hold herself together.

Cassandra had a piece missing. She always did. And Spoiler was just a reminder.

"You. I want you to have this." Cassandra's hand moved and placed itself in her bag, her fingers wrapped around the small fabric that fit comfortably.

"What's this?" Stephanie's hand took the cloth from Cassandra's hands.

"Batgirl's mantle."

Cassandra had thought for a long time about her decisions. What to do and how to fix it. The answer came almost naturally.

"What—I don't—" The other woman shook her head and she shoved it back towards her direction. Cassandra didn't take it. "I don't understand."

"It's yours, I can't take this." Stephanie whispered. Cassandra's eyes looked down and her gaze didn't leave the bright green eyes. They didn't waver or flicker.

"Yours," Cassandra spoke. "Batgirl."

The air was tense and she didn't look at Stephanie anymore, instead she turned and faced the skyline of the city, the buildings, the way it moved. It felt lonely and cold. The cars that honked and people that walked down the streets. It was so far away yet so close.

"Okay." The voice that responded back to Cassandra was small and fragile. "Okay."

And that was the moment when Cassandra realised something.

That she could finally breathe. That her body relaxed and she didn't feel as heavy, didn't feel like the entire weight of the world rested on her shoulders.

Bruce, look. She's finally slowing down.

Her heart swelled.

"Good luck."

Chapter Text

Cassandra supposed that there wasn't much left for her in Gotham.

There wasn't much left in manor, except for greying memories and old photographs with their glass shattered. Some of those photos held Bruce—Bruce, the man who had taken her in, the one who treated her like a daughter, offering her care and patience when she thought she deserved neither.

Bruce had given her warmth. Even when they had last fought, he had cared for her in the only way he knew how. She carried that with her, the knowledge that he had tried, even when she had failed him in the end.

And now he was gone. Truly gone.

Hong Kong was a world away from Gotham. Its streets was filled with life, colours, sounds, and scents that were all overwhelming and comforting in some sense. The city felt alive in a way Gotham never did. The buildings were bright with neon lights, the sidewalks teeming with people speaking a tapestry of languages—English, Cantonese, and others she couldn’t quite place. Music spilled from shops and cafes, mingling with the honks of impatient drivers and the laughter of bustling crowds. It was so different from the grim, shadowed and depressing streets of Gotham.

And here, in Hong Kong, Cassandra found a rhythm she could live with—quiet, deliberate, unhurried and simple.

The last she heard of Gotham was that they were under quarantine and the Joker was on the lose again. But Cassandra had no part in this. She didn't care.

Okay, maybe that was a little white lie. Cassandra did care, but that wasn't important anymore. Not right now.

In the late morning, she slipped on her flats and left her apartment. The chill of the early air brushed against her cheeks, her dark hair falling loose over her shoulders. There was a small coffee shop down the block, where the baristas knew her by her usual order—a simple cup of Earl Grey tea.

Bruce’s favourite.

She always took the seat by the window, letting the sunlight pour over her as she sipped the hot tea. It was so warm.

Outside, life bustled: hurried pedestrians, families navigating crowded crosswalks, street vendors calling out to potential customers. Inside, the gentle hum of conversations surrounded her, the baristas’ gossip blending into the comforting clatter of cups and saucers.

Cassandra read often, devouring books as though they held the answers she didn’t know she was looking for. Many of the books she chose were ones she had first seen in Bruce’s study—classics, well-worn and familiar. Currently, she was working her way through the many books of Sherlock Holmes. The story felt alive in her hands, and as she read, she couldn’t help but imagine Bruce as Sherlock himself, his voice steady and confident as he spoke Holmes’ words.

'I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own particular profession, or rather created it, for I am the only one in the world.'

She could almost see him, seated in his study, licking his thumb as he flipped through the pages with his usual methodical precision.

Though that didn't say much. She could easily imagined everyone and anyone as Bruce Wayne. He could be Captain Morstan, the father who mysteriously disappeared, or even Thaddeus Sholto, who thought Mary Morstan deserved the treasure that was robbed from her father.

He was in the streets, the news and he wouldn't leave Cassandra alone.

After an afternoon of reading and letting the soft hum of the cafe wash over her, Cassandra stepped into the streets again, the book she had been reading gently secured inside her bag.

Children passed her as they chased each other down the sidewalks, their high-pitched giggles filling the air. Mothers walked hand-in-hand with daughters, their shopping bags swinging with every step.

It wasn’t always easy to watch. These moments of joy reminded her of something she had lost, something she wasn’t sure she ever truly had.

There were street stalls all the time as well. The smell made Cassandra dizzy and her feet would sway with each step, but she kept a straight mind, her head up. Sometimes, the sweet and spicy would become overwhelming, and her vision would spin, and Cassandra's mouth would salivate and her throat felt clogged.

It wasn't terrible though.

One stall in particular caught her attention. Bubble waffles. The scent was delicate, sweet and inviting, and she found herself pausing in front of it more than once.

Another stall featured dumpling makers whose fingers folded the dough expertly, each crease perfect.

Each detail, each line was something that was so perfect. And she would wonder for hours of how the dough would feel under her thumb.

By evening, the city transformed. Lights flickered on, illuminating the streets in a kaleidoscope of neon colours. The crowds thinned slightly but never completely. Cassandra returned back to her apartment, carrying a small plastic bag in her arms. This time, she held simple comforts: a hot soup and a few freshly baked buns. The handles of the bag dug into her palms, leaving faint red marks that lingered long after she set it down.

Although she had inherited quite a bit from Bruce's will, her apartment was sparse, but it was enough. She ate her dinner quietly on the floor, her legs bare and chilled by the cool tiles. The coffee table before her held the book she’d been reading earlier.

After eating, she practised her English. Her handwriting had improved; each letter was neat, each word carefully constructed. She worked until her head ached and her body felt heavy, but there was satisfaction in the routine.

She carried on with the black suit she wore before. It was nameless, unadorned. She didn’t feel as if she had earned the right to name it, not yet. It wasn’t Batgirl’s mantle, nor did it belong to anyone else. It was hers, a quiet statement that she was still here, still fighting, even if everyone who knew her was left far behind.

***

Cassandra had learned many things about herself over time. Some of them she didn't want to learn, but the others made her happier and content.

She didn’t practice English constantly anymore. Not that she needed to. But for the long time, it had felt like a compulsion, a relentless push to improve, as if perfection would somehow make her whole.

She set the textbooks aside, just for a few days at first, and found she didn’t miss them as much as she thought she would. She realized she didn't find always studying that enjoyable, she didn't know if she ever did.

She discovered she liked coffee more. She enjoyed it's strong and bitter taste. It didn’t burn on her tongue, and it made her heart skip and jump.

On slower, sadder days, though—when the rain pittered and pattered, painting streaks down her windows—she returned to Earl Grey.

Cassandra also realized she did like helping people. Not because it was expected of her, or because she felt obligated, but because she chose to. It was hers to give.

Some days she would pass a candy store a few streets away. The staff were always cheerful, their smiles warm and inviting. It reminded her of Timothy. Cassandra never dared to go in.

And on those days, loneliness had a way of creeping in, and sometimes it was too big for her to handle. There were days when she missed everyone and there were days when she just wanted to pick up her phone and call Bruce’s old number, just to hear his voicemail one more time.

She wondered about Gotham often. Were they safe? Were they happy? Did Richard remember to rest, or was he working himself to the brink of exhaustion as he always did? Had Damian finally found his way and had grown to know himself. Did he finally understand the human side of him? Was Stephanie enjoying being Batgirl? Or had she already moved on? Was Barbara coping, was the pain of being confined to the wheelchair was still there? Were they still keeping Jason company? And Alfred—dear Alfred—was he still holding them all together, silently supporting the family as he always did?

She thought about calling Timothy, wherever he was. She wanted to tell him to stay safe, to remind him that he deserved a place in the world. But the words never made it past her thoughts.

Cassandra huffed as she walked along her usual route, back to her apartment.

It had been nearly a year since Cassandra came to Hong Kong. Time passed slowly, the days blending together until New Year's fireworks lit the skies and faded into memory.

There were still good days and bad days. Days when the world felt manageable and peaceful. Or when everything felt too loud. The noise, the lights, the smells—they all overwhelmed her senses, as though the world was conspiring to crush her under its weight. On those days, even the simple act of breathing felt like a battle. Other days, she felt nothing at all, numb to the passing hours, her coffee growing cold in her hands as she sat and watched life move around her.

Yet, she still found solace in the quiet as she patrolled the rooftops of Hong Kong, her silhouette a shadow against the city lights

The paper bag of groceries was heavy in her arms as Cassandra walked up the stairs to her door and struggled with her apartment keys. The lock resisted her efforts, her fingers fumbling as the bag threatened to spill. After a few frustrating moments, the lock clicked open, and she pushed the door open with her shoulder.

As soon as Cassandra opened the door, she noticed him.

The figure on her couch was motionless, waiting. For a split second, instinct flared in her chest—drop everything, act now—but it quickly faded. Her muscles didn’t tense, her body didn’t react. She knew exactly who it was.

She stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft click. The grocery bags remained steady in her arms as she made her way to the kitchen, though she could feel his gaze on her, sharp and unwavering, like pinpricks along her back. He didn’t move, didn’t speak at first. Just watched.

Whatever his reason for being here, she knew it wasn’t malicious. His intentions were always thoughtful, even when his execution wasn’t.

“I wanted to see you,” his voice broke the silence.

Cassandra paused, her hands midway through stacking cans in the cabinet. Slowly, she turned her head to look at him. Her eyes swept over him, taking in every detail.

Timothy looked tired, taller, his face looked older and she could tell his bones had seen better days. He looked skinnier, but not as unhealthy as Richard could get when things were too stressful. He wasn't a kid anymore.

She turned her body to completely face Timothy. His outfit wasn't really one for Timothy Wayne, Robin nor Red Robin, more of just plain old Tim Drake. A jacket over him with a t-shirt underneath. He looked normal and plain.

“It’s been… a while,” Timothy said after a beat, his voice quiet, uncertain.

“You look fine,” Cassandra replied. There was no hostility in her tone, no resentment. Her words were neutral, honest. Even after everything that had happened—the chaos in Gotham, the grief, their broken family—there was no trace of anger in her voice.

Timothy’s lips twitched, attempting something close to a smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah...” He hesitated, then added, “You do too.”

Cassandra tilted her head slightly, her expression calm, patient. She didn’t press him to explain. If Timothy had come all this way, he’d get to the point eventually.

“Can we talk?” he asked finally.

Cassandra studied him for another moment before giving a small nod. Without a word, she gestured toward the sofa and took a seat. Timothy followed, lowering himself beside her, leaving a large gap. Timothy fidgeting slightly as he searched for the right words.

“I thought you should hear it from me,” he began, his voice steady but tinged with unease. “Bruce is… alive.”

Her breath caught. She stared at him, waiting for him to elaborate.

“He came back to Gotham about a week ago,” Timothy continued, his voice cracking slightly. “He was… stuck in the time-stream. Darkseid sent him there after he… shot him.”

"I see."

"Listen-"

“How long have you known?” Why didn't you tell me?

Timothy hesitated. “A few months. I—I should’ve told you sooner, but I needed to be sure. When I realized he was alive, I got so focused on proving it, on finding him…” His voice trailed off, guilt etched across his face.

Months. They had known for months.

He had even been in Gotham for a whole week, no calls or even a text to ask if she had heard, no 'Hey, Bruce's Alive!' or any 'Get Over Here Fast!'

They had kept this from her. After everything, after she had grieved and made peace with his death, they had still left her in the dark.

Did they not bare that she was his daughter too? That she was also part of the family?

Timothy gaze didn't meet her, his hands awkwardly placed on her hands, his eyes looking down. “Cass…”

A sob broke free before she could stop it. It startled her, the way her body betrayed her calm exterior. The tears came fast as she tore her hand away and softly cried in her hands.

"I-I," She choked back another sob, "can I see him? I need to see him, I-I have to, I need—I can't be..."

"Hey, it's fine." Timothy reassured softly. His voice soothing. "He wants to see you too."

Timothy hesitated for only a moment before his arms encircled her. He gently patted her hair as she buried her face in his shoulder, her tears soaking into his jacket.

“I’m sorry, Cass,” he murmured.

She didn’t respond, her voice caught in her throat. For now, she let herself cry, her emotions spilling out in waves. The anger would fade. The hurt would heal.

Right?

Chapter Text

The flight home lasted 19 hours and 31 minutes. It was spacious and quiet, but the journey back seemed to stretch for an eternity. She spent most of the flight staring out the window, watching the clouds drift below like soft, dreamlike waves.

Timothy, however, wasn’t as composed. He fidgeted constantly, shifting in his seat like a cornered animal. His tired eyes darted to Cassandra every so often, wary and uncertain. For someone who had just flown nearly 20 hours only to turn around and fly right back, his nerves were surprisingly intact—or perhaps they were hanging by a thread. Cassandra couldn’t decide.

It was absurd, really. He could have just called or texted her. She would have appreciated the gesture all the same. But Timothy had never been one to think things through entirely.

When they finally landed at Gotham Airport, the air was cold and damp, the grey skies threatening rain. As expected, the airport wasn’t busy as most weren't fond of visiting such a dangerous city. Their plane taxied to the private runway, where other Wayne Enterprises air crafts stood parked in neat rows.

Waiting for them was a black Bentley, its polished exterior glinting faintly under the overcast sky. As soon as they exited the private plane, the car rolled up and came to a smooth halt in front of them, as though it were an extension of the man driving it. Alfred Pennyworth emerged, impeccably dressed, the image of grace and timeless elegance.

“Alfred!” Cassandra called out and without thinking, she sprinted forward, wrapping her arms around the older man in a tight embrace.

“Miss Cassandra!” Alfred exclaimed, momentarily caught off balance before he steadied himself and returned the hug. His hands rested firmly on her back, holding her with fondness. “My dear, it’s been too long. You haven't grown a day."

"I've gotten older." She corrected when she finally stepped back.

Alfred studied her for a moment, his sharp eyes noting every detail. “I think I preferred your short hair,” he said with a hint of teasing. “You’re growing far too quickly for my liking.”

Timothy approached behind her, lugging both his own bag and her suitcase. He popped open the trunk and tossed them in. He slid into one side of the Bentley while Cassandra climbed into the other. The doors closed with a soft thud, sealing them inside the warm, quiet interior.

As the car pulled away, Timothy let out a long yawn, covering his mouth with one hand.

“Really, Master Timothy,” Alfred clicked his tongue disapprovingly from the driver's seat. “I told you to take a day to rest before returning.”

“No can do, Alfie,” Timothy replied. “Didn’t want to stay there too long. Besides,” he added, glancing toward Cassandra, “Cass needs to see Bruce.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes, but she fought back a smile. She leaned back into the plush seat, her body sore from the long flight.

Her fingers drummed absently against her thigh as she watched the city speed by, her thoughts swirling like the storm clouds gathering overhead.

The city smelled the same—smoke, damp concrete, a hint of something metallic in the air. The sounds were familiar: honking cars, distant sirens, the murmur of people moving through the night. It was Gotham, unchanged and yet entirely different.

She barely remembered the journey to Wayne Manor. Her mind was a haze, consumed with anticipation and anxiety.

The gates of Wayne Manor were imposing, wrought iron standing against the dark trees and even darker skies. The car stopped, and Alfred opened the door, letting her step out to the front of the mansion.

She went to the truck to take her luggage, but Alfred stopped her, his voice soft but insistent. “I will handle these. Go.”

Cassandra hesitated for a brief second, her hands holding themselves tightly. She glanced back at Timothy, but he simply nodded. Taking a deep breath, she followed his lead. They headed to the entrance and as they passed the large doors, Cassandra’s heart thumped louder, harder.

Damian and Richard greeted her, Damian was just a bit taller and he wasn't as much of a child anymore. He had started to form muscles and his baby fat cheeks were now turning hollow and slim. Damian was going through his awkward growth phase. Richard looked less tired, and had so much more muscle. He was larger and taller, his shoulders were wide, like Bruce's.

Damian’s expression surprised her the most. His green eyes, once sharp and filled with arrogance, softened as they met hers. There was something different about him—he was no longer the bratty, spoiled boy she had first met, though the remnants of his pride still lingered in his posture.

Richard’s face held relief, though his grief was still apparent. His lips parted, but he hesitated, as if unsure what to say.

“Hi,” Cassandra offered.

“Cain.” Damian said, nodding towards her direction.

"It’s… great to have you back,” Richard said finally, his voice tinged with uncertainty. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “We didn’t call because we weren’t sure—” He stopped, his gaze shifting behind Cassandra.

And then she felt it. A presence. Strong, familiar.

Her breath caught as she turned.

Bruce.

There he stood, larger than life, his broad frame back lit by the light from the hallway. His dark hair was neatly combed, his skin lightly tanned, his eyes just as piercing as she remembered. Time seemed to freeze as her gaze met his. It was him.

The world melted away. All the dread, all the guilt, all the weight she had carried for so long dissolved in an instant. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the image of him, but she didn’t care. Before she could think, Bruce stepped forward and wrapped her in his arms.

The hug was overwhelming—warm, strong, grounding. His scent, familiar and comforting, filled her senses, and she couldn’t stop herself from clutching his shirt tightly, her fingers gripping the fabric as if he might vanish again.

“I’m so sorry,” Bruce whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

She shook her head. Her words were buried beneath the emotions flooding her chest. "No," she choked out. “No, I'm—” She pulled away to meet his gaze. "I'm sorry."

The guilt she had been carrying for so long threatened to suffocate her, the day they had fought.

"No, that wasn't your fault, I-"

"Please don't leave me." The words were soft, a whisper. A plead. And her body couldn't hold itself up and she fell, Bruce quickly wrapped his arm around her and kept her upright.

"Cass..."

"Please- don't. I can't- I don't want to be alone again. Please-" Cassandra begged. "I'm- I'm sorry."

And as much as she thought she was alright in Hong Kong, and as much as she convinced herself she was perfectly fine, she was wrong. Cassandra was not fine. Everything was a lie. Every single time she thought to herself, 'I'm happy.' It wasn't the truth.

***

Her room hadn’t changed much. It still smelled like her—a faint mix of lavender and worn leather that lingered in the air, as though time had paused the moment she left. The cracks beneath the paint on the walls remained. The windowsill, where she’d spent countless afternoons watching the city, was exactly as she remembered it. Her closet, untouched, still held her clothes, folded neatly, waiting for hands that hadn’t reached for them in so long. The rug was still fluffy against her feet as stars twinkled faintly outside, barely visible against Gotham’s skyline.

It was the same room she had once sat in and cried, the walls bearing silent witness to her struggles. It felt untouched by time, as if she had never left. Not too big, not too small. Not too empty, not too full. Perfectly preserved, and yet, she felt like an intruder in her own space. An intruder in the house.

They talked often about what had happened while Bruce was gone. They shared memories of chaos and rebuilding, moments that had strengthened their bonds in ways Cassandra could only observe from the outside. Inside jokes flowed effortlessly between them, laced with warmth and camaraderie.

Richard and Damian, once a pair of mismatched opposites, now shared a bond that felt unshakable. Richard teased Damian with an ease that only a brother could muster, and Damian, though he would never admit it, seemed to welcome it.

Everyone seemed so happy.

Cassandra watched from the periphery, feeling like a ghost. She couldn’t join in their jokes; they weren’t hers to share. Their conversations meandered into places she didn’t recognize, fragments of a story she hadn’t been part of. Sometimes they would pause, glancing at her, unsure whether to explain or continue. She would wave it off, forcing a small smile, but the gap between them felt large.

She told herself she couldn’t resent them for it—they hadn’t excluded her on purpose. While they fought for Gotham, she had chosen to leave, to run away. She had made her own decisions, and they had made theirs. And yet, despite herself, a small, bitter part of her resented them anyway.

So she became Black Bat.

It gave her a purpose, a role to play. The shadows became her home once more, her movements silent and purposeful, her actions efficient and precise. She was good at what she did, and she knew it.

And then there was Stephanie.

The first time Cassandra saw her again, wearing the Batgirl mantle, her heart stopped. Stephanie moved with the same energy and optimism that Cassandra remembered, her bright blue eyes sparkling with determination. She wore the suit with confidence like it had always been hers.

Cassandra’s stomach twisted. Her chest ached.

Cassandra had left the Batgirl mantle behind. She had handed it to Stephanie willingly, without hesitation, because she believed in her. Stephanie had always had a spark, a light that Gotham needed. Cassandra had known, deep down, that Stephanie was the Batgirl Gotham needed and deserved.

And yet, seeing her wear the mantle still hurt.

And it wasn’t jealousy. It wasn’t bitterness. It was something more complicated, a tangled knot of emotions Cassandra couldn’t untangle. Pride warred with an ache she couldn’t name. Stephanie had made the mantle her own, and she wore it beautifully. The others trusted her, leaned on her, relied on her. Stephanie fit with the team in a way Cassandra never had.

From the shadows, Cassandra watched as Stephanie worked with the others. Her movements were quick, her laughter breaking through the tension with ease. She was good—better than good. She was brilliant, everything Batgirl was supposed to be.

Bruce returned to being Batman. Richard slipped back into the familiar mantle of Nightwing. And Cassandra found herself back at Jason’s grave.

The cemetery was quiet. Beyond the gates, the hum of life persisted—the muffled roar of cars speeding down distant streets, the bark of a lone dog, and faint, indistinct voices of people caught in their evening routines.

The air was still cold, biting against Cassandra’s skin as she knelt by the grave. Her fingers reached out, brushing lightly against the smooth surface of the headstone. A single flower laid there, delicate and soft, its bright petals defiant against the cold, unyielding granite.

“I’m back,” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the quiet. The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning—an apology, an offering, a confession. The wind stirred, rustling the branches above her, carrying the faint scent of earth and decay. It felt as though the world were listening, waiting.

“Sorry I haven’t visited.” Her eyes fell shut for a moment, her breath steady but heavy.

Her voice wavered when she spoke again, softer this time. “Bruce is alive.” The words felt strange, as though saying them out loud would make them less surreal.

“Timothy was right.” A faint, bitter smile tugged at her lips.

Cassandra leaned back slightly, her gaze settling on the petals.

Above her, the moon hung bright and full, casting a pale glow over the cemetery. Shadows stretched across the ground, dark and endless, but the light fell gently over Jason’s grave, softening the stark edges of the stone. She tilted her head back, her eyes tracing the faint, twinkling stars. Somewhere beyond the veil of clouds, Jason was smiling. She was sure of it.

She let the silence stretch, filling it with her presence, her thoughts. The world beyond the cemetery gates moved on, relentless and uncaring. Life never waited for anyone, not for Jason and certainly not for her. But here, for this moment, it stopped just her and her memories.

***

No matter how much she tried to hide it, the loneliness still lingered like a shadow. It clung to her even in moments of quiet, even when she told herself she was fine. She wasn’t fine. And she wasn’t sure how to fix it.

"I'm sad," she admitted one day to Barbara.

They were sitting in a small cafe in the quieter corners of Gotham. Cassandra’s voice was soft as she clutched the warm mug in front of her.

Barbara blinked. “Sad? Why?” she asked gently, her hand reaching out toward Cassandra, her tone cautious, as if worried she might break the younger woman with the wrong words.

Cassandra looked away, her gaze falling to the chipped edge of the cafe table. How could she explain it? How could she put into words the tangled mess of emotions that churned inside her?

“My chest hurts,” she tried as best as she could. “I feel alone.”

She remembered how Barbara had once thrown herself into her work, letting the endless clicks of her keyboard drown out her own struggles. Cassandra’s hand moved instinctively to her chest, pressing against the ache there, as if the physical act might somehow ease the pain. It didn’t.

Barbara’s lips twitched, her expression unreadable as her fingers tapped lightly on the arms of her wheelchair.

“I know,” Barbara said after a long pause.

There was something in her voice—guilt, maybe, or pity. Cassandra couldn’t tell which. She didn’t want to try to figure it out. She just looked away, her fingers still curled into her shirt, gripping tightly.

Cassandra supposed that she was bitter.

Bitter about the world. About Gotham. About the dark knight’s shadow that loomed large over Gotham once more, his wings stretching across the city as the bat signal lit the night skies. About how everyone moved on like they always did, finding their rhythm again, building something new.

Bitter about how the world still hated Cassandra.

And bitter about how, sometimes, it felt like it always will.

***

The rain fell softly, drumming against rooftops as Black Bat’s eyes tracked Red Hood’s frame moving across the skyline.

Red Hood was a recurring name in the Batcave, spoken in hushed tones and with frustrated resignation. While Cassandra had been in Hong Kong, he’d left a trail of havoc and destruction behind him, a mess that everyone seemed to dance around in conversations.

They talked about him as though he was someone important, someone they knew in a way she didn’t. As if he was an open wound they couldn’t bear to close. She was sick of it—the secrecy, the half-truths, the silence. But asking for answers wasn’t something they did. She couldn’t stand to beg for scraps of information as if she were some helpless, uninformed child.

No, if they wouldn’t tell her the truth, she’d find it herself.

Red Hood was a murderer, no hesitation in his actions. His movements were calculated, his aim precise. Always in control, no matter the chaos around him. It was maddening.

What was so special about him? Why did Batman let him go time and time again? She could feel it—their desperation, their barely contained frustration when they had let Red Hood escape yet again. Why did a killer deserve such mercy? Why did Batman, who held justice so sacred, grant him this exception?

Cassandra understood one thing: history. Whatever tethered them together ran deep, a history she wasn’t privy to, one everyone else knew but her.

A click echoed behind her and Cassandra raised her hands slowly, a gesture of surrender, and turned.

“Hm,” Red Hood’s modulated voice drawled, dripping with sarcasm. “Another bat has come to pay me a visit. Aren’t I special?”

He was tall, imposing. His stance was wide, balanced, his movements deceptively casual. One hand rested on the handle of his weapon, the other hung loosely at his side. His fingers tapped rhythmically against his thigh.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“That’s my line, doll face,” he scoffed, taking a step closer. He let Cassandra face him fully. "Another kid Batman took in and trained?” he mused, the chuckle beneath his helmet humourless, cold.

She stepped forward, and the barrel of his gun lifted, aimed directly at her.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he warned, his voice dropping into a lower, darker tone.

“You won’t shoot,” Cassandra replied calmly, crossing her arms. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the chill seeped into her bones, making her shiver beneath her costume.

“I’ve shot people for less,” Red Hood retorted, his grip steady.

They stood in silence as they continued to stare at each other.

“Why are you here?” he finally asked, his voice softer now, the edge easing slightly.

Cassandra hesitated. “Who are you," she asked again. "To them?"

The question hung in the air, unanswered. For a moment, something flickered in his posture—a twitch, a shift in his stance. An emotion, maybe, or just a trick of the light.

But then his voice rang out, sharp and panicked. “Fuck, watch out!"

The gunshot cracked through the air before she could fully react. The sound reverberated in her ears as Red Hood lunged toward her, his body colliding with hers as they hit the wet rooftop. Pain shot through her shoulder as they rolled to a stop, his weight pinning her momentarily.

“Shit!” he hissed, pushing himself up and drawing his gun in one fluid motion. “Stay down, you fucking idiot!”

Cassandra froze as he stepped in front of her, his body shielding hers completely.

In the distance, she saw it—a sniper, perched high with a long-range rifle. The assassin’s hands were steady, his finger already tightening on the trigger.

She moved without thinking. Grappling upward, she launched herself toward the attacker. Her legs connected with his chest, knocking him backward. The rifle clattered to the ground as the assassin swung wildly with a knife, but Cassandra was faster.

Her hands caught his forearm, twisting sharply. The knife fell, and she forced him to the ground, his arm pinned painfully behind him. “Talk,” she demanded.

“I wasn’t aiming for you, you bitch—”

The words died in his throat as Red Hood’s boot connected with his jaw. Cassandra turned sharply to see Red Hood standing over them, his gun raised, the safety already clicked off.

“No,” she said firmly, her dark eyes locked on his white lenses. “No.”

Red Hood tilted his head slightly, his grip unwavering. “Look, I’m fine with you Bats dealing out your own brand of justice, but this?” He gestured toward the man on the ground with a jerk of his head. “This is my business.”

“This isn’t how it works,” she hissed, grabbing the barrel of his gun and forcing it upward.

“It works for me,” he replied, pulling another smaller gun from his holster in one swift motion. The shot rang out, sharp and final.

The assassin’s body went limp as the bullet struck.

Cassandra’s hands fell to her sides as Red Hood holstered his weapon. “Heh, too fucking slow,” his voice was mocking. He kicked the body toward the edge of the roof, letting it fall into the alley below.

“They were aiming to kill. Fair game, right?” he added, his tone laced with bitter amusement.

Cassandra clenched her fists, her body trembling with barely contained frustration.

“Next time,” Red Hood said, his helmet glinted in the dim light as the rain completely stopped. “Next time, move out of the fucking way when someone’s shooting.”

And just like that, he was gone, disappearing into the night.

***

Cassandra sat at the dining table, staring at her plate. The meal had been hot minutes ago, steam rising in soft wisps, but now it was cool to the touch. It smelled good. It looked good. Her stomach ached with hunger, yet her appetite felt distant, unreachable. Her tongue tasted like iron, and her throat was dry as the cold Gotham air.

She gripped her fork tightly in one hand, the knife in the other. The silver blade gleamed, spotless, reflecting the dim chandelier light above. Her grip felt wrong, like her hand wasn’t hers, like the utensils were foreign objects she didn’t know how to wield.

Her eyes flicked upward, meeting Richard’s to her right. His gaze was steady, soft with concern. “You alright, Cass?” Cassandra couldn’t tell if the question came from genuine care or if it was asked out of habit.

“Yeah,” she replied flatly, lowering her eyes back to her plate.

Across the table, Timothy poked at his food in silence, his gaze fixed downward. Damian ate quietly beside him, uncharacteristically subdued. On her left, Stephanie sat with an energy Cassandra couldn’t bring herself to meet. At the far ends of the table sat Alfred and Bruce, facing each other.

Cassandra gripped the fork tighter, her knuckles whitening. The tension in the room felt suffocating, thick as the silence stretched on.

“Cass?” Stephanie’s voice broke through.

“Don’t call me that.”

Stephanie’s eyes widened, startled by the sharpness in her tone. “I’m sorry—Cassandra,” she corrected herself gently, her voice so kind it made Cassandra’s chest ache. “Are you okay?”

The room stilled. All eyes were on Cassandra now, the weight of their attention pressing down on her. Her stomach churned. She hadn’t meant it. Hadn't meant for it to come out so mean.

Her words came out before she could stop them. “I’m going back to Hong Kong.”

The stillness deepened, the air hanging heavy with unspoken questions. No one spoke, as if waiting for her to elaborate.

“When?” Bruce finally broke the quiet.

“First thing tomorrow,” she said softly, her gaze fixed on her plate.

“You can’t just leave like that, Cass—” Richard began, his tone rising slightly, but Cassandra cut him off.

“I just came to check in. And I did.” Her voice was even, resolute, though her fingers trembled slightly as they rested on the table. She returned to picking at her food, even though she had no intention of eating it now.

Timothy’s hand shook as he dropped his fork, his voice cracking as he tried to speak. “You can’t—why—why are you—” His words tangled and broke apart, leaving him floundering.

And that was the thing with emotions, Cassandra found. The more she tried to ignore them and not care for them, not acknowledge her own emotions. It hurt people. Because sometimes emotions didn't exist just within a person, they existed between them too.

Richard leaned forward, "we’re your family, Cass. Please, at least talk to us.”

Her chest tightened. She felt the words rising before she could stop them, sharp and bitter. “No. My family died along with Bruce."

The room seemed to shrink around her. Her voice sounded cold, even to her own ears, and the words felt like daggers. Did she mean them? She wasn’t sure.

The way their faces shifted—shock, hurt, guilt—it didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel like anything.

“You all left me out,” she said, her voice trembling as tears welled in her eyes. “Bruce died, and no one talked about it. No one wanted to confront what happened. You were all stuck in the same grief, and everything else—everyone else—was tossed aside.”

She paused, her hands clenching into fists at her sides as the tears came faster. “There wasn’t a family anymore. Not after he was gone—even now. Everyone just—just splintered. You all went your separate ways, trying to hold on, but there was nothing holding us together. And I…” Her voice cracked, her chest heaving as the words choked her. “I didn’t even know what happened. No one told me. No one thought to tell me. It was like I didn’t exist to any of you. No one talks about it.”

The chair scraped loudly against the floor as she stood abruptly.

And then she did was she was best at—she ran. Ran down the halls and into the cold night.

The clouds above were grey. Dark. Her tears were warm, her skin was cold, and the wind that blew harshly in Gotham was colder. Cassandra's breathing picked up and she couldn't stop. Her mind was foggy and she couldn't stop running.

She found herself on the same rooftop that she gave Stephanie the Batgirl mantle. Her shoulders shook as she pressed her hands to her chest, trying to hold herself together. The city stretched out before her, cold and unyielding, and Cassandra couldn't hold herself anymore.

Chapter Text

“I hate you, you know?”

The night carried a cold breeze that nipped at her skin. Cassandra wanted to tear up and scream, shout as loud as she could.

Stephanie sat beside Cassandra, her head resting on her palm as she leaned on her knees. She huffed out a soft laugh. “Yeah,” she said with a shrug. “Yeah. I’d hate me too.”

Cassandra’s gaze flicked away from the blonde and back to the cityscape. “You did really well, though." Her eyes followed a few birds as they flew past. “As Batgirl."

Stephanie shrugged again, her lips curling into a small, toothy grin. "I guess I did, didn’t I? I mean, I learned from the best.” Her grin widened, the sincerity in her tone caught Cassandra off guard. “I’ve always admired you, Cassandra. Even now, when you hate me. You’re still amazing.”

Cassandra let out a long sigh, her fingers curled around the concrete ledge. Her bangs fell in front of her eyes. "I'm just… bitter."

The words hung in the air for a moment before she continued, her voice quieter. Cassandra didn't really know what she was saying, but she knew she just needed to let it out. “I’m bitter because, when Gotham needed us the most, I blamed everyone else. I blamed them for not knowing me, for not understanding. But they had their own problems, their own grief. They didn’t need mine on top of that.”

Her knees came up to her chest as she leaned forward, wrapping her arms around them.

Stephanie shifted beside her, her gaze fixed on the streets below. She was quiet for a few seconds, like she didn't know what to say before she finally understood. “You know… Your brothers? They’re not great at communicating. So don’t go assuming they don’t care about you or something.”

Cassandra tilted her head slightly.

“They’re good men,” Stephanie continued, her tone firm. “They just… suck at saying how they feel. And you know that. Their communication skills are on par with a doorknob.” She laughed lightly, leaning closer to Cassandra’s side. “But they care. They were just stressed, and they didn’t know how to show it.”

Cassandra's bottom lip quivered. Even now, Stephanie always knew what to say.

“'M sorry. Just jealous of you...” Cassandra finally admitted.

“Jealous?”

“You fit in so naturally. You knew what happened. You were there, and I was… left in the dust. I was jealous of the way you became the Batgirl I wasn't...never would be."

Stephanie’s expression softened, her usual energy dimming as she sat quietly for a moment. “Cassandra,” she said gently, “you know, we’re a lot alike.”

“How?”

Stephanie leaned back, her shoulders stiffening slightly. “My dad—Cluemaster—wasn’t exactly… a great person. He was in and out of jail. And when he wasn’t, I was alone. All the time.”

Her frown deepened as she stared at her hands, her fingers tracing the seam of her pants. “I know it’s not the same. I know it doesn’t help. But I get it. I understand what it’s like to feel like you’re on the outside looking in, to want a family."

“But, Cassandra,” Stephanie continued, "there’s nothing to be bitter about. They were all just as broken as you were. They just dealt with it differently. And they still need you—not as Batgirl, not even as Black Bat—but as you. As Cassandra. They’re not my family. They’re yours. Don’t throw away what you have with them.”

"You're allowed to feel the sadness. And I think that's just because you're feeling a tad lost, not knowing where to go." She hummed and bumped her head gently onto Cassandra's shoulder. "It'll get better, just like how I was lost before you gave me Batgirl."

The night seemed quieter now, the city’s noise fading into the background. The wind stilled, the cold air settling around them like a blanket. Cassandra’s shoulders relaxed slightly, her gaze softening as she looked at Stephanie beside her.

“Speaking of Batgirl…” Stephanie began, wrinkling her nose with mock disgust. “I think it’s time she goes back to her owner. Kind of a heavy burden. I think I’d like to go back to being Spoiler.”

“I think… I like Black Bat,” Cassandra said, her smile growing as her hand ghosted over Stephanie's.

Stephanie grabbed her hand and squeezed. “Who’s gonna be Batgirl, then?”

Cassandra laughed softly, the sound echoing through the quiet night. “She’ll go back to Oracle,” she replied, her hair catching in the faint breeze as the tension finally began to melt away.

"And uh," Cass paused. "Thank you. So much, Steph."

***

Cassandra took time afterwards. She thought about home, about what it really meant. What made a place a home?

Gotham wasn’t her home. It was a city—a place to fight crime, with its noisy streets, towering skyscrapers, and lights that glowed against the dark. Gotham was a battleground, a space of constant chaos and uncertainty. It wasn’t home, not to her. What had drawn her to Gotham wasn’t a sense of belonging but the thrill of the fight, the pull of duty.

To Cassandra, home wasn’t a place. It wasn’t a house with walls and rooms or a city with familiar streets. Home wasn’t something physical. It wasn’t something she could hold or see.

Home, she realized, was more complicated than that. It wasn’t a house in Gotham or Hong Kong—both were merely buildings, structures made of concrete and stone.

Her thoughts drifted to the days she’d spent homeless, running from her father. She remembered waking up drenched in rain, her clothes clinging to her freezing skin, her body shivering so hard she thought it might stop altogether. She remembered the suffocating heat of summer, when her lungs felt like they were collapsing with every breath. In those moments, there had been no house, no family, no place to call home.

And yet, she had survived.

She had survived because, even then, there was something she held onto. Not a person she knew, but the idea of one. Someone she had imagined, someone who gave her the strength to keep moving forward.

And that idea had finally form.

That idea of someone was finally real.

It was her family. Her strange one, maybe. Broken in ways no one could fully fix. But real.

She wanted them, and sometimes, she would even say that she needed Stephanie Brown more than anyone in this world, to ground and remind her that she had a family. One that maybe was dysfunctional, broken, and in some aspects, they didn't have much trust in one another, and they were all a bit crazy and traumatized. But that's just how it was.

Cassandra returned to Wayne Manor instead of returning to Hong Kong because, deep down, she wanted to try. She wanted to rebuild, to see if there was something left to salvage. And she knew it had to start with an apology.

They said actions spoke louder than words, but sometimes, words were what mattered.

Steph walked beside her as they headed toward the living room. Her presence gave Cass strength, grounding her as her heart pounded in her chest.

When they entered, the others were scattered around the room. Timothy was hunched over a laptop, typing furiously, with neatly stacked folders beside him. Damian was engrossed in a book, his head bent low. Richard stood off to the side, watching them both like a silent guardian.

Richard noticed her first. His eyes met hers, soft and searching. “Cass."

“Hi,” she replied, her voice cracking slightly. Her throat felt dry, and the word came out awkward.

Timothy’s hands froze over the keyboard, and he straightened. “You didn’t leave?” he asked, his tone cautious, like he didn’t dare hope.

Cassandra shook her head. “I thought about it,” she admitted. “But no, I didn’t want to.”

The room fell silent, the air heavy with expectation. Cassandra’s fingers fidgeted at her sides, her breath catching in her chest.

“I… apologize,” she began, her voice trembling. “For what I said the other night. And for leaving. I shouldn’t have left the way I did. It was unfair and hypocritical.” She hesitated, the words catching in her throat. “And—”

She didn’t get the chance to finish. Before she could take another breath, she was pulled into a tight embrace.

Tim’s arms wrapped around her, holding her securely. “No,” he said firmly. “We’re the ones who need to apologize. You were right. We didn’t do what we should have as your family. We weren’t there for you, and that wasn’t fair.” His grip tightened slightly. “We needed you just as much, Cass.”

The scent of him—something sweet and familiar, like the candies he used to share with her—brought her a sense of comfort she hadn’t felt in so long.

Dick joined the embrace, his arms folding around them both. “I was selfish,” he murmured, his voice tinged with regret. “I forgot I had responsibilities outside the mantle. You have every right to be angry at us.”

Cass' chest tightened as tears welled in her eyes. Her breath hitched as she let herself relax into their embrace, feeling the warmth of their presence wash over her.

Damian stood at a distance, his posture stiff and uncertain. His frown deepened as he glanced between them, but it wasn’t anger—it was hesitation, vulnerability.

“We all should be sorry,” Damian muttered, his voice low. “None of us acted appropriately. Especially me. I’ve been… immature. An insufferable brat.” His gaze dropped to the floor. “And I never apologized for it. Not even before Father disappeared.”

Before he could retreat further, Cass reached out, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him into the hug. His protest was half-hearted, and eventually, he let himself relax into the group.

Steph joined them without a word, her arms wrapping around the bundle of family with a bright smile.

The night ended in quiet, the tension that had once filled the house fading away. Later, Cass laid in bed, her body nestled in cool sheets and her head resting on warm pillows. Her chest felt light, free of the weight she had carried for so long.

***

Cassandra found herself at Jason’s grave again. It had been months since her last visit, and the air had warmed, the brisk spring wind brushing against her face. She sat on the soft grass, feeling the way it swayed gently beneath her legs as the wind moved through the cemetery. For a brief moment, she believed she was alone.

But then, as she turned her head to the left, there he was.

The Red Hood sat silently a few feet away, his helmet catching the light of the fading sun. Its glossy surface reflected the blue hues of the evening sky, making him seem more statue than man.

“Why do you always come here?” he asked, his voice modulated, but the curiosity was unmistakable.

“I don’t,” Cassandra replied softly, though she knew it wasn’t entirely true. She lowered her head, resting it in her hands. “Did you know Jason well?”

There was a brief pause, and through the faint hiss of the voice modulator, she heard him exhale. It wasn’t loud, but it carried weight, an emotion she couldn’t quite identify.

“We knew each other.” His answer was curt and deliberate.

Cassandra tilted her head back, gazing at the sky. The familiar sight of birds gliding above comforted her. They always did. Birds reminded her that no matter where you were in the world, they were there—chirping, singing, living. They made the world feel a little less lonely.

“I’m… glad he has people who remember him,” she murmured.

Red Hood gave a low grunt in response, a sound that could have meant agreement, acknowledgement, or simply that he had no more to say.

“What about you?” He asked after a moment, "do you...miss him?”

She hesitated, just for a second, before replying. “I’ve never met him,” she said. “So I couldn’t.”

Cassandra had long since stopped wondering about Red Hood—what her family hid about him, why he was treated like an unspoken secret. At first, the mystery had been frustrating, the way everyone avoided talking about him as if doing so might summon something unwelcome.

But now? Now, it felt unimportant. Whatever they were hiding, it wasn’t hers to uncover.

She glanced at him, noting the way he sat still, almost contemplative. From what she had seen of him, Red Hood was an enigma. He operated differently from the rest of the Bat-family. He fought criminals with a brutal efficiency, saved civilians without hesitation, and yet… the others turned a blind eye to the methods he used. Methods they would never condone from anyone else.

She didn’t question it anymore. It didn’t feel like her place, and the questions only seemed to hurt the ones she cared about. Bruce’s jaw would tighten, Dick’s eyes would cloud over, and the tension would hang heavy in the air. So, Cassandra let it lie.

She didn’t need answers. She wasn’t owed explanations.

Besides, she didn’t think poorly of him. In the brief interactions they’d shared, Red Hood had saved her life. He had done what was necessary, even if it was something the others wouldn’t have done. She didn’t judge him for it. He wasn’t a threat to her or the people she loved.

That was enough for her.

She looked back to where he had been sitting, but he was gone.

Cassandra let out a quiet breath, her gaze returning to Jason’s grave. The wind picked up slightly. She didn’t feel alone, even though the cemetery was silent once more.

***

“Cass!” Tim grinned as he bounced toward her, pulling her into an enthusiastic hug as she walked into the living room.

Cass stiffened in his hold, her eyes narrowing. “What did you do?”

“Nothing! I haven’t done anything—in what context? I’m hurt—betrayal!” Tim sputtered, backing away with his hands raised in mock innocence, though the grin tugging at his lips betrayed him.

In the distance, Cass caught the sound of yelling. Damian and Dick’s voices echoed from upstairs, sharp and animated, though the exact words were drowned out by their volume.

Tim’s expression shifted to mild panic as he darted toward a cupboard, cramming himself inside with surprising speed. He clasped his hands together in a silent plea, mouthing, “Please.”

Cass sighed, arching an eyebrow but saying nothing.

Moments later, Damian and Dick came barrelling down the stairs, breathless and armed with Nerf guns.

“Cass! When did you get here?” Dick exclaimed, doubling over to catch his breath. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he tried to compose himself, his usual charm dulled by his exhaustion. He stepped forward to hug her, but Cass sidestepped gracefully, her movements fluid and effortless.

“You’re sweaty,” she said, scrunching her nose and covering it with her hand in mock disgust.

Damian snorted softly, the laugh barely escaping his throat as though he was trying to suppress it.

Dick pouted but didn’t press further, glancing around suspiciously.

“Have you seen Drake?” Damian asked, his brows furrowed and his lips drawn into a frown.

“He went that way,” Cass replied lazily, motioning toward the kitchen with a flick of her hand.

Their eyes narrowed with the intensity of soldiers on a mission. Weapons loaded, they took off down the hallway, ready to corner their target.

The second their backs were turned. Tim burst from his hiding spot, laughing triumphantly as he shot foam darts hitting both brothers square in their backs.

“Ha! You’re out! I win! I finally win!” he declared, his laughter bordering on maniacal.

Cass, unfazed, turned with a hidden gun and shot Tim without hesitation.

Tim looked down at the foam dart stuck to his chest with a dramatic gasp. “Et tu, Brute?” he whispered, collapsing to his knees in mock betrayal, his voice quivering as though Cass had truly wounded him.

Cass couldn’t hold back her grin. “I win.”

“Boo!” the three boys chorused, their collective groan filling the room as they recovered from their 'defeat.'

“I demand a rematch!” Damian declared, his voice sharp with determination. Dick and Tim nodded quickly in agreement, their eyes alight with a competitive fire.

Cass tilted her head, smirking. “What’s in it for me?” she asked, one hand cupping her ear as though she were hard of hearing, the other resting confidently on her hip.

The boys exchanged glances, whispering hurriedly among themselves. After a brief but intense debate, Dick stepped forward, raising his hands as though in surrender.

“We shall grant thee the highest honors of our gratitude and respect—”

“And candy.'

“—and candy,” Dick added, his voice as solemn as he could manage, though a grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “We offer thee—”

Before he could finish, Cass shot a dart that struck Dick square in the forehead, cutting his declaration short. He stumbled back dramatically, clutching at his wound as he fell to the ground in another exaggerated display of defeat.

“No need for all that,” Cass said with a roll of her eyes.

The room erupted into laughter as the boys scattered like mice, readying themselves for the inevitable rematch.

***

The next time she met Red Hood, Cassandra was swinging around Gotham on one of the quieter nights. A few burglars had tested their luck, but they’d been easy to deal with. As she leapt between rooftops, her sharp eyes caught sight of a crow cutting through the air. Its black wings glinted faintly in the dim light, and it swooped low before heading toward the East End. Cassandra’s gaze followed the bird, her curiosity pulling her in its wake.

Before she realized it, her surroundings had shifted. The buildings were taller here, their grimy facades barely lit by flickering neon signs far below. She paused, the unfamiliarity of the area sinking in. But then she saw him.

Red Hood sat perched on the edge of a rooftop, legs crossed, his shoulders slouched forward and his helmeted head tilted down as though gravity weighed heavily on it.

“You okay?” The words left her mouth before she had time to reconsider. But Red Hood looked like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, and her heart couldn’t just ignore the sight.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” His voice was strained, and his fingers pressed hard against the concrete ledge. “Just fucking peachy.”

He lifted his head to look at her, the lenses of his helmet locking onto her like a predator sizing up prey. His voice dripped with sarcasm, but beneath it, Cassandra caught the cracks of something raw. His body turned toward her, and even though the helmet hid his face, she was certain he’d been crying. It was in the tension of his posture, the tightness in his voice.

Cassandra stepped closer; his frame stayed rigid, but he didn’t pull away. She crouched and her hand reached out, resting lightly on the armoured shoulder pad of his jacket. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t flinch at her touch, but his gaze shifted toward the dark sky. “Sometimes…” he began, his voice softer now. “I wonder if things are ever going to change.”

“They always do." Around them, Gotham seemed to hold its breath. The usual symphony of car horns, shouting, and sirens faded to a soft hum beneath the whispering wind.

“Not this,” Red Hood muttered, almost to himself. His body turned slightly away from her. “Never this.”

“Do you wish they would?”

He let out a dry, scratchy chuckle. “There was a time,” he admitted, “when I wanted things to go back. When all I could think about was how things could’ve been different. That did hadn't happened the way they had.” He huffed, his feet shifting against the ledge. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? None of it does.”

Cassandra watched him carefully, unsure whether to speak or let him fall into the silence he seemed to crave.

“But he still chooses him,” Red Hood hissed, his voice low and filled with venom. “Every damn time. No hesitation.”

The disdain, the bitterness—it poured out of him like a poison he couldn’t keep inside. It was all too familiar. “I don’t even care about the deadbeat anymore. Not after everything he’s done…everything he keeps doing. But fuck, it just…” He trailed off, inhaling sharply. “Fuck.”

“He’d rather I die, than kill a psychopath.”

Then, unexpectedly, he turned his gaze back to her. “Why won’t you kill?” The question was abrupt, direct. His helmet seemed to amplify the weight of the question, the empty lenses boring into her like they could see through her skin.

She blinked, her brow furrowing. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked, but coming from him, it felt different—like a challenge, not just a question. The answer was simple, though.

“I don’t want people to suffer,” she said softly. "And you?"

He snorted, the sound dry and humourless. “I just want to stop people from suffering.” His words hung in the air, and for a moment, she didn’t know how to respond. It was hard to argue with logic like that.

“Does that include you?” she asked finally. Her hand gestured vaguely toward him, to the tension in his shoulders, the way his fists clenched and unclenched as if fighting against his own body.

His frame tensed, and he turned away again, his body language closing off. “You Bats,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Always prioritizing feeling good, huh? Gotta let the bad guy go, let innocent people suffer for it. Instead of actually saving them.”

Cassandra let the accusation hang in the air. She understood his frustration, the bitterness he carried. But her answer hadn’t changed.

“If I kill them…” she began, her voice calm but unwavering, “then I believe no one can change. That it’s over for them. And if it’s over for them… then it’s over for everyone. Even you.”

His head turned slightly at that, just enough for her to see the slight tilt of his helmet, the smallest acknowledgement that he was listening.

“I have to believe people can change,” she continued, her eyes steady on him. “Because if I don’t… how can I believe I can?”

He scoffed, but there wasn’t as much bite to it this time. His body language softened, just barely.

The two of them stood there, side by side, gazing out over Gotham. The city’s lights flickered and pulsed beneath them.

But Cassandra wasn’t afraid of the dark. And she suspected, deep down, neither was he.

***

Sometimes, Cassandra found Bruce in the Batcave, staring at the flickering screens of the Batcomputer. He would sit completely still, his posture like a statue carved out of grief. His gaze often seemed far away, lost in the endless tide of thoughts that came with being Batman. She approached quietly, her steps light, as if not to disturb him. And every time, she would check—just to be sure he was still alive. He always was.

The Batcomputer’s monitors shifted between news feeds and images: the Joker’s latest escape, his most recent scheme thwarted, his capture once again. Another night where Batman had stopped the unthinkable just in time. No lives were lost this time, no innocents caught in the crossfire. The headlines on the screen should have been a victory, but they weren’t.

Cass’ eyes lingered on the Joker’s grinning face frozen in a mugshot. She hated that smile.

“Everything alright, Bruce?” Her voice broke the heavy silence as she leaned slightly forward, peering over his shoulder.

For a few seconds, he didn’t respond. He stayed perfectly still, as if her words hadn’t even registered. The air in the cave was heavy, the kind that settled deep into your bones. Only the soft fluttering of the bats overhead offered any reprieve from the weight.

“I’m fine,” Bruce finally said, his tone clipped and short. He didn’t look at her. “Why?”

“You just… seem sad." Cass didn’t sugarcoat things; she told the truth as plainly as it came to her. “Thought something bad happened.”

At that, Bruce turned slightly, his shoulders loosening as he glanced back at her. His lips twitched with the ghost of a smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Is that what I look like to you?” He teased.

“You look tired,” she replied, tilting her head.

Bruce let out a breath and turned back to the computer. The Joker’s image still loomed on the screen. “Just a bad day,” he admitted.

Cass nodded. She understood bad days. The kind where the world felt tilted just slightly off its axis. The kind where your emotions didn’t match the sunshine outside or where everything felt too heavy, even the air.

Her bad day had lasted a whole year.

“Will you be okay?” she asked after a moment and her hand rested lightly on his forearm. She looked up at him, searching through the lenses of his cowl. Even though the mask covered his face, she could see the weariness in his posture, in the way he carried himself.

“I don’t know,” he said softly. His voice, usually so resolute, wavered just slightly.

The bats overhead shifted, their wings a soft flutter in the cavernous silence. Cass was reminded of her first days at the manor, of the hesitant bond that had formed between them. Bruce had patted her head, an almost clumsy gesture of comfort, and it had meant more to her than words ever could.

Now, she acted on instinct, tugging gently at his arm until he turned toward her. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around him. His cape fell around them like a shield.

Bruce’s arms came around her waist, his grip firm but not overbearing. His chest rose and fell steadily against her. She realized then just how large he was—not in a way that intimidated her, but in a way that made her feel protected.

“It’ll be okay,” she whispered. “Just a bad day. We all have them.”

“Thank you,” he mumbled into her hair. His voice vibrated through his chest, and the sound melted something inside her.

When she finally pulled back, she was face to face with the mask.

It was in moments like these that she feared Bruce might already be dead—his body alive, but his soul worn down by the weight of the world. It was a thought that came to her in the quiet hours, in the stillness before dawn. The doubts whispered to her, gnawed at the edges of her mind. But as Bruce gently patted her head, those fears began to fade.

***

“It’s cold,” Red Hood muttered, his voice cutting through the stillness. The summer air was thick, humid even.

Cassandra glanced at him.

“It will get warmer,” she replied softly, almost absently.

“I doubt that,” he said, a bitter edge to his words. His arms crossed over his chest, his body a fortress against whatever ghosts haunted him.

***

“I made a mistake." Bruce was seated in front of the Batcomputer, its screens glowing dimly in the darkness of the cave. His eyes were fixed again on an image of the Joker, the man’s twisted smile frozen in a mugshot. Bruce’s expression was hard to read, but Cassandra caught the flicker of sadness, maybe even pity, in his gaze. His fingers brushed against his lips, a small, unconscious movement, as though he were tracing the shape of words he couldn’t bring himself to say.

The screen flickered, and the Joker’s image was replaced by a photo of Red Hood.

“How?"

“There was… someone,” Bruce began, his voice barely more than a whisper. His eyes shifted to the side, away from the screen and the images it displayed. The Joker’s arrest footage played in the corner, timestamped with the early hours of the day. “Someone I could have been better to. Someone who died because of my mistakes, my carelessness.”

His shoulders, broad and strong, didn’t seem to belong to someone who could be careless. His posture, rigid and deliberate, spoke of discipline and control.

“You regret that?” she asked.

Bruce didn’t answer immediately. His shoulders tensed, his body language betraying the emotions he usually kept so carefully hidden. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady but tinged with a sadness that was impossible to miss.

“I think, to an extent, everyone regrets some decisions they’ve made."

Cass hesitated, then asked, “What… are your regrets?”

Bruce exhaled sharply.

“Jason,” he said at last, his voice almost breaking on the name. “I didn’t protect him well enough.”

The words hung in the air, and Cass felt her chest tighten. But what did Jason have to do with this?

Her eyes widened slightly as the pieces clicked into place.

“Jason Todd-Wayne,” she said, the name heavy on her tongue. She didn’t look at the screen, didn’t need to.

“He’s alive,” Bruce said, his tone heavy with the weight of the confession. The words fell like stones, rippling through the silence. “He was brought back.”

Cass’ gaze lifted to the Batcomputer. Red Hood’s image remained on the screen, illuminated against the darkness. She stared at it, letting the reality of Bruce’s words sink in. This was it—the family secret she had never asked for but always felt on the edges of.

It was something she hadn’t known she wanted to understand, yet now that she did, it tied her even more tightly to the family that had taken her in.

Chapter Text

Cassandra’s steps were silent as she approached the grave, the grass slick beneath her shoes. The sky was overcast, heavy with the promise of rain. Any moment now, the clouds would break open, and the city would drown beneath the storm.

Another bouquet rested there—fresh and carefully placed. The petals hadn’t begun to wilt yet, still vibrant and full, as if they’d just been taken from a florist’s shop.

“Why don’t you come home?” she murmured as her hand brushed the edges of the bouquet. Flowers he left for himself.

In moments like these, she thought she might be going a little crazy—talking to a grave that didn’t hold the boy it was meant for.

“They… you know you’re a big part of their heart, right? Even if they won’t say it.” And she wished things could have been different.

“He regrets it,” Cassandra breathed, blinking against the sting in her eyes. “That you feel alone.”

The words tumbled out and anger curled inside her chest—not just at Jason but at Bruce too.

“Bruce is stupid.” The words were thick with frustration that felt too big to hold inside. “Really, really stupid.”

“But that's okay." Her hair hung loosely around her shoulders, longer now. She wondered if Jason had noticed.

“Jason… Bruce misses you.” Her gaze lifted toward the grey sky. No sun, no light. Just emptiness. A void as stubborn as the men who shared it.

It wasn’t her job to fix things. But she wanted to try anyway.

“He regrets,” she said, "that you feel alone. That you think there’s nowhere to go—that he failed to save you.”

A quiet scoff cut through the air behind her.

Red Hood’s steps were nearly silent, but she could feel him standing beside her. His helmeted gaze settled on the tombstone first, then drifted to her

“When'd you figure it out?”

“Just the other day,” Cassandra admitted, her throat dry.

The taste of the memory lingered—Bruce, his shoulders trembling, silent tears hidden behind his cowl. She had been the one to comfort him that night, wrapping her arms around him like he had once done for her.

Jason sighed; his helmet reflected the light drizzle beginning to fall, and through the glow of the lenses, she imagined his eyes were locked on hers.

“Look, kid,” he muttered, shifting his weight. His voice lowered, like he didn’t want to disturb the dead around them. “I don’t want anything to do with them. Any of them.”

The breeze stirred, ruffling their clothes. But Jason didn’t move.

“Then why come back here?”

For a moment, his shoulders tensed. His rigid stance softened as though the question deflated something in him. Cassandra watched the slight shift in his body, the way his hands flexed at his sides before relaxing.

“They’d accept you,” Cassandra said after he didn't say anything.

Jason’s laugh was short.

“They’d never accept me,” he crossed his arms. His helmet dipped slightly. “I’m a murderer. You know the code. No killing, no exceptions. I didn’t just cross the line—I burned it down. There’s no coming back from that.”

Cassandra dropped her gaze to the grass, feeling the dampness seep into her skin.

“I’ve killed before,” she admitted.

Jason didn’t speak.

“I’ve killed,” she repeated, lifting her head. “And they accepted me.”

Jason tilted his head back, gazing at the sky as the drizzle grew heavier. In the distance, a flash of lightning split the clouds, and thunder rumbled like a slow exhale.

"And yet you've changed," Jason pointed out. "I don’t want to stop. I won’t. Someone has to do it—protect the ones they won’t. The ones they left behind.”

Cassandra studied him. His presence was heavy, like the smell of smoke lingering in the aftermath of fire. Jason carried death with him, and she wasn’t sure he even realized it anymore.

“Do they hate me?” he asked suddenly. His voice was low, but sincere. “For what I’ve done?”

“I don’t know.” Cassandra’s brow furrowed at the question. “Have you tried to ask?”

Jason didn’t answer once again.

Instead, he lowered himself beside her, his weight sinking into the grass as the rain began to pour in earnest. They sat together, wordless, as the water cascaded around them.

The tombstone glistened under the downpour, and for a fleeting moment, Cassandra thought it looked almost bright.

***

Cass' head laid on Babs' lap as she listened to the hum of the apartment.

The lights were warm, casting a soft glow that made the space feel more like a home than a command centre. There weren’t many open windows, but the apartment wasn’t dark—just cosy, the way they both liked it.

Barbara's red hair pulled into a loose ponytail; a steaming cup rested on the table. Their hands were intertwined, and with Barbara's other, she absently ran her fingers through Cass' hair.

"What do you mean by that?"

“Hmmm. Nothing,” Cass murmured, shifting so her head so she could look up at Barbara. “I’m just thinking about something... important.”

Barbara chuckled softly. The sound warmed Cassandra’s chest, and she wondered if the sun sounded anything close

“And what's so important?” Barbara asked, still stroking her hair.

“You.”

Barbara’s hand paused mid-stroke. Cass sat up slowly, meeting her gaze.

“Me?” Barbara blinked, tilting her head slightly.

Cass nodded, lips pressed in a thin line as she worked up the courage to continue. “Thank you, Babs. For staying. For helping.”

Her cheeks flushed with heat, and she quickly looked away, the weight of vulnerability sitting heavily on her chest. A simple act of saying thanks, yet it was something so meaningful, to let someone else know how grateful you were for their company, to let someone know how happy they make you, or the difference that had helped you become who you were. It meant a lot.

Barbara smiled, the warmth in her eyes reflecting the very first day she had taken Cass in. The day she had offered her kindness without hesitation.

“You did most of it on your own,” Barbara replied softly. “I’m glad you trusted me. But you’re the one who kept going, and I'm so proud of you for that.”

The corners of Cass’ mouth tugged upward. For a moment, she felt like a normal child—safe, without worry. Barbara had always been there for her, even when words had been difficult to find.

And her heart ached.

“I’m sorry,” Cass whispered, lowering her gaze to her hands.

Barbara’s brow furrowed. “For?”

“Before. When I… when I died. When I wasn’t really dead, but I didn’t tell you.”

Barbara’s expression softened, and she reached out, gently tugging Cass closer. Without hesitation, Cass leaned in, curling into Barbara’s side as she had so many times before. Barbara’s fingers threaded through her hair, the motion soothing.

“It’s okay.” Barbara pressed soft kiss to the top of her head. “It’s all in the past.”

The quiet comfort settled over them and Cass let her eyes drift shut, resting fully against Barbara.

“You deserve a lot of happiness, Cassandra,” Barbara mumbled, running through Cass’ hair.

The soft creak of the door broke the silence.

“Am I interrupting something?” Steph’s voice rang out playfully as she stepped inside, balancing a bakery box and three cups of coffee. The smell of fresh cookies and muffins drifted in.

“No,” Barbara replied with a smile. “You’re just in time.”

Stephanie set the box down on the table, pulling off her jacket. Her blonde hair was messy, strands sticking out. “I brought snacks,” she announced proudly, lifting the lid to reveal an assortment of pastries.

“Cookies,” Cass noted, delighted and sat up slightly.

“Your favourite,” Stephanie grinned, handing her one before plopping down on the floor next to the couch. She leaned her head against Cass’ knee.

Cass bit into the cookie, the sweetness lingering on her tongue.

***

It wasn’t as if everything fell perfectly into place.

Cassandra knew that life didn’t work like that. She couldn’t snap her fingers and fix everything. There was no simple solution, no undo button for the past.

Jason didn’t come home the next night.

Or the night after that.

Or the one after that.

But that was okay.

He could come home when he was ready—whether it was hours from now, or years down the line. Jason had time. He could take all the time he needed to decide when he was ready.

Patience was a virtue, or so she had heard. It wasn’t something that came easily. It was a skill learned slowly, painfully, through trial and error. And sometimes, patience meant waiting for things that might never happen.

Cassandra understood that better than most.

She remembered the waiting. The long, quiet stretches of her life where she held on, not because things were good, but because she hoped—desperately—that one day they would be. She remembered sitting alone, believing the world might start spinning the right way if she could just hold out long enough.

In the daylight, bugs and ants would crawl along the blades, the wind carrying the faint, crisp scent of earth. The grass would be green.

Jason would come to realize it—at his own pace, in his own time.

Just like she had.

Just like she still did.

And when he was ready, they would be waiting for him.

Not with judgement, not with conditions. Just waiting.

Because that’s what family did.

***

Cass sat on the edge of the rooftop, her feet dangling over the city below. Cass' black pants and long-sleeve shirt were thin, simple. She wasn’t Black Bat tonight. Just Cassandra.

The sun hung high in the sky, and the cool breeze brushed against her skin. Tim sat beside her, his hair tousled by the wind, eyes half-lidded as if lost in thought.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” Tim’s fingers curled onto the ledge, chilled by lingering droplets from the earlier rain. The traffic below hummed faintly, muffled by distance.

“It’s calming,” Cass said after a pause.

Tim nodded as if he understood.

Birds soared above them, cutting through a sky that was both bright and clouded—blue and grey at once. Sunlight bled through the gaps in the clouds, but shadows still hung low on the buildings. Cassandra thought that was how the world worked. The sun shined, the rain poured and it was all part of something larger, something vast and unknowable.

And that’s what made it beautiful.

The city hadn’t changed.

But they had.

Time did that. It moved, whether you wanted it to or not.

They were all still moving, even if sometimes they veered off course or got lost.

Cass deflated a bit.

She wasn’t there for Tim’s darkest days. She should have been. And that guilt still rested quietly in her heart. But she knew now that lingering in the past wouldn’t fix anything. She couldn’t go back, but she could stay here—now.

Cass reached into her pocket to pull out two small red candies wrapped in shiny, twisting plastic.

She handed one to Tim.

Tim chuckled and said his thanks as he unwrapped his.

She popped her own candy in her mouth, rolling the familiar flavour across her tongue. Both wrappers went back into her pocket.

Cass leaned her head gently against Tim’s shoulder, her hand finding his and squeezing softly.

Tim glanced at her but didn’t pull away, his left cheek slightly bulged from the candy.

She was proud of him. Of the quiet strength he carried, even when he didn’t see it himself. People like Tim—people who always tried, even when the world gave them little reason to—deserved to know they were enough.

“Do you miss being Robin?” she asked, her voice slightly muffled.

"At times." Tim leaned a little closer, resting his head lightly against hers. "Do you miss being Batgirl?”

“I think we have the same answer.”

“Mhm."

They let the silence return, comfortable and easy. There was no rush, no urgency pulling them away.

As soon as Cass' red candy completely melted away, a familiar voice interrupted the quiet.

“What are you guys doing up here?”

Dick stood behind them, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. He looked curious, his head tilted slightly as he approached.

“Relaxing,” Cass answered as she patted the space beside her.

Dick’s brows lifted, but after a brief pause, he walked over and sat beside them. His arm stretched behind Cassandra, brushing lightly against her back as she closed her eyes.

A few moments later, another presence made itself known.

Damian appeared at the rooftop’s edge, his posture stiff as ever. He frowned deeply at the sight of the others.

“Tt. What are you fools doing up here?” he grumbled, though his curiosity betrayed him.

Tim smirked but didn’t respond.

Dick, however, wasted no time. He reached over, pulling Damian closer with little effort, settling the youngest Wayne onto his lap. Despite the scowl that deepened across Damian’s face, a faint red dusted his cheeks.

Stephanie’s voice rang out next, bright and teasing as she emerged onto the rooftop. “Rooftop party without me? How rude.” She held a heavy white plastic bag. “I bring snacks and joy. You’re welcome.”

She set the bag beside Tim, nudging his knee playfully as she leaned back. Tim immediately began searching the bag, pulling out bags of different sweets.

Cassandra opened one eye, catching the deepening orange hues of the setting sun.

Barbara arrived moments later in the elevator, followed by Alfred, and Bruce, who looked as if he’d just come from patrol. Sweat lined his brow, but the sight of his entire family scattered across the rooftop made him pause at the entrance, hands resting lightly on his utility belt.

They waited patiently as Alfred and Bruce crossed the rooftop and sat near Barbara, who handed Bruce a cup of coffee she had somehow procured without anyone noticing.

The wind stirred again, carrying the fresh scent of rain through the air. It brushed against Cass’ skin, light and fleeting, like the kiss of a stranger—soft, gentle, and gone just as quickly.

Gotham stretched out beneath them, the same cracked streets, the same towering skyscrapers, and flickering lights. The same people—hustling, surviving, thriving.

The honking cabs, the distant hum of life from Crime Alley to the wealthiest corners of the city, the pearls draped around the necks of women stepping out of black cars—it all remained as it always had. Gotham’s heart was its people, flawed and fierce, and that rhythm would never stop.

Gotham would endure. Seasons would shift, leaves would fall, and grow back again. Life would keep moving forward. And so would they.

Cass closed her eyes once more; the taste of strawberry still lingering on her tongue.

The city might stay the same, but they had changed.

And as she sat there, shoulder to shoulder with the people who made up her world, she realized that was enough.

The world would keep turning.

The leaves would keep falling.

And together, they would keep moving forward—step by step, day by day.

That was all they needed.

Cassandra smiled softly to herself.

She was satisfied.