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Cass understood from a very young age that no one could speak her language with the same level of fluency she had. Her father could communicate with her, but he could not fully understand everything she tried to say. Batman understood her drive, and sometimes he saw her soul. But when she tried to use her body to speak she often got a blank stare of confusion.
It wouldn’t be until she was seventeen that she would meet the only other person who truly understood her. Her mother did not love her the way mothers were supposed to, but she understood Cass, spoke to her like no one else did.
But even before that, even when she thought she was alone in this language of movement, there were still moments of connection. Moments when even if they didn’t understand each other fluently, there was enough there for her to feel it. A warmth in her chest, a smile on her face. A small attempt at understanding.
The first one she experienced was from Azrael, or rather Jean Paul. It was during No Man’s Land, back when she was a very new face to the whole gang. Jean Paul felt the same, more of an outsider than a true part of the family. She could see it in the stiffness of his shoulders whenever he didn’t have his mask on. But Oracle and Leslie tried their best to make both former child soldiers feel welcome anyways.
They gave Jean Paul a harmonica for Christmas. He played Cass a tune, one she vaguely recognised. Cass had heard church music before, even listened to a ceremony or two when the doors had been open and she’d been very cold and tired. She couldn’t understand a word the priest said of course, but the music was nice.
She wasn’t massively impressed by most of the choirs she’d heard. There was an air about the way they sang, it fit with the grand style of the churches but it never impressed Cass. She didn’t understand why they were so proud of their building, it lacked the warmth she saw in the average home she snuck past while rooting for dinner in their waste bins. She wouldn’t choose churches for comfort if it wasn’t for how easy they made it to sit in the back undisturbed.
Jean Paul didn’t play the harmonica tune like the churches did. It was a familiar melody, but there was none of that cold glamour of the church. He played it like it brought him a simple joy, he made the notes sound fun instead of intimidating. It made Cass want to move, to dance.
So she did.
She danced to the tune he played, jumping up at the high notes and ducking down at the low ones. His playing grew louder, quicker. He was enjoying her dancing just as much as she was enjoying his music.
When it ended, his cheeks were flushed. Under the mask, so were hers. She felt alive, excited, body thrumming with happiness the way that usually only happened while she was fighting or training.
It felt good.
They didn’t tell anyone about that moment, or at least she’s fairly confident they didn’t. It became a habit when it was just the two of them patrolling, on the rare quiet nights when they finished early. He would take out his harmonica and play. She would dance.
She didn’t fully know what he was seeing when he watched her dance. Just like she didn’t fully know what she was hearing when she heard him play. There were memories and feelings attached to those notes, but they weren’t hers. She could only dance to show how it made her feel in response, and hope he understood her the way she felt she understood him.
Maybe this was what language was meant to be about. Trying to bridge the walls between souls with the right words, the right speeches. Letters spilling back and forth out of mouths, writing on the wall that kept everyone divided in hopes that they would read the message and understand that they weren't alone. Maybe that was why Barbara kept trying to teach her how to speak and read and write.
Cass liked Jean Paul's way better.