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“What is that?”
Cass presses up close into her friend’s space, perching her chin on Steph’s shoulder in a way that’s reminiscent of a cat—or, at least, Stephanie says it makes her like one. Especially when she presses her nose into her neck after a long patrol, as she does now.
And like always, Stephanie squeaks, concentration broken as she startles, instinctively trying to put distance between them. She rubs at her neck, glaring. “You jerk, you could’ve made me mess up! Then I would’ve had to break out the acetone, and that stuff gives me a headache.”
“Acetone?” Cass tilts her head, eyeing the small brush Stephanie now has an iron grip on. To be extra annoying, she vaults herself over the couch, taking the seat beside her. It makes her grin, seeing Stephanie’s glare enter envious territory.
“Show-off,” she huffs, but indulges Cass’s antics, holding up the brush for Cass to get a better view. “I was painting my nails before getting rudely interrupted. And what’s up with that, anyway? I could’ve been, I don’t know, holding a knife? You gotta stop breaking into my house.”
And because they’ve had this conversation plenty of times already, Cass ignores that last bit. “Painting? Nails?”
Sure enough, half of Stephanie’s nails are dark purple, glinting in the light. She’s never noticed them painted before, but maybe that’s because they’re typically in uniform when they meet.
Taking Stephanie’s open body language as permission, Cass grabs one of her hands, tilting it to get a better view. She’s seen women with nails like this before, but curiously, never men.
Dropping her friend’s hand, she asks, “What’s the point of it?”
Stephanie arches an eyebrow, screwing the cap and hiding the brush back inside the bottle of paint, as if sensing this is about to be a long conversation. “Point?”
“Why do you do it,” Cass tries again, thinking maybe it’s her wording that has Steph confused. “Is there a purpose to it?”
Steph’s face twists, and that makes something in Cass’s stomach turn cold. She knows that look. It’s the look she’s given whenever she says something peculiar. Stephanie never ridicules her for not knowing things that come easily to others, but she’s not a good enough actress to hide the fact she finds this question bizarre.
“Because it’s fun? It makes me feel pretty?” Steph shrugs. “I don’t really have a reason for doing it, other than the fact that I like it. Do I need a reason?”
No, Cass supposes not. She still remembers what it’s like to feel pretty, getting to wear pink instead of black, but there’s a reason she avoids that color altogether now. There have been a few times where she’s felt pretty since then, but there’s always something to spoil the mood before she gets carried away with it. And she knows that her idea of pretty is… unique. Not quite the same as Steph’s, who loves bright, cheerful colors, sequins, and more form-fitting clothes that aren’t just her uniform.
She’s not really sure where, or how, to carry the conversation, letting the quiet seep in. Steph’s eyes scan her face, brow furrowed. She’s asked Cass to not bluntly state what her nonverbal cues are broadcasting all the time, so Cass keeps it to herself that she can tell her friend thinks she’s said the wrong thing. Besides, Stephanie seems to get over her sudden insecurity quick enough, grabbing a different bottle from the coffee table and holding it up proudly.
“Want me to paint yours? Can’t promise it’ll be perfect, but it’ll be better than that time I asked Tim to do it for me.”
It’s not that Cass doesn’t want to, far from it, but she would be lying if she said she wasn’t disappointed that her question wasn’t properly answered. It’s pretty on Steph, but will it be on her? It’s a deep, dark red that Steph’s holding up now, looking a little too much like blood.
But maybe she’ll get it after they’re painted. So she swallows down the rest of her questions—that insatiable need to know. Politely smiles and nods, holding out a hand.
That’s all Stephanie needs to get to work, the silence between them no longer as tense, but comfortable.
“My mom used to do this for,” is what Steph eventually breaks the silence with, apropos of nothing. “Before she got busier with work. With her work, she couldn’t paint her own, so I guess I was the next best thing. Not everyone’s like me, but I don’t know—it’s just something I’ve always liked doing. I guess I’ve never put too much thought into it, especially when everyone around me was doing it.”
“So it’s just for—aesthetic?” That was a new word she learned, and she’s been eager to use it.
“Yeah,” Stephanie says, dipping the brush back into the bottle, moving on to Cass’ left ring finger. “I like picking out colors that go with my outfits and accessories. Did, uh—did Cain ever let you do stuff like that?”
“No.” Cass doesn’t even need to think about her answer. “He didn’t.”
“Bummer, because this red looks really good on you.”
It does. She doesn’t quite feel pretty about it, but it’s nice. She likes that it brings a bit of color to her look. She’s tried red lipstick once—Barbara’s—but found that the black suited her better.
It’s similar to her feelings towards skirts—it just makes her feel a little too small for her skin in a way that’s hard to fully describe. People are too conscious of her body whenever she wears anything that shows skin. It also makes her feel… not herself. Does Steph ever feel that way?
It would probably be impolite to just ask, especially after her friend’s revealed something so personal already.
But the thought doesn’t leave Cass, even as she makes her way back home across the rainy rooftops of Gotham.
“She get you too?” is what Tim greets her with when she gets back. He looks like he’s just gotten out of bed, hair tousled and pajamas rumpled. He makes quite the picture, squinting into a bowl of cereal while sitting in the dark, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
“Pardon?” Cass asks, because Alfred says it’s rude to just stare when you don’t understand a question, and Bruce hates it when she mirrors his own bad habit of only saying: “Huh?”
Tim nods towards her hands. “I’d recognize Steph’s handiwork anywhere,” is all he says, talking around a mouthful of cereal.
“‘Too?’” Cass questions, putting down her glass so that she can direct more of her attention onto him. Her eyes dart toward his own nails, but she doesn’t see any color on them.
His nose wrinkles, following the movements. “She loves making others play salon with her. Only reason mine aren’t painted matching colors with her all the time is because she knows I’ll make her bring out the acetone, and she hates the smell of that stuff.”
Interest piqued, Cass pulls out the chair in front of him, sitting down. “Why don’t you let her paint yours?”
Well, now he just looks uncomfortable, squirming under her stare. “It’s not really manly, right? I mean, not that I care, but others do.”
“Why?”
“Aw, jeez.” He pushes his bowl away from him, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, Cass. Because every guy is a toxic douche? I don’t really know what kind of answer you want from me.”
She knows he doesn’t mean that literally, but that doesn’t abate her frustration at being treated as too ignorant to learn. “Is this similar to people assuming I can’t fight because I’m a girl?”
“Yeah,” Tim says. “Somethin’ like that. I don’t know how, like, familiar you are with this kinda stuff, but you’ve probably seen enough TV so—you know how guys there are always trying to prove themselves? Just total ‘don’t be such a girl’ energy? It’s like that.”
Her fingers curl into the cushion of her seat. Unimpressed, she asks, “And that is… seen as bad?”
Realizing his mistake, Tim splays his hands, waving them in the air and hastily saying, “No! No, there’s- I’m not like that! Being a girl is- it’s cool. You're cool. We both know you can kick my ass in three seconds flat—please don't do that, by the way, I'm sorry I'm an idiot. It’s just that not every guy sees things that way. Being five foot four and a half at fifteen, not being into sports but computers, and liking Warlocks and Warriors isn’t doing me any favors. Not to mention—”
He freezes, blinks, and backtracks altogether. Interesting. Cass associates such behavior with almost revealing more than what’s wanted to be said, but wisely keeps her mouth shut.
“Anyway, I just don’t need to give them any more fuel for thinking I’m a wimp, you know?”
“But it’s fine if I paint my nails?”
“You’re a girl,” is what Tim says, as if that’s answer enough. Her irritation must show, because he grows sheepish, scratching behind his ear, then pinching his bottom lip. A nervous tic he isn’t even aware he has. “It’s just something girls are allowed to do.”
‘Why?’ Cass wants to ask again, but she can see that Tim is getting frustrated himself. He’s aware that she isn’t satisfied with his answers, but doesn’t know how to word it any better himself. It’s just one of those things that is, and her upbringing is what makes it difficult for her to understand. He’s trying his best, and she can’t fault him for it.
So, instead, Cass gently approaches a different conversation. “Do you want to, though? I think it would make you look pretty.”
Tim doesn’t seem to know how to answer that any more than her other questions. The tips of his ears go pink, jaw a little slack. He opens and closes his mouth, stammering on broken little noises, before abruptly standing up. “Pretty?” he squeaks, looking more embarrassed by the minute. “Guys aren’t– they don’t— You know, I gotta– gotta project that I just remembered that I haven’t finished. Sorry, Cass! We can– catch you later?”
And then he’s gone, leaving her with even more questions than before.
She sits there for a long while, finger tracing patterns in the mahogany wood, mulling over everything she’s learned today. “You’re a girl,” both Tim and Stephanie had said in their own ways. They say it like there’s more to that than she’s ever considered before. Is there?
She’s spent so much of her life never aware of this. On the streets, she’d been too concerned with her own survival. Malnourished and scared, the biggest difference between her and others was sustenance.
What does it mean to be a girl? A woman? How come even a boy like Tim seems to understand the answer better than her?
And why doesn’t that feel right.
While her little brother is certainly a genius, and Stephanie is even more knowledgeable than he is on social matters, the smartest person Cass knows is Barbara. She always has a multitude of answers for everything, and even above Bruce, Barbara has an understanding of how her mind works. That’s why she’s the person Cass eventually turns to whenever she has a question unanswered.
Barbara listens to her without interjecting, even though it must pain her. She’s naturally inquisitive, and sometimes brash in her need to understand everything perfectly. Cass likes that about her, even though she hates being asked more than one question at a time.
“You know,” Barbara begins once she’s done, “there’s more to the human experience than just being a man or a woman.”
“I know that,” Cass says. She’s lived her entire life without it ever mattering, after all. It’s only once she donned the symbol of the bat and used her hands for good that she’s become aware of these biases. It’s been there since the beginning, if she had to guess. “But things are labeled as being for one or the other. It’s important to people. There are rules.”
Barbara hums; not agreeing, but not disagreeing, either. “Some people see things that way, but I meant that there are other identities than just man and woman.”
That surprises Cass. “There are?”
“All sorts of them.” Barbara smiles, giving Cass a second to process this information. When Cass gives her a small nod to continue, she does. “You are right that this stuff matters a lot to people, but not always for the right reasons. People are… how to say this. Traditional? They think only one way is correct and try to make others conform to those ideas. It can cause a lot of pain for people that realize they don’t perfectly fit in with the image others decided for them. Does that make sense?”
Again, Cass takes a moment to herself. It’s not too dissimilar to what Tim said, about guys wanting to appear a certain way and taking issue with things that don’t fit their idea of manly. But this feels like a different conversation than the way Tim had meant it.
“No,” she says, hating to feel stupid, but wanting to be honest. She wasn’t honest about practicing her reading, and it only led to a mess that was difficult to salvage. She’s tired of running away and hiding behind arrogance when confronted with something she isn’t perfect at.
Instead of scolding her or looking disappointed, Barbara just smiles again. “That’s okay, it’s a lot to take in. What I’m getting at is that sometimes people see a woman, or a man, when really they’re looking at a man or a woman respectively. Someone’s appearance, maybe even body, doesn’t always align with who a person really is. Sometimes it’s more fluid than that; sometimes a person is neither of those things. It’s something personal for everyone.”
Oh. That made more sense. It’s not the same thing, but Cass knows that people still see a killer when they look at her, but that’s not who she wants to be. She wants to be someone good—someone people can count on. She wants to be more than Cain molded her to be, from the inside out.
“I understand.”
“Great,” Barbara praises, grinning now. “So, is that how you’re feeling?”
Ah.
“I don’t like it when someone underestimates me because of the way I look,” is Cass’ careful reply. Words are still so difficult—to get out, yes, but to also make them understood in full. It’s frustrating when conversations pivot from their original meaning. It’s not enough to just say she hates being underestimated because she’s shorter and more lithe than the majority of her opponents.
“I don’t like being seen as weak for not being a man,” she continues, gaining confidence when Barbara doesn’t interject; she just looks at her with gentle patience, hands folded in her lap and body angled to face her. “But I don’t feel quite as strongly about it the way Stephanie does. It never bothers me when they insinuate that they think I’m a man.”
That’s not quite right, either, and she can feel her throat growing tighter in frustration at her inability to properly articulate her thoughts, the frown on her face deepening into a scowl. “She says she likes wearing purple in defiance, because it’s seen as traditionally feminine. But we’ve encountered rogues who wore purple before,” she says, making a vague motion with her hands, borrowing Barbara’s words to make her point. “They were men. They didn’t conform to this idea that a color is for women only.
“When she painted my nails, Stephanie said it made her feel pretty. I do think they’re pretty, but it doesn’t make me feel pretty?”
The word lilts, raising in pitch, as if posed like a question when she had meant to sound sure in herself. Barbara seems to catch the meaning regardless of her clumsiness, nodding slowly.
“You don't want to be thought of as pretty, I take it? You didn't like feeling like that's why you did it?"
Relieved, Cass perks up, standing on the tips of her toes. “Pretty fits people like Stephanie more,” she tries to explain. “Her clothes are pretty. Mine are more—handsome? I like to steal from Tim’s closet.”
"Everyone’s different,” Barbara explains, slowly. Her body language reads as careful, as if she suspects there’s something deeper to Cass’ words, but doesn’t want to make any assumptions. “Not everyone likes being called pretty.”
Cass nods. “Tim did say that—that men aren’t pretty.” Or at least, he had tried to, before fleeing.
Barbara snorts, pressing a hand to her lips when it almost becomes something more—something less polite, even if Tim isn’t around to hear it. “I’m sure he did.” Then she grows serious again, knuckles to her lips as she watches Cass, looking at her like an equation she can’t quite figure out. “Can I ask what this is really about? Does this have something to do with you asking me if I liked men before?”
This makes Cass pause, considering. Does it? She honestly isn’t sure, but if Barbara’s bringing that conversation up, then maybe it does have some relevance.
“I know that I am different—not like other girls. I like having Stephanie invite me to do the things she likes, as if I were.” Cass clasps her hands together, feeling a little like a child again, even if she never was one. Not quite. “I thought that all girls had to like a guy to be considered normal. I know now that I was wrong,” she rushes to add when she sees Barbara begin to protest, “but it’s still something I struggle with, I suppose.”
Barbara gives another one of those noncommittal hums. “Well, like I said, it’s different for everyone. I can be considered a more traditional ‘girly-girl,’” she says, raising her hands and bending four of her fingers, “liking dolls and having done ballet, but I also like programming and computers, and those are thought of traditionally being for men. That doesn’t make me any less of a woman.”
“But how do you know if you are one?”
This time it’s Barbara’s turn to pause, hesitating. Unconsciously, her thumb rubs circles into the arm of her wheelchair, her head tilted in contemplation. “It’s probably a bad answer to say that I just do, but, well. I just do. I’ll admit, I’ve never really questioned it before, but that’s just because it feels fitting.”
They’re simple words, but Cass understands what she’s getting at. Disliking revealing clothes doesn’t have to determine her gender, nor does having her nails painted. A guy wanting his nails painted shouldn’t make him any less of a man, nor should being described as pretty, but sometimes it can mean more, too. It’s all up to the person themself to decide. They’re their own person, and it’s as simple as that. Cass has never put much thought into any of this before. She feels flayed open, having to now. Open, raw, vulnerable, and seen. It’s in her own hands to decide who Cassandra Cain is.
It’s still a little too complicated for her—as most things societal are, because people seem to insist on making it complicated when it can be simple—but she thinks she has an answer at last.
"I don't know," she says, standing a little taller. "I know that I don't care what people refer to me as, but I don't know in what way yet. Can I come back to this when I do?"
"Of course," Barbara answers immediately. Eyes proud, without a trace of disgust to be seen.
Cass bends down to hug Barbara, grateful for her love, and leaves with her heart feeling lighter. She doesn’t know who she is just yet, but she knows that should it come to it, she’ll be loved and accepted all the same, no matter what. She’s got time to figure it out.