Chapter Text
1997 (Present)
~ Cass ~
None of this feels real. Not yet.
Cassandra doesn’t think her ears have stopped ringing since she picked up Alfred’s call. It’s been days now, or maybe weeks, but she could just as well believe it was only hours.
Her violin case remains on the dusty floor of her cramped kitchen where she dropped it, and it will be there until whatever inconceivable future point in time in which she finds her way back there. She’d barely arrived home from lessons when she heard the telephone echoing through the stairwell. She pulled it from the hook on the fifth ring, and now that echo lives embedded in her mind.
It’s like a storm siren, crying over and over just to make her understand the requiem is no dream. But she’s still not waking up.
Almost as if her subconscious believes that reality can be infinitely delayed. If she never silences the ring, she never has to hear the news. It’s almost funny. Try as she might to play grown-up, she’s still a silly little girl inside, isn’t she?
She is still sitting by the counter under that flickering, midnight kitchen light, stubbornly - childishly - spreading peanut butter and jam onto yet another slice of bread. Staring for hours at the motionless door, patiently guarding the snack that will inevitably be left for Alfred to throw away in the morning.
He’s not coming back. None of them are.
The rain has stopped, only lingering in the slow, methodical drops sliding down from her umbrella. But the sun has not shown its face. Cass secretly hopes it never does again. It doesn’t deserve to shine here, in Gotham, anymore. Not without him.
Thunder rumbles distantly, making her jump. Scattered droplets whip at her face with a sudden burst of wind, wetting her bangs and trapping her ends in the corners of her mouth. She shivers, fumbling around in the dampness of her jacket pocket for a small, white bottle.
It takes her purpled, shaking hands several attempts to unscrew the cap and deposit two pills into her mouth. Once she swallows, her lungs empty with bitter relief. The cold still bites, but her chest no longer threatens to crack under the raucous pressure of her heart. She can breathe without agony, and blink without losing time.
A dozen cars streak by the lonely street where she stands, splitting puddles into waves. The last time Cass looked at the back of the manor like this, it was to say a sad goodbye. She truly thought it was what she needed back then, but now it’s hard to imagine how anything could have seemed more important than home.
Empty as it was, they had each other. Now she’ll never have him again, and he had none of them as he passed.
She shakes her head, clutching herself as tightly as possible to mimic another’s comfort. Her ribs are squeezing again, but she can’t keep putting this off.
It’s high time she faces this now. No more hiding.
Gasping for breath, she forces one foot before the other. They stumble to catch her, somehow finding the strength to go on. She swallows stinging, fists balling at her waist.
It’s time to greet what remains of her family.
1987
~ Bruce ~
“So, tell me, Cassie,” Bruce pipes up, hands folding behind his back as he stands before a line of children who all jump to attention. “Do your siblings seem ready to begin?”
At his side, Cassandra preens, eyes scanning over her jittery, suited-up family with mock-scrutiny. Barbara stands tallest, showing off her new Robin uniform with easy pride. They stand just right at the center of these training grounds so that all six matching red ‘R’s across each of their chests catch a noon sunbeam in a neat, glittering row.
“Hmmm…” She taps a considerate finger on her lip, earning a few impatient, desperate glares from her brothers - especially little Damian, who is clearly struggling to stand still against Alfred’s leg. “I think… they’re ready!”
A few cheerful smiles are aimed her way in response, and Jason claps his hands, rubbing them together in anticipation.
“Hell yeah, we are!”
Letting that one slide, Bruce reaches down and pets Cassandra’s head, tousling her bangs. “Well, I suppose we should get started, then, shouldn’t we?”
“Me first!” Jason, Dick and Stephanie all exclaim in unison.
“No! I go first!” Damian whines, wriggling around Alfred’s grasp.
“Master Damian, with dignity, please,” the butler softly chastises the boy, who balls his fists and bunches his face in a frown to comply.
Struggling to stifle a smile, Bruce lets out a short sigh. “What have I told you kids about patience?”
While the others stiffen with realization, Barbara raises her chin smugly. “While restless songbirds squabble for scraps, the patient robin finds a feast!” she recites, basking in Steph and Jason’s dirty looks.
“Very good, Barbara,” he praises, nodding to her. “Why am I not surprised you picked up on our lessons sooner than my own children?” he teases, raising a brow at Jason sticking his tongue out.
At least Dick appears considerably chastised, while Steph is not-so-subtly miming a talking motion with her hand and Tim is staring into the middle distance like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“You’ll be leading us in our training session today,” Bruce continues, turning back to his side. “And Cassie, would you help Alfred record Damian’s progress for today? I wouldn’t want to hold him up from his nap.”
His daughter beams up at him, nodding eagerly. Pinching her cheek warmly, he sends her on her way.
“Alright,” he breathes, straightening back to attention. “So, who will volunteer as Barbara’s training partner for today?”
“I will!” Dick cries at the same time that Jason declares, “Not me!”
Tim elbows him with a snicker. “You just don’t wanna get caught with those cookies!”
“Cookies? What cookies?” Steph demands, stepping out of line to confront her brothers. “I swear, Jay, you better not be sneaking any snacks without me!”
“Children, focus,” Bruce cuts in, raising a hand to silence the bickering.
They begrudgingly comply, and he motions for Dick to step forward. He stands across from Barbara, both in readied stances. They stare holes into each other, smirking as they wait for Bruce’s signal to begin.
“Now!” he says, barely getting the word out before scuffling steps scrape the floor.
Barbara flinches back from Dick’s aggressive rush, words tumbling out desperately as her eyes flash amber. “I heard a rumour you– ack!”
She’s cut off as her attempt to dodge is countered with a quick kick, sweeping her off her feet and knocking the wind from her lungs. She groans, deflating on her back, and Dick scrambles over her with sudden concern.
“Babs! Are you okay? I’m sor–”
In a swift uppercut, she slams her palm into his windpipe, releasing all her breath in one rush, “Iheardarumouryoupinnedyourselfdown!”
Before Dick could react, his eyes flood with milky fog and he goes rigid, robotically following her command and contorting himself into a pretzel to pin his own body to the ground. Just to seal the deal, Barbara commands him to stay down, dusting her hands off. Then she hops to her feet, turning chipperly towards Bruce.
“I win!” she brags with a flick of her curls.
“Yeah, whatever you say, cheater,” Jason retorts, rolling his eyes. “Your opponent’s not gonna be worried about hurtin’ ya in a real fight.”
Bruce doesn’t get a chance to interject before her head is snapping his direction, glaring in challenge. “I heard a rumour you pissed off!”
But Jason sees her power coming and disappears in a blue flash before her command can complete, shouting back from across the training grounds where he reappears.
“Ha! Too slow!”
“Jokes on you!” she barks, lifting her hands like a megaphone. “I got what I wanted anyway!”
“Fuck!”
“Language, Jason!” Bruce reprimands tiredly, rubbing his forehead. “And Barbara, stop abusing your powers on your peers. We’re meant to be training your discipline, not fooling around.”
Crossing her arms, she turns away, muttering under her breath. “Why’s it only ‘abusing’ when I do it?”
“Uh, because you can literally control us to do whatever you want?” Tim incredulously supplies, earning another glare.
Raising another hand for silence, Bruce cuts in before they can get going again. “Barbara, how long is Dick going to be pinned on the ground for?”
The distracted girl startles suddenly, her gaze trailing curiously towards the contorted lump that is her sparring partner, still planted stiffly on the ground. Some muffled sounds spill into the floorboards, indicating a certain returned awareness from Dick, but the boy remains unmoving.
“Oh, oops–” she says, cringing. “I guess I forgot to say a limit, so… in theory, he’ll stay forever.”
“M’ll, c’n mm speed’is up, pl’se?” Dick’s muffled request snaps both Bruce and Barbara from their curious speculation, the latter bursting into laughter.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” she wheezes, her eyes flashing amber again as she keels over next to him, helping him roll over. “I heard a rumour you’re free!”
As soon as the white washes out of his eyes, Dick propels himself to his feet in one leap, frowning down at her with his hands on his hips. She grins guiltily back at him.
“I’m with Jason on this one,” he declares grouchily, sticking a hand out to help her up. “Tricking me like that is dirty.”
She takes it and pulls off the ground, shrugging sheepishly. “Sorry… But it’s not like I can gouge your eyes out in a spar, so I’m really just evening the playing field–”
Dick’s face twists up in contemplation, staring back at her as he keeps a hold of her hand for several moments. “...Fair enough.”
“Barbara,” Bruce says, reclaiming her attention. “Have you noticed any strain when you rumour multiple opponents in a short span like this?”
Pursing her lips for a short moment, she shakes her head. “No, it’s only hard to catch more than one with the same rumour. More than three still pushes too far.”
He nods. “Side effects?”
“Headaches and nausea for two, migraines and bloody noses for three, all of the above and I pass out before I finish if I try four or more,” she rattles off, scratching the back of her head to hide from the concerned stares turning her way.
“Eyy, twinsies!” Jason exclaims, smacking her back. “Do your drawbacks also scale up if you push it more than once?”
“Yep…” Barbara sighs, accepting the aggressive, power-hangover solidarity. “But still, rumouring people one at a time is no problem.”
“See?” Tim hisses to Stephanie, jerking a thumb in Barbara’s direction. “Terrifying.”
“Noted. Now, Tim, do I hear you volunteering as Barbara’s next training partner?” Bruce asks innocently, smothering a smirk as his son jumps back.
“Uhh, heck no! I’m not fighting her!” he protests, cringing away from her menacing smile like it’s going to burn him.
“Very well, she’s demonstrated herself enough already. Who would you prefer to pair with?”
“I’ll do it!” Jason and Stephanie offer eagerly, turning on their brother with malicious intent as he squawks indignantly, fists balling.
“I’m not fighting anyone! My power is literally useless for that, you guys just wanna kick my ass!”
“Language, Tim. And I never said you were sparring,” Bruce corrects, ignoring the look on Jason’s face that clearly disagrees with that precedent.
Crossing his arms with a huff, Tim grumbles at the ground. “And I never said I wanted to train at all… I came here to cure my curse, not practice it.”
“Oh, come on, you baby!” Steph groans, shaking him by the shoulders. “I hate my power, too, n’ you don’t see me complaining!”
Grabbing her hands and shoving them back at her, he snaps, “Don’t even start! Your power makes you a badass, kraken warrior! Mine makes me see dead people! This is not even the same ballpark!”
“See, Tim, it’s this kind of limiting mindset that I believe is holding you back from truly discovering the extent of your powers,” Bruce cuts in, shamelessly quoting one of those entrepreneurial, motivational books that were drilled into his head as a young CEO.
“Your power can be so much more to you than an inconvenience or a curse. You just have to see that potential for yourself.”
His son squints up at him suspiciously and Bruce begins to sweat, realizing just a touch too late the very real possibility that Tim has raided Wayne Enterprises’ bookshelves. But the boy rolls his eyes a moment later, deflating heavily and tossing his arms.
“Yeah, I’m sure you’re right!” he drawls out, dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe I can traumatize the criminals into going straight!”
A few of the kids snort, and Bruce allows himself the barest smile as he replies. “There you are, son. That’s the spirit.”
But before he can continue with their lessons, all his thoughts are brought to a screeching halt by the sound of a scream.
“Dami, caref– aaahhh!” Cassandra’s voice abruptly twists shrill in distress, causing Bruce’s heart to leap to his throat and his body to move on its own.
Cassie.
His lungs catch. He can’t breathe.
Not Cassie.
The scene is a blur of panic and confusion, blue flashes and a single, scarlet streak.
Cass is wailing, holding her arm. A metal rod clatters to the ground, splattering her blood with it. Damian stares at his sister with blank shock, stumbling back with Alfred’s grip. Within moments, Bruce is pulling her into his embrace and she clings back, curling into his chest.
She’s hurt, she’s distressed, she’s crying - she’s allowing him to hold her. She’s clutching his shirt, whimpering against his thundering heart, and her breathing is already settling.
Damian is crying now, sobbing apologies as Alfred and Dick comfort him, gently instructing him to be more careful. Cassie hears him, shaking out of it to twist around in Bruce’s arms.
Jason tries to check her scratch as she calls back to little Dami, “I’m okay!” she assures him. “It’s not your fault!”
It’s just a scratch. Damian just got a little carried away. Jason blinks away and blinks back with a bandage for her arm. She wipes her face, clearing the snot and tears as he applies it. She smiles at her brothers to show them she’s okay.
She’s okay. Cassie is okay.
Slowly - impossibly - Bruce begins to breathe again.
1997 (Present)
~ Damian ~
Flexing his fists repetitively, Damian storms down the dark hall, his feet shuffling absently over the beaten floorboards. His steps echo hollowly through the quiet of the manor, only striking more heat into the flush of his face.
After the infuriating spat he just endured, the disgruntled teen just itches to move toward some clear objective. But despite his conviction, his mind is too scrambled to find any conclusive location. The same thoughts repeat rhythmically, interrupting any coherent train of thought.
Father is not dead.
Pennyworth can tell him day in and day out that this is the case, but Damian won’t believe it until Timothy summons Father’s ghost to tell it to them all himself.
It’s just impossible. Nonsensical.
He stops short, spotting the old, tattered, circus poster that marks their childhood wreckroom in the corner of his eye. At the sight of it, he tuts and abruptly flings the knife tucked under his palm. It slips recklessly from his grasp and he instinctively corrects its course, glaring into the shredded face of the ringmaster as he wills the blade to plant directly between his paper eyes.
The reverberation of the metal meeting its target seems to shake through Damian’s bones, and he inhales just as sharply.
Father was no fool. He was trained to work alone, far more than any of them had been. He may not have been born with unnatural powers like the rest of them, but he still was just as, if not more, formidable.
So how could it be possible that Bruce Wayne - the Batman - was done in by simple criminals in a routine patrol? How could Father meet his end to nothing more than ill-fated circumstance while the five of his wards who dispersed out to their own reckless, unfettered lives still remain standing?
Marching off again, Damian reaches out his power to call the blade back to him, muttering all the way. And just for good measure, he makes sure to twist and leave the ringmaster with an irreparable scar. The knife slides back into his palm, a comfortable weight to tighten his grip around.
It doesn’t add up. It does not make sense, and Damian is going to prove it.
The body was burned beyond recognition - a pitifully convenient excuse for avoiding conclusive evidence. Even his teeth were too battered by the supposed fight that not even the dental records could be matched. It is just beyond ridiculous to believe that Father could have ever allowed himself to be reduced to such a state. It simply isn’t feasible.
The stench of blood dripping from his sister’s gut and jaw replays - the moment that wholly shattered his perception of all things that once seemed invincible .
Someone must be plotting this grand ruse - it is the only reasonable explanation, and whichever filthy villain is responsible for tricking Damian’s whole family into reuniting for their father’s hoax of a funeral will have hell to pay when he’s through with them.
But even after pilfering through every nook and cranny of the Batcave below and every hidden hatch of Bruce’s study above, Damian still has only scattered pieces of a jumbled puzzle. Nothing seems to fit together - half of the crooks responsible were locked away on the night of the attack, and none of their histories appear to align with a single thing that Father was working on.
Each lead he follows seems to be dry and shriveled before Damian even has the chance to consider it. He could really use another set of eyes on this, but if Pennyworth’s response was anything to go by, the rest of Damian’s family seem idiotically intent on uncritically believing the ridiculous notion that their Father is simply dead.
Pennyworth truly thinks it’s a far greater priority that they hold a funeral and bury that imposter’s corpse than investigate what truly happened to Bruce Wayne.
His feet halt before the half-open, dark mahogany door at the end of the hall. Someone else has been in here - in Father’s bedchambers. The lamp on his nightstand is still on and the drawer was left open, so it certainly wasn’t Pennyworth.
Could it have been Richard? Maybe Gordon? He’s heard their voices drifting from the lobby just minutes ago, but he is certain that they’ve already been here for almost as long as he has. Richard seems sentimental enough to aimlessly go through Father’s personal things, but the most likely culprit to leave the scene this sloppy would have to be Timothy.
With a short huff, he slams the drawer shut and switches off the lamp. His teeth are still grinding, replaying that grandiose reunion with his insufferable brother.
Damian had hope that, at the very least, Timothy would be of aid on his investigation. He is the only Wayne aside from Damian himself who actually seemed to absorb any of their father’s detective skills, after all.
But to his bitter disappointment, not even an unprecedented event like this was enough to shake Timothy from his self-destructive addiction spiral.
Turning on his heel, Damian shakes his head. He tosses the knife absently as he hesitates in place, making it spin midair like a top for several moments between each toss. He just can’t stand it - the wasting years drawn pathetically over Timothy’s pale, sunken face.
His fool of a brother has been letting fear and escapism cripple his capability and potential for the entirety of these past 7 years, allowing more and more, harder and harder substances to eat away at his stubborn, fixated, brilliant mind - just to push away the burdens of his own power.
It started escalating after Jason disappeared, then completely metastasized after Stephanie.
It happened to all of them, didn’t it? But none of them let themselves go quite like Timothy did. He was already sliding down that road - it only took one push to send him tumbling.
His unique, morbid power and efficient, sober mind could be an invaluable asset to this investigation. Assist Damian in uncovering the truth to actually find and rescue their father, but Timothy would rather squander every careful lesson that Father ever taught him just to hide from the possibility of being forced to grieve again. It’s almost as if the defeatist, heedless idiot would rather join their family’s dead than ever risk the pain of facing them alive.
Knuckles whitening over the still-reverberating knife, Damian stills himself. All this pointless dawdling and reflection is getting him nowhere. He needs a solid trail to follow, and he certainly won't find it wandering in circles.
Perhaps he won’t convince his family to lend their aid, but it would behoove him to try. Richard has always been thick-skulled and blinded by emotion, but his work is thorough and efficient, and who’s to say he won’t see reason? Surely, as a decorated Commissioner, Gordon’s father must have taught her to entertain every possible thread before accepting the easy scenario.
This could just work out much easier than expected. With renewed determination, Damian heads toward the stairwell, listening to Richard and Gordon’s muted conversation gradually grow clearer.
“That is such bullshit!” Richard suddenly exclaims, just as Damian catches a glimpse of him tossing his hands with exasperation. “I can’t believe him! And the judge just letting him– I’m so sorry, Babs…”
“It is, but– Honestly, Dick, this is my fault…” Gordon falters, turning away so her face is shrouded in shadow.
Damian freezes at the tremble in her voice, awkwardly reconsidering himself from the top of the balcony. Not only would this be rather impolite to interrupt, but it already feels like he’s heard far more than was permitted.
He is vaguely aware that Gordon and her nondescript ex-husband barely lasted two years before calling it quits - far longer than the 6 months that Damian had predicted for them at the wedding. However, he isn’t privy to much beyond that, and given the emotional turbulence of the conversation, the topic would appear to be in regards to her young daughter, Elianna.
“What? What are you saying, you—”
“Because I used my power on her! It was so careless and stupid, I promised myself I would never do that, but now—”
“No, that is ludicrous, Barbara!” Richard snaps over her, not unkindly. “You have done everything you possibly can to make up for that mistake! I mean, how long has it been, now? Over a year since you stopped using it all together?”
Damian startles, blinking a few times to process. Was his brother implying…?
“That’s because it was a wake up call, Dick!” Gordon retorts, confirming his suspicions instantly. “If I was willing— If I was capable of using it on her, then there’s no universe where I can be trusted with it.”
Leaning back onto his heels, Damian stares in disbelief down at Barbara Gordon, hands stiffly gripping the railing. He has never heard her talk this way - guilt-ridden, self-effacing, resentful over the powers she possesses. She almost sounds like Timothy, and he despises it.
“But, Barbara, that’s exactly my point! You did wake up!” Richard insists valiantly, leaning closer when she clearly fights against meeting his eyes.
“You woke up immediately, and never used it again! Even when it could have saved your life! If that’s not enough to give you a second chance- if that doesn’t prove you’re at least safe enough for a phone call—”
“I don’t need to live through it again, Dick!” Gordon cuts in sharply, abruptly silencing him.
He opens and closes his mouth a few times, like he intends to apologize or say something more, but she waves at him dismissively.
“Besides, I’d hate to be impolite and keep ignoring someone who’s so obviously waiting to join in,” she adds pointedly, smoothly craning her head up and over until her sharp, hazel gaze is burning into Damien’s.
Cursing himself for being sloppy, Damian gives her a curt nod and swings over the railing, dropping down to their level. Richard, at least, is shocked to see him, so he hasn’t completely lost his touch. But allowing himself to be so easily detected as he was is simply shameful.
“Greetings, Gordon. Richard,” he mutters, staring down at his feet.
“How long have you been there?” his brother replies, his tone and posture shifting with clear, irritable discomfort.
“Why?” Damian retorts instantly, raising a brow in challenge. “Wondering how rusty your skills have gotten?”
“It’s rude to eavesdrop, Dami,” Gordon pipes up before Richard can, the ghost of a smile tugging onto her face. “Where are those manners Alfred taught you?”
“Your conversation was a little too loud to be considered private,” he counters easily, raising his chin. “Besides, Father refers to the practice as ‘gathering intel’, and he seems to value it highly.”
At his words, both their faces fall grave. Their eyes drop to the floor, the light vanishing from them in an instant. Damian’s fists clench instinctively at his sides, a liquid heat racing through his veins. Traitors.
So much for ‘easier than expected’. He should have known his family would still be so predictable.
“-Tt- Stop looking so sorry! It is blatantly obvious that Father is not truly dead, and you’re both just embarrassing yourselves,” he blurts before he can stop himself, shaking his head and pinning his arms tight across his chest.
The light returns to both of their eyes in a horrified fury, as if he is the ridiculous, disrespectful fool for not playing into this shabby ruse.
“Damian…” Richard starts, trailing off like he can’t even fathom the argument.
But the teen doesn’t waver, glaring straight through their insultingly blank expressions. “What? I’m right, and the fact that you’re somehow already so certain that I’m not is only adding to your embarrassment.”
Anger eclipses shock on Gordon’s face first, twisting her lip into a snarl as her chipped, indigo nails dig into the arm rests of her chair. “I can’t believe you right now! Are you really doing this today? ”
“I fail to see the significance of this day in regards to my actions, considering we are gathering for a funeral for a man who is still alive, ” he spits back through clenched teeth.
“Damien, enough! ” Richard abruptly hollers, throat hoarse and cracking as he practically vibrates with intensity.
The force of his demand is unexpected and brash enough to give Damien pause for a moment, falling quiet as the echo ripples through their empty home.
Through tense, heaving breaths, his brother raises one head to massage his forehead, while holding the other palm out. “Just- stop! You- you can’t just pretend– God, you're worse than Tim…”
“How dare you—” Damian gasps, instantly prepared to go to blows over the disrespect of being compared to Timothy of all people, but Richard doesn’t let him say another word.
“No, stop it! That’s enough! The last thing any of us need today is to be forced down some stupid spiral of false hope just because you can’t accept—”
Somewhere after the word ‘stupid’ was uttered from his brother’s lips, the rush of boiling blood completely drowns out Damian’s thoughts and he finds himself screaming words he can barely even hear the echo of.
“The only stupid conclusion would be to blindly accept that such a trivial and improbable event could so easily result in Father’s death! I am not the one who is blind—”
“Oh my god, Damian!” Gordon snaps, cutting his speech short but only accelerating the heat, rush and hammering of his heart. “ Think just a little before you open your dumbass fucking mouth!”
“Did you see the body, Gordon?” he retorts, dribbling with venomous sarcasm. “Look at it yourself! Look at it and tell me that is our Father!
“What are you even saying?” Richard cuts in instead, throwing his arms recklessly. “I think Alfred knows how to identify his—”
“That body was brutalized, Richard!” Damian didn’t intend to shout, but his voice peaks before he can control it, and the shock just sends him tumbling on at the same level. “Burned, lacerated and beaten beyond recognition! Does that sound like The Batman to you? Does that sound like something Father would allow to happen to him?”
His toe suddenly crunches under the wheel of Gordon’s chair and he glares back into her seething eyes as she shrieks, “ Damien Wayne, he was murdered!”
Wrenching his foot free, he pulls back with a stubborn snarl. “If you truly believe that, then you didn’t know Father!”
Something flings at his face and he instinctively flinches to catch it, but is only met with the harsh whip of a scarf across his cheek.
“Fuck you!”
His ears instantly ring from the sheer force of her voice and he blinks back, dazed. They are family - they’re no strangers to screaming or fights. Most traded insults from these passionate shouting matches are weightless and trivial, no matter their intensity at the time. Just like a spar, they lack any true malice or depth after the fact, and are just as easily forgotten.
But this is not a simple spat - this is ugly. This is exactly the unravelling that Damien feared would occur if he dared hold discussion on this issue, and now he’s done it, hasn’t he?
Gordon’s darkened, tear-stained expression now sears a cold fire into him like she truly despises him. Nothing more leaves her lips as she jolts back, turning roughly away and disappears down the hall.
Damian’s mouth opens and closes half-heartedly, failing to conjure any words to chase her with. Now only Richard lingers, shrouded in shadow as he stares silently at the ground. His brother’s fists remain bunched up around the edges of his suit jacket, showing impressive restraint by not tearing the material to hopeless shreds.
He should say something to him. He should make some attempt to repair, but by the time he wrenches his jaws free from each other, Richard is already speaking.
“...If you really can’t believe Dad can be weak…” he murmurs darkly, lifting his head just enough to meet Damian’s gaze. “If you can’t imagine that he could be targeted and injured and killed , then I don’t think you knew him at all. ”
A sharp creaking echoes from the opposite hall and cuts through any response Damian could’ve conjured. They both snap to the sound and Damian feels his body freeze stiff in unison with his older brother when he catches sight of their intruder.
Cass is slumping heavily against the wall behind them, a hand covering her mouth like she’s trying to hold something back from spilling out. Her layered clothes hang off of her like weights and her raven hair is much shorter than last he saw it, but it’s almost hard to tell with the unfortunate state that it’s in.
Her eyes are watering and filled with hurt and horror, and Damian curses himself - she definitely heard far too much of that argument.
“Cass, I–” Richard stammers out in a rush, always the first to offer amendments even when he’s furthest from the one at fault. “I didn’t– hear you coming…” he trails off awkwardly, faltering in his approach.
Teeth sinking into his lip, Damian drops his eyes to the floor. Why is he being such a coward? He should be apologizing for forcing her to hear any of that. He should be in Richard’s place, running to her side and comforting her, assuring her that none of it meant anything. He should be sharing his findings with her and showing her the truth. She must be desperate for any kind of proof that their father is still alive.
But he can’t seem to swallow the lump in his throat long enough to meet her eyes.
“You cut your hair,” Richard remarks with a wavering smile, opening his arms to invite an embrace.
She stares back at him hollowly, barely pushing off the wall. Her breaths heave in and out for several moments as she says nothing, until finally she latches onto their brother with all her might. He clutches her back with a comfortable amount of his own.
Damian remains rooted in place, flexing his fizzling hands through the thick, crackling silence.
1992
~ Tim ~
Endless flakes of pure white sailed down onto the open courtyard, dusting innocently over every grief-struck surface like it was trying to hide the evidence.
It was utterly failing. The imprints of an unceremonious end to an unjust funeral still littered every inch of the snow.
Tim lingered alone before the glossy black, half-sized casket, watching the flurries dust over it the same way they seeped icily into his scalp. Stephanie’s picture stared back at him from its small, golden frame atop her resting place. She wasn’t smiling.
It would have been difficult to find a photo of her like that, but this was the one that was chosen.
Squeezing the blue from his fists, Tim drew a long, frigid breath. He’d hoped that foregoing his winter wear would’ve granted him a bit more freedom from the relentless intensity of sobriety, but the numbness was only skin-deep.
His mind wasn’t dulled in the least, nor were his heart and soul. They were all swirling and storming and full of entirely too much. Too much terror and sorrow, too much confusion and pain - too many voices to even keep count.
Familiar whispers, haunting cries, and the nauseating loop of his family screaming and shouting that still seemed to echo in the empty air. Tim was barely listening when they started, and even after replaying the whole scene a dozen times, he still couldn’t understand what truly happened.
He’d lost track through Bruce’s speech, unable to accept the resignation in his father’s voice. But the words that reawakened him were something about the academy having been a failure. That was when the shouting had started.
It was Dick and Barbara who had led the charge, and even Damian had jumped in to scream at their father for the injustice of declaring their failure. They had all argued, they may have fought - then Cassie ran away and everything fell apart.
They’d all scattered, leaving Tim to ponder if this day would mark the end of the Robin Academy as well. He still didn’t know the answer, but it hardly mattered to him as much as the mission he had come to do.
His power had been nothing but a burdensome curse for his entire life and it had yet to grant him a single thing in return. But today, just this once, it was going to serve him.
Tim would gladly suffer the torture of sobriety for the rest of his days if it meant that he never had to truly lose her.
His breaths became ragged and harsh as he focused all of his will through his hands towards the image of his sister and the soul he knew was still faintly tethered to the body in the casket. Surely this time, he had enough. This time it would work - he just couldn’t lose another.
With everything in him, he blocked out all the ghastly begging and cried out for his sister. He felt his power reach beyond the veil, grasping through darkness for some thinning, fading line. So many souls reached back, shrieking hungrily for his anchor, but he fought them off.
There was only one hand he would take (or maybe two), and he could feel that he was so, so close. She was right there, she had to be. He just had to reach a little further, he couldn’t care less how deathly the frost was becoming.
He had to reach her, he would pull her back now or he would cross over and meet her on the other—
“…Tim?”
His lungs inflated with a gasp, his glowing, frost-bitten fist locking onto her tether. He spun around to the echo of her voice and something between a laugh and a sob shook free.
There she was - still sporting the red ‘R’ peeking out from the folds of her violet cloak, alongside the black pants and combat boots of her hero suit. The more he took her in, the more he realized the eerie details.
Her mask was gone - they’d torn it off to check her breathing. Her roots were dark - the new dye bottles she’d been planning to use were still in the cabinet under the bathroom sink. Only, the most discerning eye could make out the deep stains that darken the inside back of her cloak - she couldn’t have used her power if she’d had full body armour like the rest of them. The cloak was meant to protect her, but how did none of them see this coming?
But none of that meant a thing to him any longer, because she was back.
“Oh my god, Steph!” Tim wheezed, slipping and stumbling on the snow as he hurried over to her. “I did it! You’re here, you’re back! I did it!”
“You did,” she replied, raising a patronizing brow. “I heard you calling right away. What took you so damn long?”
“Hey! I could say the same to you!” he shot back, still chuckling in disbelief. “You sure took your sweet time answering! I nearly froze to death!”
“I think that’s more ‘cause you’re standing in the snow with no coat on, genius!”
“Nah, that’s unrelated.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, crossing her arms with a mock-disapproving sigh. Her eyes scanned the empty courtyard, watching the snow fall over the tracks. None of the flakes seemed to touch her. Tim pretended not to notice.
“Where is everyone?”
He laughed - something dry and humourless. “Ah, you know… sheltering indoors, lest they fall ill from the cold! Weaklings, all of them.”
“What? None of ‘em stuck around for you to…” Turning back, Stephanie’s gaze burned into him for several moments before it dropped down to the casket.
She blinked in shock. “Wait… is this my funeral?” her voice was strained with emotion, but Tim couldn’t read which one.
He shrugged, tossing his hands. “Well, yeah, Steph. You didn’t think you were just taking a nap, did you?”
He tried to keep his voice light, but it settled into snark. She whirled on him again, rage flashing over her, but not focused on any target.
“That’s— You- why- why didn’t anyone wait for you?” she sputtered, scowling at nothing.
Tim’s heart began racing the more she ranted and the nausea threatened to expel even the bile from his empty stomach. Their voices still echoed, in perfect rhythm with all those years ago - the first time he tried. The first time he failed.
“I knew you’d call, so I— What, they were just gonna bury me n’ forget it? Nobody waited to see me?” Steph cried, her voice twisting and breaking as her stomping feet failed to add imprints to the snow.
The pure hurt that spewed out from her pierced him like a lance, and he choked on it in his rush to assure her.
“That’s not— I didn’t tell them!” He hacked and coughed, gripping his jaw like squeezing hard enough could seal away the sickness that was rising from his core.
“Whaddya mean y—”
“I didn’t tell anyone I was trying again!” he snapped, overpowering her emotion with a spark of his own before backing down into snark again. “I couldn’t— it’s too much pressure, obviously! You know I can’t perform under pressure, and with all their teary, hopeful eyes on me the whole time— I mean, come on, there’s just no way I’d have managed it.”
“Oh, that’s some bullshit, Tim!” she snapped back, hands clasping to her hips. “First of all, you literally can’t exist without a cheering crowd—”
“Hey, I resent that! When have you ever cheered me on?”
“—And secondly, are you tellin’ me you had a whole damn funeral n’ not a single person asked if you could speak to me?”
There it was again, reflected on her face and etched into every corner of his mind.
Desperate grief, shattered hope, hollow disappointment, and empty rage. Three years before, another picture frame propped above an empty, half-sized casket. Seven pairs of hopeless eyes faded duller and duller as they watched him try and fail and try and fail to bring their brother back. Even just for one last time.
Again and again and again.
No one had asked him this time. Tim could have pretended it was for his sake, but he wasn’t so naive. They hadn’t dared to hope in him again.
“Steph…” he muttered, slicking the snow into his bangs as he shoved them back from his face. “My power… is a fluke. Of course they didn’t ask me after Jason! I don’t even know why it worked this time, I mean— maybe I needed a body, or—”
“Or maybe Jason just isn’t dead?” Steph retorted, rolling her eyes like she’d just made the most obvious declaration in the world.
Silence fell for a thick moment as Tim blinked once, then twice.
“Wait…” His chest was abruptly squeezing tight, pulling his voice down to a croak. “Are- are you saying you didn’t see him over there?”
She faltered, stiffening as she stared at him strangely. “Wh- Tim, I- I didn’t cross over! I told you, I was waiting for you!”
A headache crept into his temple as he shook through the confusion. Of course one death had instantly made his sister a better expert in his own power, that just described his life perfectly.
“Wait, what? Where did I pull you from then?” he questioned, and she shrugged.
“I dunno, somewhere in between, I guess! But Tim, the moment you called, it was like a beacon,” she explained, suddenly fervent. “There were hundreds of others waiting with me, n’ every single one of ‘em flew in like moths to a flame. I had to shove through ‘em all!”
A shiver ran down Tim’s spine at her words, and he clutched at his arm in discomfort. “I felt them… they were grabbing for my tether like zombies hungry for brains…”
She shrugged again. “Well, they’re probably all souls with unfinished business, right? Maybe that’s why they’re always botherin’ you.”
Tim crossed his arms with a huff. “Well, if they want my help, they can learn to be nicer about it!”
“But Tim, you see what I mean, don’t you?” Steph insisted, moving closer to meet his eyes. “Your power was impossible to miss! I bet any ghost anywhere in the world could see it!”
Cringing, he narrowed his eyes at her. “Terrifying. What’s your point?”
She rolled her eyes again, like he was an idiot for missing the obvious answer in her nonsense.
“Oh my god, Tim— Do you really think Jason would leave us behind without even waiting for you?” she replied, not even pretending like it was a real question.
Something fragile that was long-buried deep within him finally formed a crack, and he swayed back from her like her words were a shot. His throat was hoarse and his eyes stung with a grief that he’d never truly given space. Somehow hope was always more painful, wasn’t it?
“Oh…” he muttered, soft and cracking. “Oh my god…”
“…I’m sorry, y’know?” Steph said suddenly, startling Tim from one raw emotion to the next. “I’m sorry none of us trusted you.”
He laughed, the tears trickling free over his numbing, flushed cheeks. “Ah, it’s okay… I didn’t trust myself, either. I still don’t know if I do…”
Could Tim truly have the chance of having his whole family back one day? That kind of hope was a dangerous thing, but Tim was never one to shy away from living dangerously.
He turned away to avoid seeing Stephanie’s face twist with pity, but found himself staring straight into her unsmiling photograph. Idly, he wondered if Bruce chose it just to make sure it looked nothing like Jason’s.
Jason - their brother who, despite all these years of mourning, could maybe, just maybe, actually still be alive.