A/N: Thank you for your patience! This chapter is on the longer side.

Chapter 17: Promises

It doesn't hurt me that I don't know what you want
But it kills me that I don't know what you need
You're like a book written in a language that
I recognise, but I don't know how to read
—The Mudbloods, "Unconditional" (excerpt)

BATGIRL

It was an unseasonably warm night, and Batman and Batgirl were at the docks. Again, because of Oracle's abrupt sabbatical, they had been forced to gather intel from the street. Two useful threads of information were among the mire: a new player was making a move on the drug trade, and something big was coming into Gotham that night. That was all they knew—that it was big.

"Keep it moving," she heard one of the figures below say to another. "We're late as it is."

"We're armed to the teeth, man. Anybody comes within a hundred feet and it'll be the last thing they ever do."

Batgirl rolled her eyes, sensing a similar reaction behind Batman's cowl.

"Yeah, big talk," the first scoffed.

"Hell, yes. Big talk, big gun, big ba—"

A batarang on a line caught his gun, dragging him forwards as he cried, "Hey—!"

"You're all too loud and too stupid." Batman struck, making quick work of the heavily armed men as Batgirl fought alongside him, silently effortless.

Cassandra wondered if he wished someone else were by his side, for balance. Robin was more talkative. Spoiler could be infectiously bright. Nightwing was—usually—chatty. She tried to think of something funny to say, but it felt too forced.

No. Forget it. Don't think. Just—concentrate.

But Batman was preoccupied, she saw. There were times when he moved in a way that showed he was certain that his partner had his back—he left himself exposed, but only to her. She, who was unused to working in tandem, understood this at least. But he was not thinking of her. He was thinking of someone who was not there.

"Tell me what you see," he told her, when the fight was over and all their enemies had been subdued, and they were on the docked ship. His tone was clear, sending her cringing inside. You should have begun without me needing to remind you.

"The guns," she said uncertainly. "They're… big."

Batman grunted. "They're D.E.O.—Department of Extranormal Operations. Stolen three weeks ago. Heavy arms. Someone values the cargo." He looked down at the scanner in his hand as he added, "The lids are clear of explosives," referring to the large boxes that had been about to be shipped to the warehouse on the shore.

She shrugged helplessly, not knowing what to say. His body language was convoluted, giving her little to work with. Maybe it wasn't that unfathomable secret weighing on him tonight, but something else was clouding his mind, sending ripples of conflict within him.

"They're likely arms, but the casings don't match up," Batman continued, filling in the blanks. He prised open one of the crates to reveal a colourful assortment of strange items, all of which were familiar enough to identify.

Batgirl did not have to wait for his command this time. She took a breath, remembering the rogues gallery that she had memorised in the Batcave, how she had pored over the pictures for hours. "These are boomerangs—from Captain Boomerang." He killed Robin's father. "And Joker bombs." He shot Barbara and killed the second Robin—the one no one talks about. "Umbrellas from the Penguin… guns from…" She could picture the answer, but her mind blanked on the name.

"Mr Freeze," he supplied, thankfully sounding less stern. "Good. What can we learn from this?"

"They're…" She hated herself for hesitating. There was another word she'd used before, but she had to settle for a different one. "Deadly. But it's a strange collection." She kept her frustration out of her body language, though a little seeped into her tone.

Batman looked at her for a long moment, as if he recognised the dissonance between them, but did not speak. While Cassandra wrestled with thoughts she could not put into words, he levered the next crate open. Immediately, its contents began to emit a noise that rose ominously in pitch.

"Move!" he barked.

They tore their eyes away from the wires and batteries inside, dashing out and diving off the ship into the harbour just as the bombs went off.

Her swimming was strong; though he reached for her, she had no need of his help as they pushed towards to the edge of the dock, then hauled themselves out of the murky water, fire spitting and landing around them.

"You okay?" he asked briefly.

She raised her fist at him in acknowledgement, then remembered to use her words as she spied their quarry.

"There," she said, pointing to the silhouette standing on the roof above them, too distant for details. Their grapples fired almost simultaneously, and she could tell as Batman landed on the rooftop beside her and began chase that he neither knew nor cared about the identity of the red-helmeted man they were pursuing.

Observations pulsed through her, faster than speech and conscious thought. Their target was quick—not just fast, but agile—and the quality of his movements bore a resemblance to her own, with the way he leapt without thinking, trusting his body to know its own strengths and limits. But his motions themselves were also strangely familiar—not quite like those David Cain had taught her, but something else… She spared a glance at Batman and saw from his expression when the man cut a slack line from Batman's batarang that he saw it, too.

Over the rooftops they went, until—with a brief look over his shoulder back at them, as if in challenge—the red-helmeted man jumped off the edge of one building and crashed through the glass-paned skylight of the next. Throwing out lines, Batman and Batgirl wasted no time in following suit, landing roughly on the dim floor of a warehouse.

Batgirl's skin prickled.

"Stay sharp," Batman murmured.

The overhead lights flicked on.

She'd never met the figure who stood before them now, larger than life, bulging with muscles and pounding its fist into its hand threateningly. The Batcomputer's cool voice echoed in her head.

Amazo. A highly advanced android that possesses the abilities and powers of seven members of the Justice League.

"Stay sharp," Batman repeated, as the robot lunged, taunting them with jeers that Batgirl tuned out, caring for nothing else but working together towards its defeat.

"It's an older model, or maybe a prototype. There are no signs of Plastic Man," Batman said. "And it's also stripped down. No golden lasso or Green Lantern ring."

The fight led them out of the warehouse, into the air, diving across fire escapes and crashing through alleyways, and as she and Batman combined their strengths, communicating freely in the language she knew best, their synergy grew, sending sparks of elation within her.

There it was—the Batmobile's arrival. An ensuing blast from one machine into another sent Amazo hurtling into the water, crippled at last, and Batman turned the Batmobile to buoyancy mode, letting her steer around the harbour as they searched for confirmation that the android had been destroyed.

As they finally exited the water and returned to the warehouse to investigate what Amazo had been guarding, Batgirl wondered whether Batman was willing to admit—or if he even realised—that he had either trained or been trained alongside the red-helmeted figure who had led them into Amazo's trap.

BATMAN

"Amazo had been guarding over a hundred pounds of Kryptonite. We followed the radiation trail to another warehouse, where Mr Freeze and the perpetrator in the red helmet were shooting at each other over a failed deal. Batgirl and I recovered the Kryptonite, but both of them fled the scene." Batman paused, watching Tim for any sign of a reaction.

The two of them were in Tim's bedroom in the Manor. Tim was standing in front of the large window, shoulders straight and back to Bruce. Despite the hour, the curtains were open, and Tim was gazing out upon a scattering of ancient trees that shielded that side of the Manor from the worst of the elements.

"Tim?"

Tim coughed. "Thanks for telling me," he mumbled. Clearly, he was not interested in a distraction—even if it came in the form of an update on their current case.

Bruce decided to try a different tack. He stepped forward and put a hand on Tim's shoulder. They both looked out the window for a long moment, watching the occasional owl or bat fly past, while Bruce attempted to call his thoughts into line. At last he said, "The reading is tomorrow."

"Yes," Tim murmured, not moving his gaze.

"Your stepmother has requested that I be there, so Alfred and Cassandra will stay home with Dick and Steph." Your stepmother. It sounded so formal, so detached, but Bruce found it strange to say Dana, even though she'd asked him to.

Tim nodded. Outside, the wind picked up, sending an eerie howl through the trees and scattering leaves onto the roof. Bruce squeezed Tim's shoulder briefly, and was encouraged when Tim neither flinched nor shied away.

"I have no idea how to appropriately ease into a conversation like this, so I'll get to the point," Bruce began.

"I'd appreciate that."

Bruce felt his shoulders tensing again and forced himself to relax. "How much do you know about your father's will?"

Tim looked up, apparently startled. "Um, nothing. It's not something that was talked about."

"Ever?"

Tim shook his head. "Dad never once brought it up, not even after Mom died. Dana's never mentioned anything, either."

A spatter of rain hit the window, flung by the fierce wind. Bruce felt Tim suppress a shiver.

"I've had the Wayne Foundations lawyers looking into the possible outcomes," said Bruce. "You're a minor, so your father's will should appoint a legal guardian for you until you come of age. There's no way of knowing details—such as who—until tomorrow."

The rain was coming down in earnest now, pounding on the roof and windowpanes, so that Bruce had to raise his voice as he spoke the last words. Tim stepped back from the window and sat down on the edge of the bed, sliding his hands into his lap. Bruce joined him, causing the wooden bed-frame to creak slightly. Tim shifted. His eyes moved to a spot on the grey carpet.

"Regardless of those details, there are several issues that will need to be addressed," continued Bruce. "Where you will live, who will take care of you and where you will go to school."

Tim met Bruce's eyes for the first time. A faint frown creased his forehead. "What about Robin?" he asked.

Something twinged at Bruce to tell Tim that yes, Batman wanted and needed Robin, but a conflicting urge told him that trying to steer Tim in a particular direction would be both dangerous and selfish, so he erred on the side of caution, saying, "That's up to you."

"I could live on my own," said Tim abruptly. "Like Batgirl."

Bruce was taken aback. Choosing not to mention that she was currently staying at the Manor at his request, he said, "That's different. Cassandra is eighteen."

"That's not so far away."

"You won't be an adult before the reading tomorrow, so it doesn't make a difference."

"Sure, but…" Tim was studying the floor. "You still arranged Cass's apartment for her. I could take care of myself, too. I'm Robin."

Bruce pursed his lips. He did not say his first thought, which was, that's a ridiculous idea. He did not say, I gave Cassandra that apartment because of a decision that I now regret. He did not—could not—say, I'm sorry about what's happened, Tim, and I'd like to help by giving you the security you need, if you'll let me. Something seemed to be stuck in his throat.

"I'd still go to school," continued Tim, perhaps mistaking Bruce's pensive expression for scepticism. "I got accepted into Gotham City High School—thanks to you. I just need to finish junior year and do senior, and then I'll turn eighteen in July."

"Dana won't want—I don't want you living on your own." Bruce bit back the words, you're a child. What had remained of Tim's childhood after his mother's death had been ripped from him that day in the condo.

"Dana's not my mom," Tim said. The words weren't a symptom of teenage rebellion, just a statement of fact. "This way, I can still be Robin, but she won't have to worry. It's safer for her."

That was too preposterous to ignore. Did Tim really think that Dana would only worry for her own safety as a member of Robin's family—and not for her own stepson's safety as he patrolled the streets of a city that had declared masked vigilantes illegal?

"Tim, your father's death was not your fault."

Tim stood up and returned to the window, his back to Bruce as he said, "Dana's not here. You don't have to lie."

Bruce felt a sudden chill that was unrelated to the weather outside. "I'm not lying."

Tim whirled, and Bruce was aghast to see tear tracks glistening on Tim's cheeks as the boy shrieked, "Stop it—stop it! I'm Robin, not some helpless kid! I knew someone was targeting the families and I just left—him—alone!"

Bruce surged forward just in time to catch Tim as the latter's knees buckled and he crumpled to the floor, weeping with so much force that his arms had no strength to hold himself upright and he trembled in Bruce's grasp, thick tears spilling onto the carpet as the rain beat above them.

Bruce's hands steadied Tim's shoulders; Tim's head was bowed so far that Bruce could not see Tim's face, only his thick black hair.

"Everyone says it's not my fault," Tim whispered. He sniffled and pushed his palms against the floor until he was upright, watery eyes avoiding Bruce's. "You… Dana… Steph… even he said it, but…"

But I can't make myself believe it.

Bruce found his voice. "Shh," he murmured, guiding Tim closer, so that the boy sagged against his side. Give yourself time.

"I should have been better." Tim's words were muffled by Bruce's chest, and he sounded as if he were speaking more to himself than to Bruce.

"No. You did all you could. Nobody should expect more." Bruce closed his eyes and kissed Tim's hair, so lightly that he was sure Tim didn't feel it.

"But I couldn't even stop Dana from—from—" Tim's voice hitched. "She doesn't even know what happened after Darla's funeral."

"It doesn't matter now." But that was a bridge that had to be crossed if Tim and Dana were to have the kind of relationship that Dana craved. Bruce chose his next words carefully as he said, "Regardless of what happens tomorrow, you and Dana will always be welcome at the Manor."

Tim nodded and sniffled. He then ran one hand across his eyes and the other under his nose in a way that make him look younger than sixteen. He wiped both hands on his jeans, lifted his head from Bruce's side and said, watching raindrops trail down the windowpanes, "I need your help."

Bruce inclined his head to show that he was listening.

Tim took a deep breath. "I've read about another option. An emancipated minor." He enunciated the syllables carefully, while Bruce's heart gave a painful jolt.

So this was what Tim wanted. To be free.

"Tim…"

"It's like you said," Tim added hurriedly. "I don't know what's in the will. If I'm an emancipated minor, I can still be Robin, no matter what happens. But I'll need to prove that I can live on my own." His red-rimmed eyes met Bruce's at last—impassioned and desperate.

There was something else lingering in Bruce's mind as he watched Tim. He wanted to tell Tim what he had been able to tell Dana, but he could not seem to find the words, not when Tim was so obviously drawing a boundary between them by rejecting Bruce before he even had a chance to offer Tim what he had offered Cassandra.

It's too soon, Bruce realised with a pang. Tim wants a partner, not another father.

"All right," he promised. "I'll help you." And although Tim offered him a ghost of a smile, Bruce did not feel any semblance of joy or relief. Instead, it was as if he had simply directed a runaway train down an unused track in lieu of pulling the brakes. Nor could he shake the memory of Dana's stricken face as she confessed how much she wanted Tim to stay.

He had not thought that it would be like this.

Several nights before, when Dick had been discovered missing from the Manor and the Batcave, Bruce had insisted on being the only one to search for him. He had seen which files Dick had accessed, and knew exactly where to find his son. Tim's reaction, however, had shocked him—the boy had been equally agitated and distraught in turn, clinging to Bruce and begging to be allowed to help, until both Alfred and Dana had had to pull him away. And then, after it was all over and Bruce and Dick had returned safely, Bruce had immediately gone to Tim's room to provide him with much-needed closure.

"Is… is Dick mad at me?" Tim asked in a small voice. "Because Cass and I went to Blüdhaven?"

"No. He knows it was my doing, and he understands."

Tim exhaled shakily. "That's… I'm glad."

"There's something else you should know. Nightwing was there the night that Blockbuster was murdered, but Tarantula was the one who pulled the trigger. It's clear that he was suffering from shock when he was travelling with her."

Tim opened his mouth again and sucked in a breath, but instead of words, out came a choked sob.

Bruce was alarmed. "Tim," he began, unsure what to say next, but Tim shook his head as he gazed resolutely out the window.

"I hate this," he said softly. "He's my brother. I wish I could help him."

"You do," said Bruce, trying to inject gentleness into his words. "You have. More than you know."

"It's not enough."

Bruce swallowed as a vision of Jason rose in his mind's eye. In the same instant, he had the peculiar sensation that they were being watched, and instincts too honed to ignore led him to check the window, but the world outside was pitch black, and they were alone.

He had not known then what to say to this last bleak statement of Tim's, but the answer came to him now, and he wished he had had the courage to murmur it then, or at least admit it to himself, in that moment of grim solitude and self-loathing.

No. It isn't. But you don't have to do it alone.

BATMAN: GOTHAM KNIGHTS

Steph was grateful that Cassandra poked her head in her bedroom that night, after coming in from the city. Some moments, she felt as if the loneliness would eat her alive—it cost her a great deal to stay patient and introspective, keeping her mind busy by constructing plans of action that might never see the light of day.

She wanted desperately to talk to Tim, but he seemed to be ignoring her—he had not said more than two words to her since the night he had come into her room. Even Dana had visited, pressing a hand to her mouth when she saw Steph's condition, and then playing card games with her that were too complicated for Cassandra's limited literacy and attention span.

"Cass! I'm so glad you've come."

Cassandra looked uncertain, then said, in her usual blunt way, "You're lonely."

"No—well, maybe a little," Steph admitted. "Tell me what happened tonight, and then I want to talk to you about something."

"You first," said Cassandra, but Steph shook her head.

"Please, Cassie. This is important."

Cassandra rolled her eyes, but began to describe what had happened that night in brief, deliberate sentences, and concluded with an uneasy look on her face.

"There's something else, isn't there?" Steph guessed.

"Yes."

"Something you haven't told Batman."

Cassandra gave a sort of half shrug. "I don't know if he knows already. The Red Hood, he's… familiar. Not to me," she added, when Steph opened her mouth. "To him. Similar, but not."

"What do you mean? You said you didn't get a good look at him."

"Not his looks. How he moves. And thinks. He's pretty good—not like Batman, but not not like him."

Steph frowned. "You think they've met before?"

"I don't know. Batman didn't know him, but… it's like they had the same training. Or…"

"What?"

"Or… Batman trained him. But that doesn't add up. I don't know anyone else that fits."

"Well, I'll keep it in mind," Steph said, when it was clear that Cassandra had no further information. "That's very interesting, but short of breaking into the Batcomputer—"

An awkward silence descended. Cassandra was biting her lip, and Steph felt her own cheeks burning.

"Well," she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. "That's really what I wanted to talk to you about."

Cassandra just looked at her blankly.

Steph swallowed. "I… well… I know I should have said this way earlier, but I want to apologise for everything that's happened. It was all my fault—the gang war, Orpheus's death, Black Mask taking over—and if I hadn't been so thoughtless and selfish, if I'd just stopped and tried to fix things with Batman instead of making them worse and getting myself captured—"

"Tortured," Cassandra interrupted. "Not just captured."

Steph smiled wanly. "Way to rub it in."

Cassandra scowled. "No. Even if you caused everything, you still didn't deserve to be tortured. Nobody does."

"I guess," Steph said. "But Batman still had to rescue me, and now he has to have me stay at his house, when I'm sure he must hate the sight of me."

Cassandra gave her a long look that seemed to be half exasperation, half pity.

"Well…" Steph concluded lamely, "I'm sorry."

"I know." Cassandra looked down.

"Cass… when did you find out it was me?"

"I… suspected when Batman told us about the war game," Cassandra said. "I remembered how you acted before. I was…. worried about you."

"But that's the thing, right? I can't be Spoiler if the rest of you have to spend your time worrying about where I am and what I might do. I know Batman will never forgive me or let me be Spoiler again. There's no reason for him to, because that's all I know how to do—spoil everything."

"Not everything," Cassandra said, contradicting her again. "You were teaching me how to read."

"I hardly did anything!"

"No. You were great. Better than Barbara. You—you always encouraged me. Didn't make me feel stupid. Besides…"

"What?"

"When Batman began teaching me to read, he said I had a good… foundation." While Steph was still blinking at this unexpected revelation, Cassandra added, matter-of-fact, "He said he wanted to adopt me."

"He did? Cassie, that's—what did you say?"

A smile blossomed on the other girl's face, quite transforming her, so that her brown eyes shone. "Yes."

"Oh, I'm so glad! When was this?"

Cassandra frowned, looking pensive, and Steph remembered belatedly that she still found calendars and dates difficult. Then Cassandra said, "Some time ago—the same day that Robin's father was murdered."

Steph's mouth dropped open. "You're kidding. God, Cass, I'm so sorry. Look," she said, changing tack, "speaking of Tim… I need a favour. I need someone to look out for him."

"Robin? He can look out for himself."

"I know, but… when Batman took Robin away from me, I was so upset that I… well, you know what I did. Tim's so distant now, so different—I'm scared that he might do something really big."

"We're not close. Not like you and him."

"Please, Cassie. I'm stuck in this room. I can't spend time with him unless he comes to me. You don't have to talk to him, just… keep an eye on him, and tell me if you see anything worrying. I'm doing what I should have been doing this whole time—asking for help." And then, when Cassandra still looked uncertain, Steph threw the remains of her pride to the wind and begged, "Promise me."

"All right," said Cassandra slowly. "I promise."

Sources:

Batman and Batgirl's encounters with the Red Hood are based on Batman #636-638 (Batman: Under the Hood).

Bruce's conversation with Tim borrows some lines from Robin (1993) #134.

Bruce gave Cassandra an apartment in Batgirl (2000) #48-49. Out of concern for her emotional health, he fired her from Batgirl, wanting her to live a normal life. (This was just before the gang war, so she was back quickly.)

Tim's birthday is the 19th of July, as revealed in Robin (1993) #116.

Batgirl and Spoiler met briefly during the gang war in Batgirl (2000) #55 (Batman: War Games).