A/N: This chapter fought me every step of the way, but I am nothing if not determined.

Chapter 18: Things Left Behind

Flickers of guilt kindle regret
For all that was left unsaid or undone.
—John O'Donohue, "For Grief" (excerpt)

ROBIN

The blue plaque next to the door proclaimed, MITCHELL, MCBRIDE AND VONN, Attorneys at Law. Scarcely had Tim read the words than the door opened, and a balding, bespectacled man with red hair and a moustache ushered them in. He shook Tim, Dana and Bruce's hands in turn.

"Please, come in. You're Timothy Drake? And Dana Drake? I wish we were meeting under better circumstances. My condolences on your loss. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Wayne." The man settled himself into a blue chair behind a wide brown desk, gestured to his guests to sit down, then addressed Tim.

"I'm Terrence McBride, your late father's attorney. As you might guess, there are a number of matters that will need your attention in the days to come. But, as I can see, you're understandably anxious, young man. I think we should skip ahead to the two main items."

Tim did not appreciate this casual observation—as I can see, you're understandably anxious—even though he knew that Mr McBride was trying to put him at ease. Tim was not anxious; anxiety arose from a perceived inability to control one's situation. He knew what he wanted, and how to achieve it—he just needed to play his cards right.

"Thank you, sir," he said, feeling as if his voice were not his own. The suit that Alfred had selected for him was stiff, unfamiliar and slightly long in the sleeves, and the red plush armchair he sat in was uncomfortably large, causing his feet to barely touch the floor if he was sitting up straight (he was). Bruce was on his left and Dana on his right, but Tim only knew this from his peripheral vision; he was carefully not making eye contact with either of them.

"First of all, your father left you some money—split pretty evenly between you and Mrs Drake." Mr McBride nodded at Dana, who managed a nod in return. "Even with his recent financial setbacks, it's quite a sum. Neither of you is rich, mind you, but it's a substantial amount." He smiled gently, and Tim had to stop himself from bristling. "Now, as to the matter of your custody…"

Tim swallowed. Dana gripped the arms of her chair, leaning forward slightly. Bruce waited.

"In the event of his death before your majority, your father wanted you to be raised by his second wife, Dana Winters Drake."

Dana inhaled sharply, and Bruce nodded in acknowledgement, but Mr McBride was not finished.

"As matter of fact, Mr Drake updated his will just earlier this year."

Tim leaned forward. "When?"

"One moment, please." Mr McBride checked the papers on the desk before him, then named a date several months previous. Tim felt his heart drop, and he did not dare glance at Bruce, though he was sure they were both thinking the same thing.

That was the day after Jack Drake had found out about Robin.

"Jack never discussed that with me," Dana said quietly. "Did he say why?"

Mr McBride nodded. "He did not leave details, but a note in the file from Mr Drake at the time of the will's alteration describes you, Mrs Drake, as"—Mr McBride coughed awkwardly—"the only person he could trust."

Tim's stomach dropped. He could vividly recall, even without the reminder, the way his father had spoken to him back then, the way he had ranted about Bruce's role in the situation and declared that he would go to the press. Worst of all, he had berated Tim for continually betraying his trust, while Tim's face burned with shame, knowing his father was right.

It's not just one lie, son—it's been thousands of them! You told me you tried out for football—had the gall to tell me you didn't make the team after I wished you good luck! And that engineering school I was so proud of you for getting into—your old habit of disappearing at random moments—even somehow getting trapped in No Man's Land after the quake—it all comes back to Robin and him! You've been feeding me bullshit for years, Tim!

"Timothy?"

With effort, Tim pulled himself back from the harsh memory. What he wouldn't give to see his father standing before him again, even through temper clashes and mood swings, as long as it meant that Tim wouldn't be alone any longer…

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, throat suddenly thick. "Please go on, Mr McBride."

"Tim, if you need a moment…" Dana began, lifting her hand towards him uncertainly, but Tim raised his head and nodded at the attorney, who continued speaking after a moment's pause.

"Mr Drake updated his will some months ago to designate Dana Drake as your legal guardian upon the event of his death before your majority. However, this presents an issue."

"Oh?" said Bruce, voice carefully controlled.

"What do you mean?" asked Dana.

"It's likely that Mr Drake was unaware that stepparents are not automatically granted legal rights to their stepchildren. It's a common misconception," Mr McBride added, when Dana looked startled.

Tim was not. He himself had discovered as much some days ago.

"What does that mean for Tim?" interjected Bruce.

"Mr Wayne, I understand that Timothy has—"

"Tim," Bruce corrected.

"My apologies, Tim. As I was saying, Mr Wayne, I understand that Tim has been living with you since Mr Drake's passing?"

"He's been living with both of us," Dana spoke up. "Bruce has very kindly been letting us stay at Wayne Manor."

Bruce nodded in confirmation, while Tim's eyes were fixed on the attorney's desk. He wondered what had gone through Bruce's mind the previous night, when Tim had confessed his plans and extracted a promise. Bruce's face had held an odd expression—not the veiled relief that Tim had expected, nor the awkwardness of their uneven keel. The only thing Tim had been able to discern was a faint dissatisfaction—though whether it was at the situation or Tim himself, Tim did not know, and was irritated when he realised that this bothered him.

Mr McBride was now addressing Dana. "As Timothy's stepmother, Mrs Drake, you never adopted him, and therefore have no legal claim on him."

Dana winced. "That's right. When Jack and I got married, the three of us agreed that it was a good arrangement."

Tim nodded in confirmation.

"An understandable decision, given the circumstances. However, it means that Tim now has no surviving next of kin, and his guardianship will be determined by the court."

Dana's face was bloodless. "What happens then?"

"The court will assess all written petitions for guardianship and appoint a guardian in accordance with Tim's best interests." Mr McBride nodded at Tim. "In most cases, there is little cause for alarm—the court gives substantial weight to the guardianship designation in the will."

Tim swallowed. He did not have to look to his right to know that Dana had let out an audible sigh after the final sentence. Was she feeling anxious? Guilty? Reassured?

"I've heard about another option," he spoke up, meeting Mr McBride's eyes. "Petitioning to become an emancipated minor."

Mr McBride raised his eyebrows and sat back a little. "Ah," he said. "That's a little out of my wheelhouse, I'm afraid. However, as I understand it, the process is similar—you must file a formal petition with the court, citing evidence that it is in your best interests to be emancipated, and demonstrating financial self-sufficiency. May I ask if this is an option you are seriously considering?"

Tim's mind whirled. "I don't know," he lied. Time to play it up. "I just wish Dad had discussed this with us. It just seems so… so…"

"Of course, it's very sudden," said Mr McBride, in a softer tone. "I understand if you need more time to process the situation. However, you should also remember that any guardianship appointment will only last until you attain eighteen years of age in less than two years' time. Furthermore, the court may also take prior guardianship arrangements into account." He turned to Bruce, who tensed. "Mr Wayne, my records tell me that you held temporary guardianship of Timothy three years ago while Mr Drake was in a coma, and you enrolled him in Gotham Heights High School."

"That's correct," said Bruce.

"An arrangement that you recently resumed, after Mr Drake's passing."

Both Bruce and Tim nodded. Tim dimly remembered the halting way Bruce had spoken with him about it. There had been a curious emphasis on safety and security that Tim had barely registered, and he could not recall any specific words or phrases, only Bruce's overwhelming relief as he said, in response to Tim's assent, "Thank you, Tim," squeezing Tim's shoulders in a way that was both strange and comforting.

Mr McBride was still talking, now—something about the will again, or maybe how long Bruce had temporary guardianship for—but Tim interrupted.

"Do I get a say?" he asked. "In who will be my guardian, I mean."

"Yes," said Mr McBride, straightening his glasses as he looked at Tim. "New Jersey law takes into account the wishes of minors who are fourteen and older."

Dana tensed. Tim chanced a quick look at her and was startled to that see her eyes had filled with tears. He had been unable to predict her reactions to today's revelations; the emotions he saw in her now made his heart skip a beat. Of course, he thought, it doesn't take much to set her off these days.

"It seems," said Bruce slowly, "that the best course of action is to think over and discuss the matter before submitting any guardianship forms. Would you agree with that assessment, Mr McBride?"

The attorney nodded. "Absolutely. Talk things over among yourselves, taking all we've discussed into account, and when you're ready, I can draw up the necessary papers and guide you through the process of completing them and submitting them to the court."

"Thank you," said Tim, standing up quickly. He knew he must look rude, but he did not care—he had never met Mr McBride before, and if things went the way he was planning, their future interactions would dwindle into nothing. "I'll keep in touch."

The attorney stood up, offering Tim an awkward smile as they shook hands. "Remember, Tim, if there's anything more you'd like to know, anything I can help you with—"

"I've got my people working on this, too," said Bruce. His tone was a little cold—was it because he had promised to help Tim, or for another reason? Dana remained silent, but Tim had the distinct impression, as the three of them left the office, that he had just witnessed a silent, inexplicable tug of war—and found himself at the centre of it.

BATGIRL

Weeks had passed, and Cassandra was still left wondering if she'd made the right decision. She remembered how Barbara had sought her out that first morning after the gang war, desperate for a conversation that Cassandra would rather have avoided.

"Cass?"

Though she already knew who was approaching her, Cassandra still stiffened at Barbara's voice, which was uncharacteristically hesitant. After depositing her empty cereal bowl somewhere along the way—Alfred could find anything—Cassandra had made a beeline for the Batcave's workout equipment, but found herself unable to concentrate. Now, she turned, crossing her arms and saying nothing.

"Cass, can we please talk for a minute?" Barbara's mouth was tight, but there was something in the way she was looking at Cassandra that made Cassandra feel oddly powerful.

Trying to mask the hurt that she felt, she responded, "You talk."

Barbara sighed. "I guess I deserve that. Look—I want to say sorry for how I've been treating you lately. I shouldn't have said what I did."

"You called me stupid."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter," Cassandra said slowly, letting Barbara's face turn hopeful for a moment before she added, "if you still… believe it."

"I don't," Barbara insisted. "Getting upset about the library getting trashed was no excuse. I know you're not stupid—I did then, too—and I'd like to continue teaching you, if you'll let me."

Cassandra shook her head. "No."

Barbara visibly restrained herself from her initial reaction, but her face still fell. She pressed the bridge of her nose, adjusting her glasses, and said, "Okay. All I have to say is—I believe that you are definitely capable of learning how to read, but you just need—"

Fury and humiliation burned equally within Cassandra's veins. "Stop."

"—the right method. And a better teacher." Barbara held up her hands. "All right. I'll drop the topic. Are you staying with Bruce now?"

"Yes." Suddenly remembering the unidentifiable heaviness in Batman's behaviour the previous night, she said tentatively, "I need to know something… about Bruce. From yesterday."

"I'm sorry, Cass," said Barbara, remorse lending her gentleness and uncharacteristic patience. "You'll have to be more specific."

She wasn't sure if Barbara would understand, but she had to try. "He was… different," she said. "Last night. When he asked me to stay. He feels…" Words eluded her, and Cassandra wanted to rip her hair out in frustration, but she would not let Barbara see how much she was struggling. "Guilty. There's something he has to tell, but also wants to hide."

"Oh. Well, I think I might know what that might be, actually." Barbara straightened her glasses. "Did he tell you why the clock tower blew up?"

Running her mind over the rest of that conversation now, Cassandra realised with a jolt that she had said the wrong word—and, in doing so, had given Barbara entirely the wrong impression.

Barbara had told her how Batman had been so angry at what Black Mask had done that he had fought Black Mask in relentless close combat, to the point where the only way she had been able to tear him away had been to set the clock tower to self-destruct, forcing Batman to abandon the death brawl to save her life—and his own. Barbara had then theorised that Bruce probably felt guilty about holding his family to a standard that he himself had almost broken.

But Cassandra had meant conflicted, not guilty. She was intimately acquainted with guilt; she would never forget the day she had struck a killing blow—at first so eager to please, then instantly horrified when she saw what she had done. Guilt was simple.

It had been dissonance, not self reproach, that she had seen in Batman that night—and that changed everything, because it meant that Barbara had been wrong. Perhaps Bruce did feel guilty about what he had done, but the secret he was keeping was not entirely his own.

Whose, then, could it be?

While Bruce, Tim and Dana were in the city for the reading, Cassandra sought out Alfred, whom she eventually found in the unused bedroom that lay in between Bruce and Dick's. She had never seen its interior before, and watched curiously from the doorway as Alfred picked up several brown-framed photographs in turn, dusted them gently, and arranged them atop a sturdy wooden desk. Stepping soundlessly inside the room, she saw the sparse furniture it held—a bed against one wall, a lamp and nightstand, a closet, bookshelves and broad windows.

Alfred set down the third photograph, turned a little towards the door as he picked up the last, and jumped.

"Miss Cassandra!" His tone held faint reproach, but his eyes were sombre.

She moved closer and glimpsed the picture he held. It contained two figures—one was an unfamiliar black-haired boy a few years younger than herself, while the other was unmistakably Bruce, whose genuine smile was startling in its intensity. Together, they were holding up a piece of paper, and judging by the unrestrained joy radiating from the boy's wide grin, something had just happened that made that happy day well worth immortalising, even after one of its subjects was gone.

"That's… Jason," she murmured. It felt strange to say the name aloud.

"Yes," said Alfred quietly. He replaced the photograph on the desk, and she watched as he crossed over to the open window and closed it. Then, after they had exited the room, he took a small key from his pocket and locked the door.

"Are you in need of anything, my dear?" he asked, his light blue eyes not quite meeting Cassandra's.

It was tempting to ask about what she had just witnessed—inquire as to why a dead boy's belongings were preserved in a room he had never set foot in—but Cassandra could put those pieces together without needing confirmation, and she knew that she had approached Alfred for an entirely different reason.

"Yes," she said, and paused, desperately hoping that he would give her the time she needed to formulate her thoughts and ensure that she used the right words this time. "I need…"

The correct word was brushing at the edge of her mind now, sending her mind skittering away from it, but she forced herself to focus. Alfred was peering at her now, curiosity and concern both evident.

"Miss Cassandra, are you all right?"

"It's Batman," she burst out—if she knew nothing else, she knew that he was at the centre of this. "He has a secret."

Alfred raised his eyebrows. "Master Bruce has many secrets," he said, not disagreeing.

"I know." Her helplessness was mounting. She should have gone to Steph—but Steph wouldn't want to talk about Bruce. She pushed the distracting thoughts out of her head, remembering the process she had learnt from her detective lessons.

Gather evidence.

She took a breath.

"Batman's been… hiding something," she said. "Since the night the war ended. I saw it when he called me here."

That got Alfred's attention. His eyes flicked to meet hers, and there was something sharp in them that she had never seen before. "Are you certain about this?"

Cassandra nodded. "He's… different. Barbara thought it was because he forced her to destroy the clock tower, but it's not guilt—not quite." The words she'd used with Barbara came back to her, but she rephrased them, because she'd been wrong there, too. "There's something he wants to tell, but also has to hide."

She could tell from Alfred's posture that this revelation sparked something within him, too—he lowered the duster he was holding and pressed one hand into the other, a grim look taking over his entire expression.

So he had seen something, too.

"You know," she said, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice. She was right.

Alfred shook his head. "I have my suspicions," he said in a low tone. He guided her away from the hallway and towards the kitchens, depositing the duster in a broom cupboard along the way. Only once she was sitting on one of the chairs in the large kitchen and he had placed Stephanie's breakfast tray of dirty dishes next to the sink did he turn to her and say, "He refuses to explain why Leslie left Gotham."

Leslie. She had seen the way the two of them had looked at each other when they thought nobody was looking—subtle glances, muted smiles—but she had not thought that Alfred would not know where Leslie had gone.

"She was… unhappy during the war," she said. "Angry about Batman and… everything. Blaming him."

"That was my impression as well, yes."

Assess the facts.

"What…" She swallowed. "What do you think happened?"

"He received a letter from her a few weeks ago," he said, by way of answer. "From Ethiopia. In Africa," he added, seeing her expression. "He only told me that she relocated, and try as I might, I have not been able to find her or learn why she left."

She saw something in his expression left unsaid. "You have a… theory."

"Yes." Alfred's head was bowed. Regret.

This was part of detective work, Batman had said. Asking the difficult questions. She could not learn everything from body language.

"He took Spoiler away from the clinic," she said.

"Yes."

"You think that he forced Leslie to leave Gotham."

Alfred had turned away from her now, under the pretence of washing the dishes, but she still saw the tear that rolled down his wrinkled face into the dishwater. "I don't know," he said softly, in a voice filled with incredible sadness, so much so that she had the sudden urge to put her arms around him and hold him tight until the melancholia evaporated and he became whole once again. "He has always been a quiet lad, Miss Cassandra—even since before he lost his parents. I am afraid—" He cut himself off abruptly, head still down.

Realisation struck her, and she grappled for the words to express what she saw. You're afraid for him.

"He needs our help," she said firmly.

Alfred turned to her, smiling a little. "I know that as well as you, Miss Cassandra," he said. "But I am afraid that, in this… crusade he has undertaken, he no longer feels that he deserves it. He refused Oracle's help. He's been pushing away Master Tim. Even Master Dick is so despondent that he is unable to help. If he truly drove away Dr Thompkins, it's a terrible irony that his endeavours to keep members of his family near to him have only served to deepen these rifts. I fear that we…"

He faltered, but the unspoken conclusion hung in the air, heavy with its implications, and Cassandra shivered. Could this description of Batman really be the same man who had asked to adopt her those few weeks ago, on the same day Robin had been brutally orphaned—and then never spoken of their conversation again, as if he was all too ready to cast her aside, too?

No. She couldn't believe that. If she couldn't trust Batman, she couldn't trust anyone. She had intended to ask Alfred for help, but now she read the resignation in his tone and stance and saw that this was a line he could not—or would not—cross.

No matter. Cassandra steeled her heart, organising the evidence she had amassed in her mind, and resolved to get to work.

Sources:

The scene where Jack Drake's will is read is inspired by Robin (1993) #134. I am not a lawyer, and while I did do cursory research on New Jersey law, I have tailored Terrence McBride's information according to the needs of this story.

The previously mentioned conflict between Barbara and Cassandra happened in Batgirl (2000) #54.

Batgirl's kill is from Batgirl (2000) #3-6.