A/N: This chapter contains some intense, though canon-typical, violence.

Chapter 11: Father's Day

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
—Robert Frost, "Nothing Gold Can Stay'

BATMAN

"Dick, talk to me."

Sitting up in bed, Dick crossed his arms and looked away. "There's nothing to talk about."

Bruce sat down on the edge of the bed, which sank under his weight. "I think there is."

"Then you tell me, Bruce."

Bruce swallowed an impatient sigh. "Having a panic attack in one of the safest places in Gotham is not nothing."

Dick's cheeks coloured, but he still refused to meet Bruce's eyes. "It wasn't a panic attack."

"Then explain what it was."

"I—I can't."

"Try."

"I… when you pulled out the box, I thought you were going to do something else. I had a bad dream last night and I guess I was still on edge. Sorry."

Liar, Bruce thought, studying Dick's resolute face. "What was the dream about?"

Dick swore. "We're not doing this."

Anger rose in Bruce's chest. "Yes, we are. Panic attacks don't come out of nowhere—"

"Stop calling it that!"

"—and you've been off for weeks, ever since the gang war, perhaps due to witnessing a traumatic event—"

"I'm not traumatised!"

"I didn't say you were," Bruce responded evenly. "My point is, this is something that you need to deal with before you can return to the field."

Dick looked down, restless fingers tracing patterns on the blankets in his lap. There was a long silence, broken at last when he swallowed thickly and cleared his throat, facing Bruce.

"When you called me from Blüdhaven, there was a… a case that I hadn't finished wrapping up yet."

"Let me help you."

"I—I can't."

"Why not?" Isn't it my fault that you had to leave Blüdhaven?

"Because I need to finish what I started," Dick answered, voice hard. "You taught me that. I don't feel right discussing it until I know it's over. But I'll let you know when I do."

His worries not entirely assuaged, Bruce stayed quiet until he could say, "I appreciate that, Dick." He turned away and pulled a thermometer out of his pocket.

"Alfred asked me to take your temperature," he explained.

Dick wrinkled his nose as he made a face. It was such a familiar expression that it sent a lump to Bruce's throat. When he was younger, Dick had had trouble staying still and keeping his mouth shut long enough to gain an accurate reading.

"Too bad," Bruce said, staving off oncoming protests. He uncapped the thermometer. "Open."

Rolling his eyes, Dick snatched the thermometer and put it under his tongue. Just as he had done when he was twelve, he began to squint at the sideways digital display.

"Dick, I…" Bruce began.

Thermometer still sticking out of his closed mouth, Dick could only glare. Bruce read the sour expression, but ignored it.

"Whatever this case is about, you don't need to deal with it alone."

Dick made a sound in his throat that could have been a protest.

"You came to Gotham to help during the gang war." And it's my fault you're injured. "You don't… you don't have to tell me everything. Yet."

There was a moment of tense silence, before the beep of the thermometer interrupted them. Dick removed it, read the display, paled and passed it wordlessly to Bruce, who said what they both knew.

"You have a fever. I'll get Alfred. Stay here."

Dick sank back on the pillows in defeat.

"Bruce, you know I'm only on emergency support," said Barbara, answering the video call without preamble. Her camera was turned off; only Oracle's pointed green face was visible on the Batcomputer screen, inscrutable as ever.

Bruce's lips tightened. "Yes. This is more of a personal call."

There was a pause, then the monitor changed to reveal an unsmiling Barbara with one hand on her chin. "Yes?"

"What are your… designs for Batgirl?"

"Excuse me? My designs?" Barbara's cheeks tinged pink.

"Plans," Bruce elaborated impatiently, biting back the word contingencies. "Desires. Intentions for her future." Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Batgirl's image on another screen as she painstakingly copied down a bloody message projected on the wall, scrutinising it with fierce concentration. Her detective skills had improved rapidly under his tutelage; now, she was attempting a simulated training scenario almost entirely solo.

"Oh," said Barbara. "Well, it depends both on what she wants and what she'll let me do. For starters, she needs to learn to read fluently, but that's a sore subject between us."

"And what if you decide to leave Gotham?"

"She'll want to stay," Barbara said with conviction. "Look, Bruce… I'm not sure she'll appreciate my input right now. We agreed that it's best if I give her some space."

"Hmm. I'll need—I would appreciate a summary of all the training you've given her so far."

"Already done, and you should know that. You're stalling. What's on your mind? Is she okay?"

"Yes. No. I don't know." Bruce pressed his face into his hands for a moment, thinking. "I've been evaluating her parentage and legal standing."

"… And?"

"She's eighteen, and David Cain has no claim on her—for numerous reasons. Her mother's identity remains unknown, though I have my suspicions. Regardless, her biological family is entirely out of the picture."

"Oh. OH." Barbara's eyes grew big. "That's… that's a big thing, Bruce. Talk to Cassandra about this, not me."

"I called to ask for your opinion."

Barbara sucked in a breath. "If she's anything like the others, she wants it more than you realise."

Like her namesake, she spoke in riddles. "Wants what?" Bruce demanded.

"You and I… we've both had our second chance at a family. I think Cassie deserves one, too. She worships you."

"You mean Batman," he corrected.

"Does it make a difference? You know she doesn't see the masks the way we do."

Bruce watched Batgirl take out seven simulated assassins without breaking a sweat, then pause to assess her work and move towards the door.

"Bruce?"

"I'll update you later. Thanks for your input, Barbara," he added, and closed the call before she could react.

"Done," announced Batgirl, removing her cowl as she came over. "New record time."

"I saw. Your work is commendable. What was the final message?"

She took a notepad out of her belt and traced a finger under the transcribed words as she studied it. "Ih… I. A-a-am… am… am… thee… the. Nuh… no, muh… mas-ter… master. Off… no, that's of. My… fah… fat… fate." She took a deep breath. "I am the master of my fate."

"Correct," Bruce told her, pleased.

"I'm still so slow."

"Not at all. You've made enormous improvement in a short time. This message is a line from a poem called 'Invictus':

"'Out of the night that covers me
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

"'In the fell clutch of circumstance,
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

"'Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

"'It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.'

"I first read it when I was a boy."

"I am the master of my fate," Cassandra repeated, looking thoughtful as she sat down on the other chair and pulled her knees up to her chin.

"Feet down, or Alfred will have my head," ordered Bruce, pointing at the floor. "Have you heard any poetry before?"

She reluctantly slid her feet off the edge of the chair so that they dangled. "Barbara tried to read some to me. Alfred, too. I don't… remember any of it. Didn't really understand it. Because it's still hard to think in words." She looked down at the notepad in her hands again.

I am the master of my fate.

"I always see movement first," she continued. "But that poem is nice. I never thought that words could be… beautiful, too. More than just… communicating."

"Good." Bruce took a deep breath, surveying the eighteen-year-old girl before him. "I have something else for you."

"Another test?"

"No. A choice." He held her gaze. "Recent… events have made it clear to me that I haven't always given you the credit or attention that you deserve," he began, making sure not to trip over the words, "and I'm sorry for that."

Breaking eye contact, Bruce turned to the desk and pulled a sheet of paper from a drawer. Clutching it in both hands in front of him, he swallowed and continued, eyes fixed on Cassandra's own.

"When I took in Dick and… and Jason, I introduced them to this life. Dick needed a channel for his anger and grief. Jason…" Bruce's throat grew tight as his gaze strayed to the Robin memorial.

I failed him. But I won't fail you.

"Your situation is different. You learnt to fight before you had a name. Your skills, while exemplary, are not enough."

Cassandra watched him warily, barely breathing.

"You need more than a costume. You need a family and somewhere to call home. You need rights and a legal name. The… simplest answer is for me to legally adopt you, if you'll let me. You're an adult. Being part of the family will give you security, but it has to be your choice."

I am the captain of my soul.

"Adopt," she repeated, testing the word on her tongue. "Like Dick. And… Jason."

"Yes," Bruce managed, and through the pain that lanced through the old ache in his heart, he knew that she was remembering a gravestone he had taken her to see, not so long ago. "Cassandra, I want you—"

And then the air was knocked out of his lungs as she sprang forward and hugged him, burying her face against the bat symbol on his chest. He found himself reciprocating without conscious thought, blood rushing in his ears, hands still clutching the adoption papers. She hasn't said no… but she hasn't said yes, either…

"Yes," she whispered, as if she could read his mind. "I want you to adopt me. I want another name."

He couldn't help the low rumble of a chuckle that escaped his nerveless lips. "If… if I adopt you, I could give you my name instead."

"Cassandra Wayne," she murmured, the smile on her face growing, and the constriction in his throat loosened until he was breathing freely for the first time in weeks.

I never thought that words could be… beautiful, too.

"You're late," said Batman. He was looking out upon the Gotham River as he spoke, but he knew who had approached him; her footsteps on the dock were not quite silent.

"There was another scuffle, just before you came," said Onyx. "I can't speak for elsewhere, but the boys and I have the Hill under control—for now."

"And what about in the future?"

Onyx lifted her smooth brown head authoritatively. "There's been some good out of the rubble. Remember when you said these boys needed a purpose? Something bigger than themselves to work for?"

"Are you saying Orpheus's death has done that for them?"

"I'm saying Orpheus's assassination has done that for them," she corrected. "No matter who's vying for control now—and I believe that he's still out there, somehow—the war took one of their own. They'll do everything to keep what we've got."

"Do you have proof of Black Mask's return?"

Onyx shook her head. "But there've been whispers on the streets. Little signs. Something's happening in the shadows. But I can't follow up. My duty is to protect the Hill."

"I'll get to the bottom of it," Batman promised.

"The sooner, the better. It's like I said. My boys will do everything for the Hill—and doubly so if it's to keep him out."

"Even kill?" he asked. "Or die?"

"That's a bridge we haven't had to cross, yet."

"Are you prepared for that? He is."

Onyx opened her mouth quickly, then pursed her lips instead.

"I won't kill, if that's what you're asking," she said finally, putting her hands up, palms towards him. "I know what it's like to have blood on my hands. I've killed people. And not for any just cause—except my wallet. I won't seek him out—but if he comes to the Hill, I'll find it hard to stop my boys from seeking retribution for Orpheus, no matter the cost."

He had no answer. She had answered his question, and yet she had not.

I'm sorry… Bruce, I—I f—

Ever since the words had spilled from Dick's mouth, Bruce could not stop himself from hearing the echoes and completing the last syllables all too easily.

I failed you.

He was a detective. There had been numerous clues. It was clear what Dick was referring to, but a weight settled heavy in Bruce's stomach because he refused to believe what his brain told him.

His com-link buzzed. "Bruce—Jack Drake's on a priority comm. Someone's sent him a gun." Barbara's voice was tight.

"On my way," Bruce answered, rushing to the Batmobile. "Call Robin."

"Already tried. He's not suited up, and you know that my current tech—"

"He has the other active comm. Use the override." Bruce flicked on the Batmobile's traffic map display, quickly calculating the fastest route towards downtown Gotham. Consciously making his voice less aggressive, he added, "And patch me in as well."

There was a brief pause, and then Tim's voice came through the Batmobile's speakers. "Barbara? I'm with Dana. What's going on?"

"Tim, get home. Now."

"Already on the way." The forced calm in Tim's voice had vanished. "What're you talking about? What's wrong?"

"It's your dad."

"Dad?!"

A gasp followed Tim's exclamation, then the screech of car tyres, a muffled scraping sound, and Dana Drake demanded, "Who is this? What's happened to Jack?"

Bruce cursed under his breath. They couldn't speak freely, not with Dana listening in. "Tim, what's your location?"

Tim named an intersection in the Fashion District that Bruce knew was ten minutes away from the Drakes' home.

"Bruce, Jack's asking to be connected to Tim," Barbara said, on the private line in Bruce's ear.

"Was that Bruce? What's going on? Tim?! Tim, talk to me, please!" Dana's voice was high-pitched, desperate.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, just wait a moment—Barbara, patch me through!"

"You know what's at stake," Barbara told Bruce urgently. "For God's sake—she's his wife!"

Bruce's agony of indecision vanished. "Do it," he ordered hoarsely.

The Batmobile was speeding south, past the Upper East Side and Robinson Park, but his rear-view mirror revealed two GCPD cars turning out of a street and heading towards him. The next moment, the muffled wail of a siren filled his ears, while the flashing red and blue lights cast the surrounding grey apartments in lurid colour as Jack Drake said, "Tim?"

"Dad? Dad, are you okay?"

"Jack, what's happening?"

Bruce took a series of rapid turns, and the flashing lights faded behind him.

"I—I'm fine, I—Dana?!"

"Jack!" Dana's voice was thick with tears. "Talk to me!"

"Dana, I'm sorry, I didn't want to tell you—"

"Dad, stop it! There's no time!"

"I think he's in the hallway. I've got it, though… I'm fine, I'm armed…"

"Dad, this isn't some African safari! Get out of there!"

Bruce pressed the accelerator to the floor as the bright lights of the Diamond District flew past.

"He's definitely in the hall!"

"Jack, I'm calling the police! Just stay quiet…"

"I've already notified the authorities, Mrs Drake. Try to stay calm."

Bruce gritted his teeth. "Barbara, call Wally."

"Already tried. He's not picking up."

There was a tiny, terrible sound that Bruce had not heard since long before Darla Aquista's funeral. Bruce saw thirteen-year-old Tim helpless at his comatose father's side as he heard Tim's breath hitch once, then twice, then Tim begged, "Bruce, please… please help him…"

"Bruce? Just keep my boy safe… please… just keep him safe…"

A sharp pain lanced through Bruce's heart, and his breath froze on his lips at a sudden vision of a small body lying in the rubble of a warehouse, of blood and tears and the sound of scattering pearls.

Not again, he thought, but the words spilled aloud into the solitude of the Batmobile as he crossed into Old Gotham.

"We're gonna make it, Dad. We're gonna make it."

"He's at the door!"

Dana let out a sob as Tim cried, "Dad—!"

"Tim, Dana, if something happens—" Jack began.

"Nothing's gonna happen!" Tim shrieked.

"Tim, I need you to focus…"

"Nothing's gonna happen!"

"TIM!" both Jack and Dana shouted, and Tim was stunned into silence.

"You listening, Tim? Good. Then understand one thing: if you don't get here, it's not your fault."

"Dad—"

"I need you to know this, Tim—it's not your fault. Okay? You didn't do this."

"But I—"

"I love you, Tim. I love you just like your mother and stepmother love you. I'm sorry for ever making you doubt that."

"Dad, please…"

"Dana, I know you're confused. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you. Tim and Bruce can explain it all to you. But I love you so much, Dana. You saved my life more than once. You're saving me every single day, and I wish we had more time, because I've wasted so much—with both of you."

"I love you too, Jack. Whatever's happening, I can handle it. Just wait until we arrive! We're almost there!"

Bruce knew he was travelling faster, but the Batmobile was still four streets away. Jack Drake was talking again, his voice hurried and hushed.

"What you do… for all those people… it's worth it, Tim. Never question it. It's worth it. I'm sorry I tried to control you. You deserve a better father…"

"Dad, it doesn't matter, you don't need to apologise—"

"Jack, we're almost—"

"Tell Bruce and Dana to take care of you…"

There was an ear-splitting BANG over the communicators, the connection crackled, and both Tim and Dana screamed.

"DAD!"

"JACK!"

But there was no answer.

Afterwards, the sequence of events was irrevocably etched upon Bruce's memory as a series of images and disconnected sound bites, clear and sharp and painful as shattered glass.

"Tim, wait for—" Dana gasped, and Bruce heard the car door slam.

"Dad!" Tim screamed through the line, his footsteps pounding on stairs. "Dad, we're coming!"

(This part was the blurriest—just a fragment of a happy night, a gentle laugh and a fateful turn into a dim alleyway.)

"Bruce, if the police are there—" Barbara began.

"They aren't," he told her, feeling it was the one thing he knew with absolute certainty as he parked the Batmobile behind the building and fired his grapple gun towards the Drakes' condo on the fourth floor.

"Barbara, is he—?" Tim managed between gasps.

"Tim, you have to understand…" Barbara's voice cracked. "There's nothing any of us could do."

(The tiny deafening click of the raised gun. Father's raised hands. Mother's gasp as she clutched Bruce's shoulder.)

Bruce landed with a clang on the fire escape. The latch on the large sash window gave way to his force, and he was suddenly standing in the Drakes' living room. The lights were on, and the condo was silent.

(Bruce blinked and the world shattered around him.)

And then came a broken cry, audible both on the link in Bruce's ear and somewhere below him.

"Oh God…"

Bruce sprinted for the stairs.

(The gunshots were loud as an earthquake and twice as devastating.)

He wasn't fast enough to stop Tim's chilling scream.

"DAD!"

(The plink-plink-plink of his mother's pearl necklace—)

For a brief, terrible moment, the sight of the reddening bodies of Jack Drake and Captain Boomerang on the kitchen floor overwhelmed him. He hardly heard Tim's desperate pleas as the boy pulled futilely at the boomerang embedded in his father's chest, the com-link lying forgotten on the floor.

"Get it out… get it out! Please!" But Jack Drake lay still, eyes open and wide, and the blood leaking from his mouth mingled with Tim's tears.

(He didn't see the gunman leave. He only saw himself, as if from far away, kneeling between his parents—the bloodied, slaughtered, dead bodies of his parents—)

"… please…" Tim whispered. His hands stopped and his head dropped.

"Tim, it's okay," Bruce heard himself lie, helplessly, as he reached out a gloved hand and pulled Tim away.

(The police officer who put a jacket around Bruce's shivering shoulders made the same empty promise, told the same transparent words of comfort: It's okay… it's okay…)

Tim clung to Bruce. His entire body was shaking.

"Bruce," he mumbled, as police sirens sounded in the distance.

"I've got you," Bruce whispered, shutting his eyes against both the scene and the memory and focusing on keeping Tim close to him.

(Alfred had also said, I've got you, and Bruce remembered thinking that it wasn't enough, that it never could be enough, but it was what Dick had needed, it was what Tim needed now—someone to hold him tight as he blinked and the world shattered around him.)

And then a piercing cry split the room in two, and reflex made them both look up.

Dana Drake stood upon the threshold, blonde hair in disarray and face streaked with tears. She was frozen, but her wide eyes passed from Jack to Tim to Batman, and the sudden clarity in her expression was as plain as death as she mouthed, "Bruce."

END OF PART ONE

A/N: On that note, see you in two days for the interlude! While Part 1 has drawn heavily on the comics, Part 2 will diverge more, and also include points of view other than Bruce's.

Sources:

"Invictus" is a popular poem by William Ernest Henley.

In canon, Bruce offers to adopt Cassandra in Batgirl (2008) #6.

Bruce took Cassandra to see Jason's grave on Jason's 18th birthday in Detective Comics #790.

The scene where Batman meets with Onyx draws details from Batman #634 (Batman: War Games) and Detective Comics #800.

The Hill is in northwest Gotham. Orpheus controlled gang activity there until his death during Batman: War Games. Now, Onyx has taken over his work.

According to Identity Crisis #6 and clues in Robin (1993) #100-103 and #107, the Drakes' condo is in Old Gotham, not far from the clock tower in the tricorner. They live in 301 on the fourth floor (numbering the floors in the American way, with no ground floor: 1, 2, 3, 4).

The radio conversations draw details from Identity Crisis #5, and the final scene is loosely inspired by Identity Crisis #6. I've chosen for Identity Crisis to take place entirely after the events of Batman: War Games. This means that I've dispensed with the scene in Identity Crisis #1 where Nightwing visits his parents' graves on the anniversary of their deaths, since he doesn't wake up until after Jack Drake's death, according to Nightwing (1996) #98. Blame DC for that headache.