A/N: Thank you to Tevya for looking this chapter over and assuaging my fears.

Chapter 23: Face to Face

On some plane of existence
these two scraps are all my news:
where the mess is
that's where my heart is.
—David Rivard, "Strictly Speaking" (excerpt)

BATMAN

Satisfied that Dick would not be alone in the Batcave, Bruce made his way upstairs. The study was dark and tranquil, inhabited only by the memories of children who had come through it over the years. He could see them now, perched upside-down on the sofa or curled up in the armchair—round eyes watching him work, their presence exemplifying the youthful desire to be taken seriously, to be known. Only yesterday, Tim had stalked through here, intent on doing something—anything—that he could to… to… what?

Again, Bruce was struck by the uncomfortable notion that there was a vital piece of information he was missing regarding Tim. Bruce knew that Tim was unhappy at the Manor, that he had been struggling to grieve the deaths of his father and his classmate, but there were also undeniable signs that Tim was trying too hard to compensate for some perceived deficit. The intense focus he had on the Red Hood case, the eerily composed way that he had behaved during the reading of his father's will, his startling request the night before… everything indicated to Bruce that Tim was slipping away from him, and that Bruce was powerless to stop it.

What could you do to help a boy who had always been, and remained, so stubbornly independent? To rein Tim in, Bruce felt sure, would be to crush his spirit and break his trust. And yet, though Bruce himself had found purpose upon leaving home in the torturous liminality of his teenage years, there was something indiscernible within him that railed against the idea of granting Tim the unbridled freedom of becoming an emancipated minor.

He could admit to a level of hypocrisy. Maybe it was even the same urge that had prompted him to kiss Tim goodnight—paternal affection tinged with jealousy. All Bruce knew was that, though he had had another destination in mind upon leaving the Batcave, his footsteps had led him straight to Tim's room.

The door was ajar, but as he pushed it open, it caught on something on the grey carpet. Bruce knelt down and felt along the base of the door until his fingers touched something soft. Once he had tugged it free from where it had been wedged, he stood and turned on the light.

He was holding one of Tim's socks. It was black, balled-up and partially inside-out. Bruce smoothed it flat and laid it on Tim's nightstand, then looked up at the room around him—at the bare walls, the large window, the plain furniture and tidy bedspread.

Along the far wall were piled cardboard boxes of things that Bruce, Alfred and Cassandra had brought from the Drakes' condo after the crime scene had been cleared. All the boxes were unopened, save the one that had held Tim's computer and cables. The deserted bedroom looked more like a hotel suite than a teenage boy's habitat—and was, Bruce thought with an odd pang, certainly not representative of three years of Tim's presence at Wayne Manor.

As he turned to leave, Bruce's gaze caught on the lone sock, and all at once he understood the melancholy inherent in the tidy desolation. In contrast to Tim's room, the amount of ephemera Jason's room had accumulated after the same length of time had been staggering. And then, when Jason had died, Bruce had taken scant solace in the fact that Jason had had a home, that he had known how much Bruce loved him. But there was a sinking feeling in Bruce's chest, because he doubted that the same was true for Tim—who, though he was in some ways more like Bruce than Dick or Jason, still craved reassurance and support.

You need my skills—Batman needs a Robin—I need this!

At sixteen, Tim was not a child, but neither was he an adult. What Bruce believed Tim needed—but Tim was unaware that he deserved—was the knowledge and care of someone older than him to guide his path. What was it that Dick had said?

Tim's not you. He's just had his world ripped from under him. What he needs is an anchor—someone to catch him and give him something to do…

Bruce had always known that, for Tim, to be Robin was to be needed. But only now did he fully grasp the rest of the pattern of thinking that dominated Tim's worldview. Tim believed that to be needed was to be trusted. Having lost the agency of Robin, he had concluded that Bruce no longer trusted him—and he had equated this with total rejection, because someone in his life had taught him that to be trusted was to be wanted.

Bruce had made this mistake before—of leaving too much unsaid. For even he had repeatedly had misgivings about Tim's ability to ask for the comfort and security that he deserved. For a moment, he stood as if paralysed, fighting an urge to rush back downstairs and track the Batplane, as if following a lone dot on a screen would summon Tim back to him. But he made himself stay there in Tim's bedroom, reminding himself of the task he had entrusted to Dick. For Dick would know what to say to bring Tim home, and in the meantime, there was someone else Bruce needed to talk to.

He closed his eyes briefly, reorienting himself, and then left the empty room behind. As he stepped towards the adjacent door, a floorboard creaked under his weight. Almost immediately, there was a thud from inside Stephanie's room, followed by a loud clattering noise. Heartbeat accelerating, Bruce knocked rapidly. Upon hearing a hesitant assent from within, he flung the door open with an urgent hand.

Steph was crumpled on the floor, hands pressed into the carpet and head bowed so that her blonde hair hid her face from view. Around her lay the scattered remains of an empty dinner tray.

"Steph," Bruce said urgently, rushing towards her as he took rapid inventory. "Are you all right? What happened?"

She raised her head, and he was relieved to register the absence of tears or visible injuries. "I—um—I thought you were out," she stammered, not meeting his eyes.

"Unforeseen circumstances," he said, moving his gaze to their surroundings. There was a fork beside one bedpost, a spoon against the skirting boards and a bowl upended beside the shiny dinner tray. But Steph's attention was fixed somewhere to his left, and as he turned, he saw what was wrong. For a flower-edged plate had struck the solid edge of the night-table and broken into no fewer than six pieces. Though it held no sentimental value for Bruce, he knew that it had been one of his mother's favourite designs—and, by extension, Alfred's.

"What were you doing?" he asked.

Steph flushed. "Going to look for Alfred."

This explanation was so threadbare that he was almost impressed by her audacity. It was true that it was Alfred's routine to collect the dinner tray earlier in the evening; its lingering presence had given her an excuse, however flimsy, to wander about the house when she was supposed to be resting.

Kneeling on the floor, Bruce reached for the tray and began to gather the fallen silverware and china, while Steph pushed herself back onto the bed, her breathing slightly laboured.

Last of all were the wedge-shaped shards of the china plate. He picked up each one carefully, counting them as he arranged them on the tray like jigsaw pieces: one, two, three, four, five, six. Finally, he stood, feeling Steph's tentative gaze on him as he put the tray on the night-table.

"Alfred is downstairs," he said, emphasising this last word so that she understood what he meant. "Was there something specific you needed him for?"

"No."

"Are you in pain?"

She shook her head.

Bruce exhaled. "Good." He sat down on the chair near the bed and said, "I need to talk to you."

"Me?" Steph blanched. "Am I in trouble? I swear I don't know where Tim and Cass went—I tried asking, but Tim wouldn't tell me. And I'm sorry about the plate—I'll pay for it, I promise—"

Bruce held up a hand. "Steph, stop." He did not think he would be able to bear it if she continued speaking in such a contrite tone, so oblivious of the tragedy of knowledge he was about to give her. To his relief, she subsided into silence, though she still looked uncomfortable.

"First of all, don't worry about the plate. If Alfred makes a fuss, which is unlikely, just tell him the truth—that it was my fault."

This had the intended effect of startling a laugh out of her. Bruce felt a sudden warmth; it fortified him as he made himself turn his thoughts to why he had come. "Second…"

Now it was his turn to hesitate. For he had not come upstairs to discuss Tim, or to feel sorry for himself, but to lay bare the truth. At last he had untangled it from the web of lies that he had unconsciously believed ever since that terrible night in the clinic, when someone who had once cared for him like a mother had taken the trust he had given her and twisted it into his greatest fear. It had weeks of guilt and self-imposed isolation, culminating in a long, difficult conversation in the Batcave and a bathroom-floor epiphany, for Bruce to finally internalise what he had been trying to make Dick understand: that he had been taken advantage of, and that what had happened to him in the aftermath of trauma had not been his fault—nor had he deserved it.

He did not know how to say such things to Steph. He only knew that she was still watching him, as yet unaware of anything that had transpired, and though he would not let himself leave without conveying the information he had come to convey, still the words would not reach his tongue. Finally he asked, "What do you remember of the night Robin and I brought you here from the clinic?"

To his surprise, Steph's immediate reaction was thinly veiled relief. Then, her face began to turn red as she no doubt recalled the words she had spoken that night—the night she had thought she was going to die.

"My baby," she gasped. "Don't—don't tell me anything about her. I don't want to know what you've found out, if she's dead or alive or sick or happy or… or…"

"Steph," Bruce said gently, ignoring the way his stomach was churning. He held out a hand to her, and she took it, clutching it hard. "This has nothing to do with your child. I promise, and I'm sorry for misleading you."

A heavy sigh ran through her, and her grip went limp in his. "Can you say that to Tim?" she ventured. "He's… he's going through a lot right now, and I know he's not thinking straight."

"I know." Bruce squeezed her hand, some of the tension within him dissipating. "He and Cassie are coming back soon. I'll talk to him."

"When is soon?"

"Tonight." He took a breath, this brief reprieve having given him enough fortitude to commit himself to the task that must be done, and not strayed from any longer. "There's something else you need to know."

Stephanie almost certainly recognised the heaviness in his tone, for she stiffened before fixing her eyes on his. "Yeah?"

"I told you that I removed you from the clinic for your own safety. That is not the entire truth. You are here because Leslie Thompkins demonstrated that she could not be trusted to care for you. In an attempt to remove you from Gotham, she faked your death."

Here he paused. Instead of the stunned, reflexive response he had half expected, Steph was frowning.

"I don't understand. I just fell asleep and then woke up in the van with Tim."

"Yes." He kept his tone level. "After falling asleep, you supposedly flatlined. For Leslie's intents and purposes, you were dead—and if I had listened to her and just left instead of checking your pulse myself, I would have believed it."

Steph was motionless, but her wide, frightened eyes betrayed the multitude of thoughts and questions running through her mind at these revelations.

"But…" Her voice was small. "Why would she do that?"

The tide of conflicting emotions rose within him, once again threatening to mar his relationships by quelling his speech. But he pushed through them, looking beyond the pain for the moments of familial joy that had been in his life, however scarce, for as long as he could remember. For that was the greatest lie of all—that he had ever been, or could ever be, alone. It was not too late, even in the midst of this family crisis, to correct the wrongs he had committed in the wake of Leslie's betrayal.

He must not invite sympathy for himself. He must only delineate the facts, clearly and honestly, and give Steph room to make up her own mind. Without tasting this bitter cup, there would be no chance of lasting reconciliation.

"She did it for your protection," he said. "She blamed me—rightly—for what happened during the gang war. The way I tried to take control, destroying working relationships for the sake of my own ego. She was planning on smuggling you out of the city, far away from my influence."

"Did… did you force her to leave Gotham?"

"No. She left of her own accord." He reached into his pocket and took out the crumpled letter from Leslie, passed it to her, and waited while she read it.

The room was silent for a few minutes while Steph digested the words on the page. Then she looked up, and Bruce was alarmed to see that her eyes were glistening with unshed tears.

"She would have taken me away from my mom," she whispered. "And Tim."

"Yes."

"Everyone would have believed that Black Mask killed me."

Throat tight, Bruce nodded. He had not known until that moment how afraid he had been to hear her reaction, wondering if she would blame him the way he had blamed himself.

"I lied earlier," she said suddenly. "I said I was looking for Alfred, but really I was looking for you. I promised to help Cass, because she said that you had a secret you'd been keeping since the last night of the gang war. She wanted to help you."

Bruce closed his eyes and breathed. Oh, Cassandra, he thought. My wonderful, wonderful girl.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I should have told you—all of you—the truth immediately."

"Cass said the secret made you afraid."

"I still took your decision away from—"

"Bruce." Inexplicably, she was smiling as she looked up at him. "You saved my life. Thank you."

Her gaze was blinding; he found himself glancing away. "Robin and Batgirl will be back soon," he said. "They should know all this as well."

"Let me help you tell them. Please."

He could have said no, the way he had several times over the past few weeks and months, but her earnest impulsiveness had been replaced by a quiet focus, a new wisdom, so he nodded, taking her hand. Together, they walked through the shadowed corridors, leaving the broken dish behind.

She had not been in the Batcave since the night he had removed her from the clinic. Nor had he ever been so glad to hear those words coming from her mouth, reassuring him that he would not be alone in carrying out this duty.

It sounded like forgiveness. It felt like hope.

BATGIRL

"What were you and Superman talking about?" Robin asked, as soon as Batgirl reentered the plane. The abrasive intensity that he had not bothered to hide from Superman had given way to a blunt curiosity, but if Cassandra was honest with herself about what she saw, she knew that he was far too defensive for her to confess how much she—and everyone else close to him—was worried about him.

"We discussed Batman," she said instead, because it was true. "But he doesn't know any more than we do."

The look Robin gave her in response was shrewd, thoughtful, as if he could not decide whether or not to believe her. He was like that, she reflected—so direct, but only about some things. Forced to rely on each other during this temporary partnership, the ice between them had thawed somewhat, but she still had a hollow feeling in her stomach as she watched how intensely he threw himself into his self-appointed mission.

He's too much like Bruce, she mused. He thinks he's alone. If Steph had hoped that Tim would confide in Cassandra during their time away, she'd been far too optimistic. Mentally sighing, Cassandra gestured at the controls before them, and Tim nodded as he started the engine.

"Nightwing called," he said, so intent on the dashboard that she could not see his face well, only read his tightly wound posture and flat tone. "Batman wants us to go back to Gotham."

Her heart leapt. That had to be good news. "Home," she said joyously.

He cast a sideways glance at her, pausing before nodding again. His hesitation perplexed her. She knew that he had grown up in Gotham, unlike her. There was no reason for him to hesitate—unless he had begun to no longer think of Gotham as his home. Steph's words came back to her then.

Tim's so distant now, so different—I'm scared that he might do something really big.

She wished that Superman had known what to do, or at least told her what to say. Try to talk to Tim, he'd advised, as if words came as easily as observation and thought, and she'd been too self-conscious either to correct him or to ask for help, not when it had been hard enough just expressing her desire to speak with him alone. She understood his concerns about Tim, but she was unsure if she'd accurately articulated her own reservations about Batman.

It was night, and so the glittering lights of Gotham City welcomed them as they flew north. Nobody else attempted to contact them—Cassandra guessed that both Superman and Nightwing had passed on their status to Batman—and as they entered the Batcave, Cassandra peered out her window, apprehensive. What she saw startled her so much that she ducked down out of sight behind the door before she thought.

"What? What's wrong?" Tim's voice grew more urgent beside her as he killed the engine.

"Nothing," she said quickly, forcing herself to rise. She touched the door handle. "There—look for yourself."

He looked. Even from where they were situated in the hangar, a direct line of sight ran to the Batcomputer and the centre of the Batcave. There were two figures in the trophy room that she recognised as Dick and Barbara, who seemed to be engaged in a serious conversation, but standing casually near the computer were Dana and Alfred. Bruce was nowhere to be seen.

Tim choked. "Why is Dana down here?"

Because Bruce wants to talk to all of us, Cassandra thought, elation flooding her. So Steph must have succeeded, after all! She climbed out of the plane and made her way to the Batcomputer, Tim in her wake. As if on cue, both Dana and Alfred turned, wearing matching expressions of mingled worry and relief.

Dana darted forwards, then stopped. "Tim," she breathed, bleeding concern. She held out her arms for a moment, but Tim did not move. As Dana's arms dropped, Cassandra suppressed a wince.

"Miss Cassandra," said Alfred, touching her arm. "It's good to see you back, my dear." Gently but firmly, he guided her away from Tim and Dana. "Your trip was successful, I hope?"

She shrugged, unsure how to respond truthfully. "Where is Bruce?"

"Master Bruce is upstairs—talking to Miss Stephanie, I believe." Alfred smiled down at her. "Miss Gordon has asked to speak with you."

A chill ran over her skin, then her face grew hot. "Don't."

She had not intended to sound so—what was the word?—petulant. Alfred raised his eyebrows.

"More than one bridge has already been restored tonight," he said. "No matter the nature of your disagreement with Miss Gordon, I have faith that you—like Master Bruce—can find a way to mend what is broken."

"What if…" She could not bear to look up at his kindly expression as she spoke. "What if we're too different?"

"I very much doubt that's the case."

"But I don't know what to say."

"Then all you can do is listen, and do your best to understand. But you're very much mistaken if you think there is a soul in this house who does not share your difficulties at times. Every one of us could stand to communicate more clearly with each other—myself included."

Dick and Barbara were hugging now, Dick clutching the back of Barbara's green knit sweater like a lifeline. Something in Cassandra's chest loosened, and she moved closer on silent feet. Then, Dick was hanging back to talk to Alfred, and she and Barbara were alone in the trophy room. Barbara's chair was angled away, but as Cassandra made to approach her, Barbara held up a hand, signalling her to wait.

While Cassandra watched, Barbara took off her glasses, wiped her eyes and blew her nose—subtly, but Cassandra still noticed. Then Barbara spun her wheelchair around and offered a damp-eyed smile.

"Are you okay?" Cassandra asked tentatively, seeing the way Barbara's hands quivered slightly as she put on her glasses.

"Yeah. It was a tough conversation, that's all. But that's between me and Dick."

She paused. Cassandra waited.

"Cassie, it's good to see you. I've had a good break—well, as good as it can be, under the circumstances—but I've missed you."

"I'm sorry," Cassandra blurted, then felt herself blush. So much for just listening.

Barbara shook her head. "You don't need to apologise for anything. I was the only one in the wrong."

It would be too complicated to explain that she was apologising for not giving Barbara the benefit of the doubt, especially considering all that Barbara had done for her, so Cassandra let it go.

"Did you know?" she asked. "About Bruce adopting me?"

"Yes. He wanted to hear my opinion—and get my blessing, though he didn't say that in so many words—before he asked you. I told him to go ahead with it, of course."

"Thank you." But there was something not quite right in the shape of Barbara's shoulders, the way her lips were pressed together and her eyes still downcast.

"You look… unhappy."

"God, Cass, of course I'm unhappy. Mostly at Bruce, but also at the way I pushed you away. I'm glad he's there for you, and that he's adopting you, it's just… I hate that it took a gang war and two massive arguments to prompt either of us to give you an actual permanent place in this family. And I've been kicking myself over that. The number of times I yelled at him for treating you like you're nothing but Batgirl, when I myself hardly did anything to help you… so, yeah, there's a better word for it. Ashamed."

Cassandra's heart hurt. You did do things, she wanted to say, but the contradiction sounded vague and insincere. Because Barbara was not entirely wrong, either—

"Did you want to adopt me?"

"Please don't ask me that."

"Sorry," she mumbled, turning away.

Barbara exhaled. "Look, I can't say it didn't cross my mind. But I fell into the same trap I've accused Bruce of plenty of times. I thought that what we had went unspoken. And then, when you started living here, I thought that I'd lost my chance to make things right, and I realised that I missed you."

"Do you think I should live here? With Bruce?"

Barbara smiled crookedly. "I think you should do exactly what you want to do, and not worry so much about everybody else."

"But…"

"I know you think you have an obligation to take care of Bruce. I also know that he can be a stubborn ass at the best of times. So, if you're ever mad at Bruce or can't talk to him for any reason, you can always come to me."

Cassandra nodded.

Barbara's expression softened. She looked down for a moment, lifting her glasses to rub the corners of her eyes. Then she said, "You know we—Bruce and I—only want what's best for you, Cass. We just have different ways of expressing it, and we both make mistakes. But I… I care for you very deeply. I hope you know that."

Not so different, Cassandra thought, reading between the lines of these last two sentences. "Yes. I love you, too."

Judging by the way Barbara's eyes suddenly filled with tears, that had been exactly the right thing to say.

A/N: No new sources, I think. Is that a first?

Well. I had everything planned out, and then when I reached the climax, I realised that it wasn't right at all. So, these last few chapters are taking longer to cook. Thanks for sticking around, and please let me know what you think of this chapter!

P.S. If you've been enjoying the Cassandra parts of this story, you might like to read an unrelated one-shot I recently posted that features Dick and Cassandra. Find it on my profile under the title A Manor of Speaking.