What Was I Made For?

by The_Pink_Fox

Summary:

What if Barry Allen brought Bruce Wayne more than a note when he made it back from the alternate timeline?

*~*

In which Bruce does his best to raise a little sister he was never supposed to have. This is all Flash's fault.

NOTE: If you haven't read the Flashpoint comics or watched the animated film, a summary of what happens is inside!

Notes:

Flashpoint Summary:

After being taunted by Reverse Flash, Barry Allen (The Flash) goes back in time to save his own mother from being killed. This causes a horrible ripple effect that changes the stories of a lot of heroes: Superman was never adopted by the Kents, Wonder Woman ends up killing Aquaman's wife, and Bruce Wayne was shot in Crime Alley as his parents watched him die.

Flash quickly realizes that this alternate timeline was not for the better, and tries to redo what he has done, but he has lost his powers. So he goes to the Batcave, expecting to find his old friend, and instead gets attacked by the NEW Batman named Thomas Wayne. Thomas Wayne's Batman is a lot darker, with no problem wielding a gun as a weapon and no problem killing. But when he hears that there is a possibility to bring his son back to life, he decides to help Flash get his powers back so Flash can redo his mistake when he saved his mother.

Chapter 1: PART ONE: The Beginning

Every story in Gotham either began or ended in tragedy. No one could escape this ultimate truth; not the rich or the poor, not the healthy or weary, not the young or the old. It was something that connected all Gothamites together, whether they wanted it to or not.

There was a beauty in their shared misery. Because even though every day brought new nightmares, each day also brought the collective knowledge that the people of Gotham were made of tougher stuff than any other people in any other city.

So when Aquaman and Wonder Woman turned on each other and started a war that would tear the world apart, the Gothamites did not respond with panic. Instead, they shrugged their shoulders, and went on with their day. Some went back to work, some went back to school, others went back to committing crimes, and Batman got back to sending criminals to prison.

In Gotham, it was not Aquaman or Wonder Woman who had the power to have the people shaking in their shoes. It was Batman. They believed he was a terrifying demon sent from Hell to punish anyone living on the tainted soil of the city. 

Cordelia Wayne knew better. 

Batman was just a man. A man whose story began in tragedy.

Cordelia only heard the story once, when Batman initiated her into his mission, but she could never forget it. There was once a happy family of three: a mother named Martha, a father named Thomas, and a beloved son named Bruce. The beautiful family had just finished watching a movie their son was so excited about, when they turned down a dark alley and were confronted by a gunman. The gunman wanted money, he got a mouthful of Thomas’s fists instead. It was only when Thomas was done beating him to a bloody pulp that he was able to register that Martha was screaming. When he turned to comfort her, to tell her that they were safe, he saw that the gunman had taken something more valuable than money: his son.

The night Bruce Wayne had died became the day Batman was born.

Since then, Batman did all he could to stop something like that happening to other families. He terrified the criminals, he terrified the would-be criminals, he beat and killed people, he beat and killed monsters. And then, when his daughter was old enough, he taught her to do the same.

Nine year-old Cordelia Wayne had been filled with so much hope and wonder when her father presented her with her uniform, complete with a ruby red bat symbol on the armored chest. For years, she believed that the main thing that separated her from her father was that he was too committed to his mission to notice her.

It was only after years of adopting the same mission and never receiving recognition that she realized it was never the Bat that kept them apart. It was the Ghost, the Ghost of Bruce Wayne.

“Batgirl,” the gruff voice of Batman sounded in her earpiece. “Report.”

“No sign of the Joker near Gotham Harbor,” Cordelia responded. “The streets aren’t talking, either. It would be easier to get information out of Harley.”

“If you want an easy mission, go to Metropolis,” Batman snapped. “Next time I contact you I expect more updates. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir,” Cordelia said, chastened.

She heard the comms go silent on his end and hoped he found something that would put him in a better mood. Maybe a strand of neon green hair or a giant, glowing sign that said, Hey, the hostages you’re looking for are right here!

Cordelia sighed from her perch on a gargoyle. Maybe she was complaining too much. It’s just… Gotham was getting worse, and Batman was becoming more brutal.

Killing used to be a last resort, but lately he hasn’t been showing much restraint. With the criminals or with Cordelia. She was certain that she was sporting more bruises from the fists of her father than she was from the thieves and crooks she fought nightly.

She winced as she readied her grappling gun, feeling the bruises on her wrist more prominently when her muscles tightened. It was only when she was swinging between the buildings that she was able to forget, just for a little while, how bad everything had become.

Chapter 2: No Names

Summary:

The Bats meet the Flash.

Cordelia drove her motorcycle through the tunnels beneath Wayne Manor. She could hear bats screech with irritation as her headlights woke them from their slumbers. A few dove down at her in retaliation, but bats no longer scared her.

She grew up in these caves. She knew every inch and corner of them.

They were more of a home to her than her own bedroom.

The dim light of Batman’s cave gave her a sense of direction as she picked up the speed. The Cave was large and cavernous, with sharp rocks jutting down from the ceiling. The walls were lined with trophies from Batman’s most difficult battles: a bloody Joker card, a jack-in-the-box, sharp swords, and in a glass case: the gun that ended Bruce Wayne’s life.

Cordelia pulled her bike to a stop in front of it. The glass was so thick that her own face was reflected in it. The ruby red of her cowl’s lenses glared back at her.

She used to gaze at this gun in wonder. It used to blow her youthful mind that something so small could leave such a huge mark. She used to question why it was in the Cave at all, but she never questioned it out loud.

Batgirl might not be as intelligent as Batman, but she was no fool.

Mentioning Bruce was a sure way to end up in a hospital gurney for the next few days.

Cordelia shuddered at the thought, then stepped off of her bike and headed for the showers so she could wash the sweat and Gotham stink from her pores. Quick and efficient, she scrubbed her body clean and combed the knots out of her short black hair. By the time she was done, she was already envisioning how lovely it would feel to lay her aching bones on her soft mattress upstairs.

Unfortunately, the night had other plans for her.

A man was standing in the Cave. And he was standing over the gun that killed Bruce Wayne.

Her body reacted before her mind could, as it usually did in fights. One moment she was standing at the shower entrance, and the next she did a front flip over the weapons table, plucking a spear from the weapons table mid-air, and landed behind the blonde-haired man with the point of the spear pressed against the nape of his neck.

“Who are you?” She demanded.

The man’s back stiffened and his empty hands shot up in the air. “Wait! I’m a friend. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Cordelia pressed the spear deeper into his neck. A small bead of blood bloomed from the minuscule wound. “You wouldn’t be able to hurt me if you tried.”

“Well-“

“Try again. Who are you?”

The man paused for a second. This was enough time for Cordelia to give him a quick look-over. He wore a plain brown jacket and khaki pants. He was dressed like a working class civilian. No ring. Sweaty hair. 

Ordinary.

Gotham criminals tended to be more theatrical.

His accent hinted toward him being an outsider. An outsider who somehow found his way into Batman’s Cave.

“My name is Barry Allen,” the man began again. “I’m not looking for trouble. I’m looking for help. Please, can you tell me where Bruce is?”

The name sent a terrified jolt through her heart. She couldn’t help the way her eyes darted around the Cave, looking for the large figure of her father to bleed out of the shadows and wreak vengeance on anyone who dared to mention his son.

“You shouldn’t say that name,” Cordelia said quietly.

“R-right,” Barry Allen said hesitantly. “No names. Got it. Can you tell me where Batman is?”

“Why do you want to know?” Cordelia asked.

“Like I said, I’m a friend looking for help.”

“Batman doesn’t have any friends,” Cordelia said. “And he doesn’t care for helping anyone, either. Not anymore. You’ve made a mistake coming here.”

There was a short silence as Barry Allen slowly lowered his hands. Cordelia let him, watching this seemingly ordinary man square his shoulders and take a stance more akin to a man ready for war than a man with a spear one centimeter away from creating a hole through his neck.

Despite her belief that this would be a battle easily won, Cordelia tightened her grip on the staff.

“Maybe I have made a mistake coming here,” Barry Allen said seriously. “I’ve been making a bunch of mistakes lately. But I’m trying to make them right. Please, let me do that. Tell me where Batman is.”

Cordelia hesitated. Something in Barry Allen’s tone made her want to believe that he was genuine. And if it was just her life on the line, then she would have lowered her spear. But the most important thing about being Batgirl, the number one rule, was to have Batman’s back above all else.

Before she could make her decision, she heard the familiar crunch of a heavy boot sound behind her.

“I’m right here,” Batman growled. “Now what the hell are you doing in my cave?”

Chapter 3: Thomas Wayne's Batman

Summary:

Don't say Bruce.

When Batman used that tone with Cordelia, she would always feel like her insides had curled up and died. Barry had a much more bizarre reaction: his entire body perked up like an overeager dog.

“Bruce! There is so much I have to tell you - AUURGH!”

Batman had slammed Cordelia out of the way, sending her crashing down on the stone floor, and grabbed Barry by the back of the neck. Cordelia watched from the ground as the blonde man was raised into the air by one black armored fist that squeezed so tightly she was sure it would snap the neck into pieces.

“Bruce - stop - ACK - can’t - breathe-“ Barry said between gasps of breath. His legs kicked out from beneath him.

“That’s the idea,” Batman snarled. He slammed the man’s face into the wall, then drew him back so he could do it again. Cordelia tried not to wince each time. “Who are you?” Batman shouted between slams. “And what are you doing in my damn cave?”

“I’m trying to tell you that!” Barry gasped. In one surprising move, he managed to twist Batman’s arm and sweep his legs out from under him.

Once again, Cordelia moved without thinking. She dove for her fallen spear, jumped up to her feet, and swung the wood like a baseball bat. The side of the spear connected to Barry’s jaw, sending him crashing into the weapons table and giving Batman enough time to climb back to his own feet.

They worked as a familiar duo, taking turns subduing Barry whenever he climbed back to his feet. In the end, Barry didn’t stand a chance. It took less than a minute to beat the fight out of him. He laid beneath them with his hands up in surrender.

“Please,” Barry coughed out blood that dribbled down his chin and stained his white t-shirt. “I just… need help.”

Cordelia felt her heart twinge in sympathy. How many times did she used to look to Batman for help, only to be faced with the reality? The horrible reality that is Batman, Gotham’s Dark Knight. What stories did Barry Allen hear about the caped crusader that made him believe he would be welcomed into the cave and offered help from the best strategist the world had ever seen?

The reality was that the Bat Family was as much a part of the criminal underworld as the criminals themselves. The time of heroes was passed. All that was left were the survivalists, the sadists, and the soon-to-be-victims.

“Bruce,” Barry coughed again, “please….”

Cordelia peaked at her father’s face. She could see the red, glowing eyes of his cowl narrow in anger. She could hear the name of her dead brother echo around the cave like a taunt, stirring the bats that covered the ceilings. She didn’t think that Barry would make it out of the cave alive.

“Bruce,” Batman said haltingly, clearly unused to saying the name that haunted his every waking and sleeping thought, “Bruce is dead. I watched him die.”

Cordelia could no longer look at her father and the angry lines that were forming around his thinning mouth. She instead looked down at Gotham’s newest soon-to-be-victim: Barry Allen. 

She was surprised at what she saw. The blond man did not have a gloating smile, proud of the pain he had brought on a grieving family. He did not even looked saddened by the news like an old friend would be who somehow didn’t get a funeral invite.

Instead, he looked horrified.

“This is… my God.. you…” his voice kept rising and falling weakly like the ripples of Gotham Harbor. “You’re Thomas Wayne!”

Cordelia frowned. This reaction did not make sense. Something was not right.

She glanced at Batman, expecting to see an expression of interest as a mystery was presented to him. But what she saw was a crumpled expression of hate and anger and grief.

Then she saw him pick Barry up by the front of his jacket and slam him into the wall again.

Batman was known to be the greatest detective in the world. In Gotham, he was even better known for his uncontrollable and violent fury. Barry’s pained screams as the Batman released his anger on the poor man’s face echoed around the cave horribly.

This time, Cordelia did not step in to help Batman. He would not welcome it.

The part of Cordelia who was still the little girl who wanted to be a hero flinched at every cry. She screamed from inside Cordelia’s soul, demanding that she stop being a bystander and do something to protect the bruised man in front of her. That part of her was just as much beaten and subdued as Barry was, maybe even more so. You did not live your entire life with Batman and grow up still dreaming of being a hero.

If she was really a hero, she would have put Batman in Arkham along with the rest of the crazies.

She would have put herself in a cell right next to him.

But she didn’t. Because she was a coward. And because that little girl who still existed within her wanted to believe that - one day - Batman would just look at her and realize… he loved her. That he wasn’t alone anymore. That she was his daughter. That they didn’t need Bruce to be a happy family because they had each other.

That she was enough.

Another piercing scream erupted from the man, along with a few sickening crunching noises. “You broke my fingers!” Barry screamed. “You nearly broke my arm!”

“I’m going to break every bone in your body until you start telling me what you’re going here,” Batman said. His large figure loomed over the crumpled man. “Did the Joker send you?”

“What? No.” Barry glared up at Batman, fiercely brave despite his many injuries. She wondered at his fighting spirit. “My name is Barry Allen. But, like you, I have another identity: The Flash. After I was struck by a bolt of lightening, I became the fastest man alive-“

Batman punched him in the jaw. Blood splattered on the wall behind him. “You weren’t fast enough to avoid that, you delusional son-of-a-bitch.”

“That’s because I don’t have my powers, Dr. Wayne,” Barry said, wiping blood from his mouth. “And no one remembers there ever being a Flash. Which is why I need your help.”

Batman raised both his fists so he could send them crashing down on the man’s chest. Barry made a violent choking sound, his arms flailing as he tried to get himself to breathe.

“You came to the wrong place for help,” Batman said through gritted teeth.

Cordelia didn’t know what came over her. Maybe it was her recent thoughtfulness about heroism, maybe it was the mention of her long dead brother, or maybe it was because there was a man getting beaten a few feet away from her just because he was foolish enough to ask Batman for help - but she reached out to grab Batman’s arm before he could take another swing.

“Batman, maybe we should listen to him,” she started clumsily.

She saw the armored fist swing her way and braced for impact. The knuckles connected to her cheekbone, breaking skin. Her head whipped to the side and half her face felt like it exploded with pain.

“Stop!” Barry’s voice could be heard over the ringing in her ears. “Don’t hurt her. She’s right, you should listen to me.”

“Why,” Batman demanded.

Batman was speaking to Barry, but he was glaring at Cordelia. She backed away slowly, and flinched when he walked closer. She could either run and face his wrath later, or stand still and take the beating today. 

Why did she have to step between Batman and his target? Why after all these years has she not learned?

Her self deprecation made her stay still long enough for Batman to grab her by her bare throat. Her fingers instinctively flew up to claw at the fist wrapped around her throat, but her blunt nails did nothing to deter the unrelenting determination in Batman’s eyes.

“Don’t do this, Dr. Wayne!” Barry said. “She’s just an innocent bystander. You don’t need to hurt her!”

“Be quiet, Flash,” Batman said mockingly. “This is family business.”

Batman brought her gasping face closer to his own. So close that she could see his icy blue eyes through the red lens of his cowl.

“Finally betrayed me, hmm?” He said quietly. “I always knew you would. You replacements are like Cuckoo birds: full of greed, never satisfied, self-involved. You don’t know what family loyalty is because you’d sooner invade a wealthier nest than sacrifice for the one you have. Isn’t that right?”

With the last breathe of air that she had, Cordelia shook her head quickly and said, “I don’t - know what - you’re talking - about, Father.”

Batman didn’t have time to respond. Barry had used the distraction to climb to his feet, grab a sparring stick from the pile of weapons on the floor, and wack the aged crusader on the back of the head.

Batman grunted, letting Cordelia go in surprise. Cordelia had enough survival instinct left in her to take several steps back, just out of arms reach.

“Listen to me, Damnit!” Barry shouted, bloody spittle flying from his mouth. “I’m not here to fight, or to cause a fight between the two of you. I’m not from here. Not from this universe. I must be in a mirror dimension or a different earth. I - AHHHH!”

Barry started screaming so suddenly that even Batman paused in shock. The blond man fell to his knees, hands gripping the sides of his skull, and kept screaming until his voice was hoarse. It took a full minute before he was done, and by then he looked… defeated.

Whatever had just happened… had changed him.

Chapter 4: Bruce Survived?

Summary:

Barry and Batman find a common enemy.

Cordelia was frozen. Whatever Barry had gone through, it had drained all the fight out of him. His shoulders were slumped and his head was bowed so low that she could no longer see the vibrant blue of his eyes.

“What the hell just happened?” Batman demanded.

“I saw… everything,” Barry said after a pause. “This isn’t an alternate dimension. This is home. All of this is real.”

Cordelia’s eyebrows furrowed. So many things weren’t making sense. Firstly, Barry Allen should not know how to access the Cave. He should not know that the Waynes were connected to the Batman. He should not know a fighting maneuver that would work against the Batman, either. And he definitely shouldn’t be insinuating that they were not real.

There were a few possibilities. Barry Allen could be an insane fanatic. But why would a Gotham outsider care enough to stalk the Bat Family and discover their real identities? Sure, Batman gained more recognition than the average vigilante, but not nearly as much as Wonder Women, Cyborg, the Shazam kids, or Aquaman.

Barry Allen could be a spy looking to infiltrate the Cave and gain access to its resources. Batman and Cordelia both had a penchant for collecting interesting objects, tools, and weapons they find on their missions. This wasn’t necessarily a fact that they tried to hide. But then why would she have found Barry staring at an ordinary gun of all things?

And lastly, Barry Allen could be telling the truth.

“Something must have happened to have changed everything,” Barry said, mostly to himself. “Someone must have gone back in time, did something, to cause all of this. Wonder Woman and Aquaman shouldn’t be fighting with each other. You shouldn’t be Batman. And… my mother shouldn’t be alive.”

Cordelia saw a brief spark of hope flare behind the red lens of Batman’s cowl. It died out before it could truly form, but it had been there and it had been real. Cordelia felt her own hope flare in her chest, a long-held hope that her father could come back from the darkness and be… happy again.

Barry slowly got back to his feet, movements staggered and pained. In his clumsiness, something small and gold fell from his pocket and rolled across the floor to Cordelia’s feet. It knocked against her sock before she crouched down and picked it up.

“My ring,” Barry said, relieved. “I can prove that I’m telling the truth.”

Batman frowned. “With a ring?”

“It’s not just any ring,” Barry stumbled over and held out his hand. “I keep my uniform hidden in it. It’s complicated science, but basically the uniform expands when it touches the air.”

Cordelia dropped the ring into his hand.

He no longer looked defeated, but energized and determined. Cordelia didn’t see much of that look in Gotham.

Barry fiddled with the ring before fabric sprouted from the top of it. The fabric was smooth and thick, and mustard yellow - a color that only the flashiest of heroes would wear. A color that someone would wear if they had no intention of hiding or being stealthy.

Barry didn’t look pleased with the color, either. His lip curled as he held the uniform. “This isn’t….” Suddenly, he got tense, blue eyes darting around the Cave like he expected another Bat to pop out from the shadows. “He could be watching us right now. Moving so fast that we wouldn’t be able to see him.”

“Who?” Batman asked.

“The man this uniform belongs to: Eobard Thawne,” Barry said.

“What kind of name is ‘Eobard,?” Batman said.

“One from the future,” Barry replied seriously. “He’s a scientist from the 25th century who became obsessed with the power I have. Had. He turned himself into his own era’s fastest man alive by replicating the accident that transformed me into a living kinetic engine. He calls himself Professor Zoom - the Reverse Flash.”

“So you have a super fan, that doesn’t explain much,” Cordelia said, cutting to the chase. “It doesn’t explain why you thought we weren’t real. And it doesn’t explain why you showed up in our Cave or how you even knew how to get in here.”

“The Reverse Flash isn’t a super fan,” Barry protested. “He’s a villain, a criminal. He’s killed so many people. Sometimes just to taunt me, like he’s doing now.”

“What is he doing?” Cordelia said.

“I’m not sure exactly what he did,” Barry admitted. “But he changed the past - altered it. Mostly for the worst. And he left his uniform in my ring to let me know that he was the one who did it.”

“You’re more paranoid than the Joker,” Batman sneered. “You belong in Arkham.”

“I’m not crazy, Dr. Wayne,” Barry said. “The Reverse Flash is as fast as I used to be. He can do things that I never could. He could change history. My mother was murdered when I was ten and my father was convicted for it. I spent my life studying forensics so I could prove he was innocent and to catch my mother’s real killer. But my father died in prison and I never found a suspect. Until I became the Flash and I discovered that my entire life had been targeted by an enemy I hadn’t even made yet. It was revenge in reverse. Thawne can travel through time… he was the one that killed my mother…. But she’s alive now. There’s no doubt that Thawne’s altered history again. Everything’s gone to hell. No one has heard of Superman, Aquaman’s at war with Wonder Woman - “

“What about Bruce?” Batman asked.

Bruce. It was always about Bruce.

“You called me Bruce when you came in here,” Batman said tightly, like he didn’t want to reveal just how much this answered actually meant to him.

“That’s because in the world I know, you were shot and killed instead of him,” Barry answered genuinely. “Bruce became Batman to wage war on crime in Gotham City.”

“Bruce… survived?”

Cordelia knew from her father’s face that this changed everything for all three of them. Barry had walked into the Cave seeking help, and he was going to get it, no matter how much it cost them. Because if there was one thing that Cordelia knew beyond a shadow of a doubt - if there was ever any mystery that she never needed to solve - it was that Thomas Wayne loved no one and nothing more than his dead son.

And if he had the opportunity to bring him back to life?

God help whoever stood in his way. Because Batman was not a merciful creature.

Chapter 5: The Same Thing

Summary:

A night in Gotham.

Barry explained everything. How Bruce and him were close friends, and that was the reason why he thought he could find help in the Cave. He explained how Bruce had one of the best minds in the world. And he explained how he planned on getting his powers back.

Through all of this, Batman was only interested in one small detail: that if they helped Barry, then they would also undo what happened in Crime Alley all those years ago.

“If you’re telling the truth,” Batman said slowly. He was glaring down at Barry like he would someone he was interrogating, watching every micro-movement in search of a sign that the shorter man was lying. “Can you change this? Can you change it back so that… I died and Bruce lived?”

Barry hesitated. It was the first sign of indecision that Cordelia had seen from him since he stepped in the Cave. She wasn’t sure why, until she saw the quick glance he shot in her direction.

He was the first person to acknowledge the truth that everyone else was ignoring. If Thomas Wayne died in that alley, then Cordelia Wayne would not be alive, either. That tragic night occurred years before she was born, and years before he met her mother.

Batman’s shoulders stiffened. He saw Barry look at her, too.

Before he could say anything, before he could explode in anger, Cordelia said what she knew everyone wanted to hear: “We all want the same thing.”

Was it the truth? She wasn’t sure. She didn’t want to think about it. Cordelia felt similar to how she did before she jumped off a building with her grappling gun ready to fire - don’t think about the cement beneath you. Don’t consider that you might miss and the grappling hook won’t stick. Don’t consider that this could all end in disaster. Just go through the motions and hope for the best.

Barry must have seen something in her that she didn’t want to show. He hesitated again, mouth twisting to form words - 

“Batgirl,” Batman said suddenly, sharply. Her spine straightened. “GCPD still hasn’t received a report on the Joker and the hostages yet. Change back into your uniform.”

“Yes, Sir.”

She left Batman and Barry in the main cave and headed back to the changing rooms. Her uniform smelled like blood and sweat, and she didn’t like the sticky feeling it had as she dragged the tight fabric over her newly washed skin. But she preferred patrolling a few extra hours over sitting around with the men and literally planning the end of the world.

The end of her own life.

When she walked back into the main cave, both Batman and Barry were gone. She didn’t stick around to find out where either of them were. She made a beeline toward her motorcycle and left the cave as quickly as possible.

The night was quickly turning into morning, but Gotham mornings were just as murky and rainy as any other part of the day. The darkness and shadows hid the young vigilante as she turned sharply into the grittiest parts of the city.

Cordelia had no intentions of going to the GCPD. Meeting with the police was more unpleasant than dinners with Batman. The cops were suspicious and rude, with half of them being more crooked than the criminals in the street.

And since Batman had even worse opinions of the law enforcement, she knew he would neither care nor ask about the report.

So instead she drove through the night, letting the rain splatter on her helmet and sleek the roads.

By the time the first sliver of sunlight broke through the thick clouds, she had stopped three burglaries, two harassments, and walked a lone woman home. And with each person she met, she couldn’t help but think: who are you in Barry’s world? Are you a good person or a criminal? Or are you like me and you do not exist at all? Are these your last few days on Earth before Batman changes everything for just the chance that his long lost son would be able to grow up?

Returning to the cave was infinitely less eventful. Cordelia was pleased to see that there were no strange men talking about strange worlds as they stood in front of a portrait of her brother. She crept through the cave like she would a Gotham alley and sprinted up the steps into Wayne Manor.

The Manor was full of cobwebs and worn furniture. What was once probably a happy home had become a haunted house. And Cordelia had zero doubt about who was the lurking ghost.

Photographs and painted portraits of little Brucie Wayne hung on nearly every wall she walked by. His serene, almost shy expression stared across the rooms with eyes that were blue and honest.

Cordelia smiled.

When she was little, she used to imagine what Wayne Manor would be like if he was still alive. He would be in his thirties at the moment, and he would likely be Gotham’s darling. From the stories she heard from her father when he was drunk enough to start telling them, Bruce was always well loved by anyone who met him. He was sweet, and smart, and curious.

Cordelia had wanted so badly to meet him.

She wanted so badly to know that they would have been close siblings and close friends.

But now she wasn’t so sure. It was hard to picture the serene boy she always imagined growing up to be the Batman. Batman was terrible and cruel - a killer. How could Bruce have changed so much?

Cordelia suddenly realized that she was glad she wouldn’t meet him. She didn’t want the sweet brother that she imagined to be replaced by the monster that she knew. It was awful enough living with Thomas Wayne as Batman.

Well, you won’t be living with him long, Cordelia thought to herself morbidly.

And with that, she turned on her heel and headed toward her room.

Chapter 6: No Rules At The End Of The World

Summary:

Barry gets his powers back.

Mornings at Wayne Manor were Cordelia’s favorites. Despite her father’s nocturnal schedule, he still woke up early to go to work. That meant that Cordelia had free reign of the Manor without having to worry about bumping into him.

She walked through the worn hallways and down the creaking stairs, so used to the untidy, dusty furniture that she barely noticed it anymore.

Instead, she noticed how clear the skies of Gotham were this morning. These were rare days. And, with a bit of delusion, she allowed herself to believe that the universe created a bright day like this just for her.

Maybe it knew she needed this day. Maybe it knew that her own days were numbered, and wanted to give her some brightness before it all went dark.

She hummed as she poured herself cereal and ate alone at the large kitchen table.

Unknowingly, her mind drifted to Bruce. How did he spend his mornings?

Similar to their father? Putting on a suit and tie and going off to work?

Or did he spend them more like Cordelia? Alone, eating stale cereal, daydreaming, and drifting around the mansion until it was time to put on the cape and cowl?

She swallowed the last spoonful of her breakfast and decided to live her last days differently. If her father was planning a suicide mission then she wouldn’t stop him. Even if it meant sacrificing her own life, whatever world Barry was trying to get back sounded a lot better than the one they were currently living in.

But none of this meant that she had to sit around and wait for the end to come.

With a new mission (her last mission) in mind, Cordelia set off to the Cave. She might not have the best time being Batman’s sidekick, but she did have a great time being Batgirl. It was her one source of pride - the one thing that could make her happy enough to forget her dark living situation. When she put on the cowl, she was no longer sad little Cordelia Wayne that barely anyone even knew about: she was a beacon of protection.

The Cave looked different than it did last night. All of her father’s old medical tools were pulled out of storage and stacked on tables. And it became obvious why the closer she got to the changing rooms.

“Barry?” Cordelia said in astonishment.

Barry Allen was laid out on a medical bed. He was barely recognizable under third degree burns that disfigured his face and body. Bandages covered most of his skin and his once fluffy, blond hair was short and sticking to his scalp with sweat.

Upon hearing his name, the man groaned. His eyelids fluttered as he slowly woke up from sleep.

Cordelia filled up a cup of water from a nearby tank and approached him. She eyed his injuries wearily.

“Oh, hey Batgirl,” Barry said, before dissolving into a coughing fit. “How’s it going?”

“Good,” Cordelia said stiffly. “I think it’s safe to assume that my day is going a lot better than yours.”

Barry smiled with genuine cheer. Cordelia stared. “Actually, I doubt it. I got my powers back! Batman and I were able to replicate the accident that gave me my powers originally. You’re now looking at the fastest man alive.”

Cordelia’s eyebrows knitted with concern. She reached forward and ran her fingers through his hair.

“Er - what - what’re you doing?” Barry said.

“Checking for head injuries.”

“I’m serious, Batgirl,” Barry insisted. “I’m not concussed or crazy. I got struck by lightning last night! Everything went according to plan.”

“Struck by lightning,” Cordelia repeated in disbelief. She gave his body another once-over. It did appear like his injuries could be lightning-related. “So… Batman didn’t… cause any of this?”

“No,” Barry said quickly, “I mean - he helped cause it. But I wanted him to.”

Cordelia sighed. She knew from the minute she saw Barry that he was crazy, but he still managed to surprise her every time he opened his mouth. “Well, if you’re sure this is what you wanted-“

“Watch, once I get better, I’ll be able to prove to you that I’m not Arkham material,” Barry said confidently, a smile still stretching his cheeks painfully.

“Speaking of getting better,” Cordelia said. “You need to stay hydrated. It can be easy to ignore when you’re in pain, but your body needs water. Can you drink on your own or do you need my help?”

Barry took the cup of water from her and took a sip. “It’s hard to believe that just twelve hours ago you and Batman were beating the crap out of me.”

“Yeah, well,” Cordelia said uncomfortably, “that’s what happens when you practice breaking and entering.”

“Batman and Batgirl tag team you?”

Cordelia surprised herself by laughing.

Barry perked up at the sound, his blue eyes shining with glee.

Cordelia allowed herself to smile back at him.

“I never thought I’d make a Bat laugh,” Barry said. “I have to tell Bruce about this when we set things back. He’d hardly believe it.”

Cordelia felt her mood dim as the reality of the situation came crashing down on her. She turned away from the man so she could review her father’s notes on Barry’s injuries. According to her father, Barry was healing at an alarming rate and would make a miraculous recovery in a few hours. All he needed for treatment was burn ointment, food, and rest.

“Sorry,” Barry’s voice sounded morose from behind her. “I didn’t mean… I know this has to be hard on you. I’m sorry about that. I really am.”

Cordelia set down her father’s notes and grabbed the burn ointment from the table near her. When she returned to Barry’s side, her face was clear of any emotion.

“Why are you apologizing to me? It’s not your fault, it’s Reverse Flash’s,” she said matter-of-factly. “Besides, I’m the one who should be apologizing. I helped Batman hurt you last night. It wasn’t right what we did.”

“I’ve had worse,” Barry replied.

“Haven’t we all,” Cordelia muttered under her breath.

Cordelia looked up from the ointment bottle in time to see Barry’s face twist with emotion he was trying to smother down. She raised one eyebrow curiously.

“What?” She asked. “Is there something on my face?”

“No, it’s just - “ Barry seemed to struggle. “What he did to you… does he do that a lot?”

Cordelia frowned at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Does Dr. Wayne hurt you a lot?” Barry asked bluntly.

“Oh, yes,” Cordelia gestured to the obvious bruises on her face and neck, “most of these are from him. Did he already tell you how to treat your burns? It’s important that you follow the instructions or else it’ll scar.”

Barry looked stricken. “How could you be so calm about that?”

Cordelia paused. “I… I don’t know. The medical books I read always suggest being calm and collected when speaking to patients.”

“Not about my burns,” Barry said, sounding offended. “How could you be so calm about Dr. Wayne hurting you? He’s Batman - he’s your father. He shouldn’t be punching you or choking you!”

Cordelia schooled her features so he couldn’t see the hurt his words caused. Because of course she knew that her father wasn’t supposed to treat her like that. How many times had she and Batman saved children from abuse? She knew the drill: if your parent were abusing you, then you had to go to the police so they could bring you to safety.

The problem was that even with all this experience working with abuse victims, Cordelia found herself falling into the same trap that they do: she loved her abuser.

And she wasn’t strong enough to walk away.

All she could do was sit around and wait for him to feel bad enough to stop.

But she wasn’t going to tell Barry Allen any of that. Instead, she said, very coolly, “what do you care how he treats me? You said it yourself: you got your powers back and you’re going to use them to fix the timeline. Once the timeline is fixed, I won’t exist and neither will any of these bruises. So how about we pretend they don’t exist now and focus on making sure you heal nicely?”

Barry and Cordelia had a stare off. Predictably, the Bat won.

He looked down at his hands, which were sporting a bright red color. They walked through how he could properly treat his injuries. After he repeated the instructions to Cordelia to prove to her that he could remember it, she warmed him up a meal and encouraged him to eat every bite.

“Where are you going?” Barry asked when she returned from the changing room dressed as Batgirl. “I thought Bats only went out at night?”

“Not today,” Cordelia lowered her cowl so that the red lens covered the blue of her eyes. “There are no rules at the end of the world.”

Chapter 7: If All Goes Right

Summary:

Batgirl has her orders.

The next time Cordelia saw Barry, it was in the Wayne Manor library. The library was enormous, with thick textbooks lining every wall. The textbooks mainly focused on subject matter appropriate for a man who was once a highly reputable doctor: medicine, surgery, and human anatomy.

Cordelia knew every book in the library, even if she hadn’t read all of them yet. As a child, she used to pour over them, soaking in as much knowledge as her still forming mind would allow. She used to tell her teachers that she dreamed about becoming a doctor like her father used to be, but what she really dreamed about was finally seeing her father beam with pride as he watched his only daughter follow in his footsteps.

Those dreams were burned to ashes when she was handed the cape and cowl.

That was the day she realized that her father didn’t want a daughter. Batman wanted a soldier.

“You called, Father?” Cordelia said in way of greeting.

It wasn’t often that her father ordered her to the library. If he ever acknowledged that he required her presence, it was in the Cave or out in the streets of Gotham.

Thomas Wayne was dressed in full Batman gear. The sight was usually very intimidating for the young girl. However, the effect was ruined by the way he was sitting in a chair much too small for him in front of a computer that was probably as old as he was.

Barry appeared in a blur before he could respond. The blond man was completely healed, with a face smooth of any scarring or even of stubble. He was dressed completely differently, too. Instead of his ordinary brown and dull clothes, he was wearing a tight fitting red outfit with lightning bolt detailing.

“You dyed the Reverse Flash’s uniform?” Cordelia wondered, recognizing the style as similar to the yellow suit that flew out of his ring.

“Nope! I made this just a few minutes ago,” Barry said proudly. His chest was puffed out to show off the lightning bolt symbol that was stamped on the center.

Something about the way Barry was standing, all bright and beaming, made Cordelia want to tease him. “It’s adorable,” she said with a smirk. “You even have lightning bolt ears.”

Barry’s face flushed as red as his uniform. He touched the ears self-consciously. “They aren’t ears. They’re earpieces. They help me hear over the sound of wind when I’m running.”

Cordelia hummed. “Oh, really? Well my bat ears help me hear over the sound of bullshit.”

Barry spluttered. “It’s true!”

“Oh, I believe you,” Cordelia said soothingly. “I’m sure that’s the exact reason why you made them into the shape of little lightning bolts.”

“Enough,” Batman snapped. Both Barry and Cordelia startled once they realized how close Batman had gotten to them. He was no longer by the ancient computer, but right over Barry’s shoulder, and glaring at the man through red-tinted lens. “I called you here for a reason, Batgirl, and it wasn’t to distract Flash.”

“I-“ Cordelia faltered. “I’m sorry, Sir. How can I help?”

Now that Batman was not bending over a computer, it was harder to ignore his presence. It seemed to suck all the air out of the room - at least for Cordelia. Barry seemed only mildly anxious, fiddling with his thumbs like a child who was being told off by his teacher.

“You’re proficient with tech,” Batman said, “Find Flash what he needs.”

Cordelia nodded sharply, then transferred her attention to Barry. “What do you need?”

“Er, I need to find out where the rocket that landed in Metropolis went,” Barry said in a rush.

Cordelia frowned. “A rocket? When did this happen?”

“Around the time Bruce was born,” Batman said solemnly. He gestured over to the computer. An old article was pulled about about a rocket hitting Metropolis and killing thousands of people. Cordelia sat down in the chair to skim the rest of the article.

“I need to know more before I can find out anything,” Cordelia said. “Why is this rocket important?”

“It contained the most powerful man on the planet,” Barry explained. “Well, he would have been a baby when it landed. But Superman would be a good ally to have if we’re going up against Reverse Flash.”

“So a powerful baby mysteriously disappears after causing the deaths a thousand American citizens and the government is blaming it on South America,” Cordelia surmised. “Okay. I can work with that.”

“Can you?” Barry said in surprise.

“Sure,” Cordelia said, typing away at her computer. “I’ve hacked into government files before. That’s how Batman and I manage to keep our identities a secret. I go in and wipe our DNA and fingerprints from any existing records.”

“No offense, but Superman’s whereabouts are going to be a lot harder to access than the fingerprints of two billionaires,” Barry said.

Cordelia shot him a look. “Do you want my help or not?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Barry raised his hands in surrender.

“Well, you’re right," Cordelia admitted. “It will be harder, especially with this computer. I’m going to have to use my own.”

“Great!” Barry said brightly. “In the meantime, Dr. Wayne and I should probably locate other heroes that can help.”

“No,” Batman said.

“I know you like to work alone,” Barry said confidently, as if they had been friends for years, “but time is tricky. We need all hands on deck if we want this to go right.”

“Mmmrr,” Batman growled, but relented.

Cordelia had never seen anything like it. Batman listening to someone else for a change. It really was the end of the world.

“Maybe I should go, too,” Cordelia piped up. “Other heroes might be more willing to listen if they see a face they’re familiar with, Barry. And Batman hasn’t exactly made any good impressions over the past few years. You might need me.”

“No,” Batman grounded out.

Barry stepped in, “That’s a good idea. The Bat symbol is a lot easier to trust than a stranger.”

“I said no,” Batman repeated. Cordelia drew back. “We’re not leaving Gotham unprotected right now. Both the Joker and the Riddler have escaped Arkham, and I don’t like the idea of them teaming up.”

Cordelia didn’t like the idea, either, but she couldn’t help but be disappointed. Still, she nodded to show her agreement.

“Is it a good idea to leave her to protect Gotham alone?” Barry asked. “I don’t know what the Joker and the Riddler are like in this timeline, but in the one I came from, they are two of the most dangerous crazies out there. Bruce would never send any of his children to face them by themselves.”

Cordelia’s mind screeched to a halt: “Bruce has kids? I’m an auntie? What are their names? What are they like-“

“Enough!” Batman snapped, lips pulled back in anger. “Don’t you two realize that none of this matters? If everything with this mission goes right, then what we do today or what we did yesterday will no longer have an impact. So let’s stop wasting time with pointless conversations. Batgirl, you have your orders.”

Cordelia nodded, then moved to leave. Before she could reach the door, however, she heard Barry whisper to Batman: “These might be your last few days alive. Don’t you want to spend it with your daughter?”

Cordelia was halfway through the door when she heard her father’s response: “Like I said, there’s no point. If all goes right, then in a few days I won’t even remember that she exists."

The door shut before she could hear Barry’s response to that.

Chapter 8: I'm Sorry, Batgirl

Summary:

Father and daughter say their goodbyes.

Cordelia spent the next few hours in her room hacking into government files. She pulled up any information she could find on superpowered men, aliens, and mysterious Metropolis rockets. Almost everything was redacted, but Cordelia had expected this. She marked whatever useful information she could find, and managed to get a location of where they were hiding Superman.

She heaved a big, tired sigh after writing down the address.

The government was a shady industry. From what she gathered, they had kept the superpowered alien baby under lock and key, observing and even experimenting on him. She hoped that Barry would be the first one to find him, because she didn’t think Batman was capable of comforting traumatized children.

I suppose Superman would be grown up by now, Cordelia realized. He would be Bruce’s age. Maybe even older.

She stretched her aching arms and legs, loosening her stiff muscles. She’d been working overtime as Batgirl ever since Barry arrived, and her body was starting to realize it. If she kept on like this, then she’d likely end up injuring herself.

She let out a huff of unamused laughter. As if she’d be alive long enough to get injured.

The wry thought was followed by a full-body shiver. It was getting more and more difficult to pretend like none of this mattered to her. Like she didn’t care that she was actively helping two men plan the end of her existence.

Cordelia shook her head sharply to rid herself of any doubts. This mission wasn’t about her. It was about doing the right thing. And fixing the time line was the right thing to do.

She rushed out of her room and headed straight toward the Cave. Batman and Barry were speaking to each other, both their arms crossed defensively. Barry seemed upset about something.

“Father,” Cordelia said when she was within earshot. “I have a location on Superman. But you might have trouble getting there.”

She handed him the slip of paper she wrote the address on. Barry peaked at it over Batman’s shoulder.

“This is a government facility,” Batman realized.

Cordelia gave a sharp nod. “They’ve been monitoring and experimenting on Superman. He’ll likely be unsociable and injured. He won’t be the man you remember him to be, Barry.”

Barry’s earlier irritation melted into concern. “Supes…” he murmured mournfully. He took a deep breath to steady himself, then said, “Even at his worst, Superman could take down an entire army on his own within minutes. I still think our best course of action would be to ask for his help.”

“If you say so,” Batman said doubtfully, before turning to his daughter. “Get in gear, Batgirl. Gotham is waiting for you.”

Cordelia felt her insides curl up. The feeling kept her frozen for a beat too long - long enough for her to see Batman’s eyes start to darken in irritation.

She cleared her throat and looked away. “Good luck on the mission, Batman,” she said, her voice soft.

“We don’t rely on luck,” Batman replied.

Cordelia didn’t know why she was expecting anything else. Sure, this might be the last time she saw her father - but when did he ever care about seeing her? She should have known better than to expect some kind of emotion from Batman. 

So she waved good-bye to Barry and left to the changing rooms.

She was just starting to untie her shoes when she heard hurried footsteps coming up behind her. For just a moment, she could feel herself hope - but when she turned around, it was Barry who had followed her inside.

“Oh,” Cordelia tried not to look too disappointed. “Hi, Barry.”

“Hi,” Barry said hesitantly. He looked just as shocked to be standing in front of her as she was. “I… I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

Cordelia turned back to untying her shoelace. “If you were looking for the bathroom, then it’s the next room over.”

“No, I meant…” Barry sighed. She heard him shuffle closer and sit down on the bench beside her. “Well, I meant that I didn’t know why I followed you here. But I guess I do. No, I know I do. I…”

Cordelia waited silently for him to start talking again. That was one thing Batman taught her: silence was a good motivator.

Barry sighed again and dragged his red-gloved palm over his face. “I wanted to apologize.”

“We’ve been through this,” Cordelia said with a flash of irritation. She resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest protectively. “It isn’t your fault. It’s Reverse-Flash’s.”

“Yeah,” Barry rubbed the back of his neck. “But Eobard isn’t the one who is about to… you know, change your life.”

“You mean end my life,” Cordelia corrected bitterly. She instantly regretted it when she saw the look on Barry’s face. “Listen, I’m sorry. I know I’m not the best person to be around. Especially right now. But, Barry, I don’t want you to feel guilty about what you’re going to do. Sure, I’m not excited about the results, but I know they’re for the best. Besides, Wonder Woman and Aquaman were probably going to get everyone killed, anyway, with their stupid war.”

“Don’t apologize to me, Batgirl, please,” Barry said earnestly. “You have every right to be upset. My God, you’re just a kid. You’re handling this a lot better than you should.”

Cordelia kicked her shoes off when her laces were loose enough. “You’re giving me too much credit. The options were to break down and cry or handle it. I chose the option easier for all of us.”

“You could have refused to help,” Barry pointed out. “Hell, you could have sabotaged us by writing down the wrong address to where Superman was.”

“And face Batman when he found out?” Cordelia scoffed. “I’d rather not spend my last few days in Gotham Hospital.”

Barry’s expression darkened. “It isn’t right how he treats you. Bruce would have a fit if he knew.”

Cordelia’s head tilted with curiosity. “Really? Why? He doesn’t even know me.”

“He doesn’t need to,” Barry said, without a hint of doubt or hesitation. “He’s a great man. One of the best. No matter what monsters he faces, he still manages to have enough compassion for them to offer help. It’s one of the things that I admire most about him.”

“Oh,” Cordelia could think of nothing else to say. A part of her had resented Bruce for being the only thing her father cared about, and then for being the reason why her father was helping Barry fix the timeline. But it was hard to resent someone that she also wanted so badly to have met. 

A compassionate Batman? It sounded like everything she’d ever dreamed of. To fight alongside an actual hero. To be the partner of someone who actually cared.

She would never get that from her father.

She would never get that from anyone.

Cordelia was mortified to feel tears start to spill down her cheeks. She tried to wipe them away, but they kept coming like a tidal wave.

“I’m sorry,” Cordelia said tearfully. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to start crying and I’m trying to stop it-“

Barry put a steady hand on her shaking shoulder. The touch startled her enough to stop crying. “It’s ok to cry.”

Despite his words, Cordelia tried to collect herself. She closed her eyes and imagined she was swinging over the streets of Gotham. When she was Batgirl, it was different. She was harder, colder. People weren’t normally scared of skinny girls, but they were scared of her. And it was because Batgirl didn’t succumb to normal human emotions. She didn’t cry and she did not fear death and she certainly did not sit around wishing her father would love her.

It took longer than she liked, but Cordelia eventually felt herself calm down. It was like all the chaos within her had finally settled. When she was sure that she was fine, she opened her eyes again.

Barry was watching her. “I… I don’t have to go through with this mission.”

Cordelia was shocked. He no longer looked determined. There was no gleam in his eyes that she always saw in heroes preparing for their next battle. Now, he looked uncertain, younger - and the guilt was plain to see.

“I’m,” he cleared his throat, “I’m sorry, Batgirl. For my plan. For what Reverse-Flash did and for the part I played in it. I don’t - I don’t know how hard this must be for you, but I’m sorry for causing you this much pain.”

Cordelia didn’t know what to say. It was the most sincere apology she had ever received. And it was coming from a person who barely knew her.

And because she wanted to be a hero, and because she knew it was the right thing to do, she forced herself to smile and said, “Don’t worry, Barry. You’re doing the right thing. I can forgive you for that.”

Did Cordelia mean it? Not even she knew. But it was what Barry needed to hear in order to move forward with the mission, so that is what she ended up saying.

Chapter 9: It Started To Rain

Summary:

And just when he made it out of view, it started to rain and Batgirl started to cry.

Barry had been worried about Cordelia protecting Gotham on her own. That was because he only really saw her when she was standing next to Batman. And it was easy to assume that the slim, wide-eyed girl so close to a growling, demonic beast was in need of protection.

But the truth was Batgirl didn’t need protection.

At least, not from Gotham.

While criminals feared Batman for his large, hulking frame and deep, graveling voice - they feared Batgirl for her silence. She was like a nightmare in the dark, as quiet as a shadow and as brutal as a bulldozer. Not many could say that they’ve heard her speak, which only fueled the rumors that she wasn’t human at all - she was a creature Batman summoned to do his dirtiest work. If Batgirl was on the case, then there would be no talking.

And there was also the bone breaking rumors.

But Cordelia didn’t like to think about how those originated.

Twenty four hours before the end of the world, Batgirl sat perched on a gargoyle, cape flowing in the rough wind. If anyone bothered to look up, they wouldn’t see a girl. They would see swirling darkness - and at its center? Two glowing red eyes.

Cordelia hadn’t liked the design of her uniform when it was first presented to her. It reminded her too much of Batman with the red eyes, the pointed shoulder blades, and the heavy boots. But she couldn’t deny that the design accomplished what it meant to: it was terrifying.

That’s exactly what the group of men about to harass a young boy were thinking when Batgirl landed between them: she is terrifying.

“Shit!” One of them stumbled backward. “I thought the Bat-Freaks left Gotham for good!”

Not yet, Cordelia thought.

“Let’s get out of here,” another man said, before taking off without his buddies.

Cordelia could hear the young boy they were harassing let out a relieved, shaky sigh as more started to take off. But a stubborn three decided to stay.

Batgirl’s red eyes narrowed slowly.

“Get the hell out of here, freak,” shouted the bulkiest of the three. His shaved head was pale with a strong mixture of anger and fear. “This got nothing to do with you!”

Batgirl didn’t move a muscle, not to hit them and not to leave.

Her stillness seemed to unnerve them. Even the boy behind her took a step back. 

“I said get out of here, bitch!” The man shouted even louder.

He took a threatening step forward. That was his mistake. Batgirl grabbed both his arms by the elbow and with one sharp, strong twist - broke them.

His scream echoed off the walls of the buildings surrounding them. The man fell to his knees with two useless arms flopping around his sides. Both his friends leapt backward like he had just caught on fire.

“WHAT THE HELL!” He screeched. He turned to his friends angrily. “What are you doing just standing there? BEAT THE CRAP OUT OF HER!”

That shook them out of their shock. Both of them slowly raised their fists, ready to fight. But Batgirl didn’t move from her relaxed position in front of them. She didn’t move at all. In fact, they barely saw her move when she broke their friend's arms.

And worse… she was so silent.

It was like she wasn’t even there. It was like she wasn’t even human at all.

“Well?” One of the man’s friends said uncertainly. “Aren’t you going to… fight us? Or something?”

The man with the broken arms groaned. “Just punch her, you idiot.”

So his friend swung. Only for his fist to get caught by Batgirl, and promptly crushed.

“AUUUURGH!” He squirmed in agony. “My hand! My hand!”

“What?” His friend shouted in fear.

“She broke my hand, dammit!” He said. “Let go! Let go!”

Batgirl tightened her hold and listened as the man screamed some more. That was all the criminal with the broken arms needed to hear before hopping up on his feet and taking off, leaving both his friends behind. It was like his own cowardice gave the other friend permission to be cowardly as well, because soon the only people left in the alley were Batgirl, their would-be victim, and the man with the crushed fingers.

“Ah,” the man with the crushed fingers gasped. “I get it! Okay? Fuck, I get it - I’ll leave the dweeb alone - just let go.”

He sounded genuine. Batgirl should let go. The “dweeb” was already creeping out of the alley, now more scared of the vigilante who saved his life than the criminals who were going to terrorize him. But Batgirl was…

Angry.

Because she couldn’t stop thinking about the end of the world. And how some people would survive it and how some people wouldn’t and how others (like herself) would cease to exist. No one would remember her, no one would miss her, no one would even bother to create a death certificate for her.

And who would this loser be? The one who spent his nights hurting other people? Would he get to start over - have a new job or a good family? The possibilities were endless for him.

For her? It was just The End.

It made her furious and sad and bitter and miserable. It made her want to hurt. It made her want to crush more than this man’s fingers. It made her want to kill him. It made her feel like… Batman.

The realization drained her of her anger. Slowly, she loosened her hold on his hand, and let her own drop.

The man didn’t waste any time. He grabbed his own wrist and started running away from her, his feet slapping the cement on the sidewalk.

And just when he made it out of view, it started to rain and Batgirl started to cry.

Chapter 10: The End Of Everything

Summary:

When Cordelia knew her world was ending, she always expected it to feel like falling asleep. But this wasn’t falling asleep. This was an apocalypse. This was… horrifying.

Cordelia could hear the world crack.

It was a terrifying rumble at first, and then the ear splitting sound of wrongness everywhere. Something happened to the gravity, where Cordelia felt as if she was simultaneously being pulled to the ground and pushed into space.

She gripped the chair she was sitting on.

When Cordelia knew her world was ending, she always expected it to feel like falling asleep. But this wasn’t falling asleep. This was an apocalypse. This was… horrifying.

The young girl curled into herself and closed her eyes, hiding from the truth like a child.

Cordelia was going to die, Cordelia was going to die, Cordelia was going to die.

And Cordelia would not die on a Gotham street fighting a villain, nor was she going to be by her father’s side.

No. Cordelia was alone in the Cave under Wayne Manor; cold, lonely, unloved.

The ground shook underneath her. She allowed herself to cry. No one was there to scold her for it. No one would remember the way she childishly hugged herself and cowered from the end of everything.

None of that mattered.

She heard a swish of wind before she saw the red blur. A man in spandex stumbled into her line of vision and fell to his knees.

It was Barry, and he was staring at Cordelia in as much shock as she was staring at him.

“…Barry?” Her voice came out in shakes and whimpers.

He blinked at her, taking in her curled up form and the tears that wouldn’t stop leaking from her eyes. “Batgirl?” He said back.

She shuddered. “My real name is Cordelia.”

Her eyes darted around. Waiting for something to happen - anything to happen.

“This is the end?” She asked. “Did you do it?”

Barry’s eyes wouldn’t leave her face. He was pale and bleeding. “It’s the end,” he said. “I’m so sorry, Bat - Cordelia. I’m sorry I put you through this.”

“It’s okay-“

“It isn’t,” Barry said. He struggled to stand. When he did, he walked over to her and laid a steady hand on her shoulder. “I realized that this is more my fault than I knew. It wasn’t Reverse-Flash who messed with the timeline, it was me. I was selfish, I… I tried to save my mother. And because of that, I ruined everything.”

Cordelia sniffed. She knew what Barry wanted her to say - that she forgave him. And she would have said that, except she didn’t think that he’d believe her.

“Why are you here?” She asked instead.

Barry hesitated. “I - I don’t know. Your father told me to run, to make everything right. But I couldn’t stop… thinking about you. And how I’m not just sacrificing my mother for this mission, but also your entire existence. At least in my timeline there are still people who remember my mom and love her. If I do this… then I’m taking everything from you.”

Cordelia was crying even harder than she was before. She tried to give the bat glare that would normally have criminals shaking in their shoes. “Barry, I don’t matter. Save the world, dammit!”

“You do matter,” Barry said, giving her his own glare. “I don’t know what kind of man your father is in this timeline, but he should have never made you feel like you don’t. That isn’t what heroes do.”

“Bats aren’t heroes,” Cordelia told him. “We’re creatures of fear.”

“Not in my timeline.”

“Then you should get back to it.”

They glared at each other. For some reason, this disagreement helped Cordelia get her emotions under control. She tried to keep the feeling of frustration (it was better than feeling scared).

“I won’t let you die,” Barry finally said. “I won’t let your life be erased.”

And suddenly, Cordelia knew what he needed to hear. It was a talent of Cordelia’s, knowing what people wanted from her - and being able to deliver it with efficiency. It’s why Batman made her his Batgirl rather than shipping her off to boarding school so he could brood and drink in peace.

“It won’t be,” Cordelia said with confidence she didn’t feel. “It happened, Barry. One way or another, the life I lived happened. And I couldn’t have been prouder or happier of everything I’ve accomplished. This is my last good deed as a hero, Barry - sacrificing myself for a better world. You have to let me have that.”

Barry’s expression crumbled. “I don’t want to.”

“Don’t worry,” Cordelia hesitantly grabbed the hand that was on her shoulder and squeezed it, hoping it wasn’t as awkward for him as it was for her. “I’ll be okay.”

Barry swallowed, indecision clear in his eyes. He was still staring at her, eying the tear tracks that were drying on her cheeks. Men like Barry were rare - but Cordelia had met a few of them. She knew how to talk to them.

She got to her feet and walked over to a table they kept in the Cave. She searched everything on it and snatched up a pen and paper, scribbled a short note on it, then handed it to the guilt-ridden hero.

“Give this to Bruce,” Cordelia told him. “I never knew him, but I still love him. It doesn’t matter that we’ll never meet. Maybe… once he knows that I existed, he could love me back.”

Barry clutched the note in his hand like she had given him precious treasure.

Cordelia decided to keep pushing. “You said he was one of the most compassionate men you’d ever met,” she said. “The world needs men like that. Bring him back like you promised, Barry. Don’t let me down.”

He went still.

“Please,” Cordelia begged, tears filling her vision again. She hurriedly wiped them away. “Please, Barry. I don’t want to be the reason Bruce dies. Don’t make me be the reason.”

Barry looked up from the note and stared at her blankly. “If I can take the note, then I can take you, too.”

Cordelia furrowed her eyebrows. “What?”

Barry repeated what he said, his voice weak with realization. “If I can… take the note, then I can take you, too!”

The ground below them started to crack and crumble. They still stared at each other.

“I shouldn’t be able to bring anything with me,” Barry continued. “The moment I change the timeline back, everything that exists now should disappear, including the note - but I’m going to try to take it with me just because you asked. So why shouldn’t I try to take you with me, too?”

Cordelia frowned. “Barry-“

“Piggyback or cradle?” Barry interrupted her.

She was certain he was going crazy. “What?”

The ceiling was starting to crumble. Large, jagged rocks fell to the cave floor, breaking tables and cracking chairs in half.

“No time to choose,” Barry said. Before she knew what was happening, he was cradling Cordelia in his arms, his hand holding me firmly to his chest. “Cradle it is. Hold tight, Cordelia.”

The world disappeared in a blur. Cordelia barely understood what was happening. She heard some shouts and felt Barry’s chest vibrate like he was yelling at someone, but the speed he was talking made it all sound like nonsense to her. All she could do was squeeze her eyes shut and try not to puke all over the speedster trying so hard to save her.

Finally, Cordelia heard someone screaming a name: “BARRY!?”

Cordelia saw a bright flash of light behind her eyelids, and then she passed out.

Chapter 11: A Day In The Sun

Summary:

Cordelia couldn’t remember the last time she was hugged. Maybe by an enemy before they used the restrictive position to slam her body to the ground and start kicking. But she knew enough to know that those didn’t really count as hugs.

The first thing Cordelia heard when she started to regain consciousness was the voice of a man she didn’t recognize saying: “Who’s the kid?”

Before she could become fully aware of her surroundings (and panic when she realized that she wasn’t familiar with her surroundings at all), a warm hand rested against her cheek. She stilled under it.

Cordelia never had anyone touch her face in such a calming way.

“My friend’s little sister,” someone replied. And that voice she did recognize.

Cordelia blinked herself awake, squinting under harsh fluorescent lights and wondering when she had fallen asleep. It took her an embarrassingly long time to understand where she was, but - slowly - she realized that she was in an office. The desk she’d been resting her head on was a long one, and the hand on her cheek belonged to Barry.

“Barry, how-“

“Hey, Cordelia,” Barry interrupted her with a pointed look. Cordelia realized belatedly that talking about alternate timelines and world-ending disasters was not a topic they should discuss in a room full of civilians. “It’s time to wake up.”

“Sorry,” Cordelia said.

She straightened up and looked around. The room was dull and she couldn’t decipher what kind of work everyone was doing, other than the fact that it was all on computers and almost everyone was wearing white - including Barry.

“I should get you back to your brother,” Barry said. His hand had left her cheek and was now resting on her shoulder.

Part of Cordelia wanted to shake him off. She was so familiar with pain that any sign of affection felt unnerving. But another part of her (the part that was still jumpy from hearing the world crack) was grateful for how grounding the contact was.

“My… brother?” She asked dumbly. In her head, she kept hearing the world crack over and over and over. 

“You okay there, kid?” A man was standing beside Barry. He was tall and bulky with a neatly trimmed beard and brown skin.

“I’m fine,” Cordelia lied. Focus. This is not the place to break down. “A little… disoriented. From sleeping. On a desk.”

She saw Barry start smiling widely, looking both amused and proud of himself.

Cordelia grimaced at him.

“I should get you home,” Barry said. “I’ll be back, Forrest. Cover for me?”

“Sure, Barry,” the man said, eying Cordelia suspiciously. “Who’s sister is this again?”

“You wouldn’t know him,” Barry stated. “Come on, Cordie.”

Cordelia made at face at the unexpected nickname, but let it go. If she was going to allow anyone to give her such a terrible nickname, it would definitely be Barry.

The both of them rushed out of the office and out of the building. As they walked, Cordelia stared at the clothes she was wearing. Like Barry, her uniform had mysteriously disappeared and been replaced by civilian clothes. And, for some reason, the timeline decided to put her in a white button up and a blue skirt so that she matched the rest of the workers in the building.

“Where did my uniform go?” Cordelia wondered out loud once they started walking outside on the sidewalk.

“Weird things always happen when you mess with time,” Barry told her. “It looks like it placed me back in the time before everything changed. Since you’re technically not supposed to exist here… it probably just lumped your existence in with mine.”

Cordelia had so many questions. But there was already so much she had to wrap her head around, that clothes fell to the very bottom of the priority list.

Like how was she not dead? She’d spent the last few days absolutely certain that she would be. And then, in the few minutes before the world ended, she was rescued.

The entire situation gave her emotional whiplash.

Barry was practically skipping next to her, running off a high from succeeding in his mission and also saving a girl’s life. He was so caught up in his own euphoria, that he didn’t realize the girl he saved was having a full-blown existential crisis right next to him.

Cordelia was staring wide-eyed at the crowds of people they were passing. Everyone looked so calm, happy, and secure. They did not wear a mask of misery like the people she was used to. Instead, they looked as though they were enjoying their day in the sun.

That was another thing that unsettled Cordelia: the sky was so bright. Maybe it was because she spent most of her life in Gotham, but she did not remember ever seeing such a luminescent shade of blue.

Culture shock, she self diagnosed. It happens to everyone. 

That thought settled her system until someone accidentally bumped into her and actually apologized for it.

“Barry…” She felt a wave of nausea and stopped walking. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

“Hey,” Barry said soothingly. “I’m not supposed to be a speedster. Sometimes things just happen whether they’re supposed to happen or not.”

Cordelia closed her eyes, trying to block out the happy chatter of the people around them. Everything felt so foreign and out-of-place. She was used to bleakness and dark skies and rain and conversations about war.

Where do I fit into this? She couldn’t help but question.

“What am I supposed to do here?” She asked instead. “I - I don’t have a home. I don’t even have my own birth certificate.”

“Bruce will take care of everything,” Barry appeared very unconcerned about placing such a big burden on one of his unsuspecting friends. “He’s good at that. You won’t believe the messes that man cleans up in just a few hours.”

Cordelia was shivering. “I don’t want to be a mess.”

“That came out wrong-“

“Barry-“

“No, no,” Barry said. “That really came out wrong. I just meant that Bruce is good at fixing complicated situations, like providing suddenly-existing biological sisters with a home and an identity.”

“You shouldn’t have taken me here, Barry,” Cordelia said when the man was done backpedaling, and then instantly regretted it once she saw his expression. He had just saved her life, and here she was complaining about it. As if he hadn’t witnessed her crying like a baby in the Cave, scared to die. “No - I just mean… I don’t want to force Bruce into an uncomfortable situation. I don’t want him to feel responsible for me. I can figure something else out on my own.”

Barry’s concerned expression turned a bit more serious. “Well, he is,” he said firmly. “He’s your family, Cordelia, of course he is going to feel responsible for you. And speaking of uncomfortable situations, I might be putting myself into one when I ask you if you’ve ever thought about seeing a therapist? I think your father did a number on your self esteem-“

He couldn’t finish his sentence before she started sobbing.

Because oh God she’d forgotten about her father.

And now that she remembered, she felt just as devastated as she did when she thought the world was ending - because it sort of did. Everything Cordelia knew and everything she loved was completely wiped away. And while her relationship with her father was complicated, he was still the only person that she was close to. It hurt to think that he was just gone.

Barry’s arms wrapped around her in a hug that was very easy to melt into.

Cordelia couldn’t remember the last time she was hugged. Maybe by an enemy before they used the restrictive position to slam her body to the ground and start kicking. But she knew enough to know that those didn’t really count as hugs.

“Is she okay?”

Cordelia’s crying had caught the attention of a few civilians who were either looking at her with genuine concern or glaring at Barry with a great deal of suspicion. The person who spoke was a short, old woman dressed in vibrant purple.

“Uh - yes?” Barry said unconvincingly.

“Hun?” The old woman looked at me expectantly.

“I’m fine,” Cordelia blubbered.

The woman reached into her purse and handed Cordelia a handkerchief. “I know boy trouble when I see it,” the woman said knowingly. “Whoever caused those tears isn’t worth it, hun. Take it from an old broad like me!”

Her assumptions were so absurd that Cordelia actually giggled. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, miss.”

The old woman bustled away, but a few other people lingered.

“She’s fine, really,” Barry said hurriedly.

“He bothering you, sweetheart?” Asked one of the taller men.

“No,” Cordelia said after a pause. “But… thanks for the concern?”

Her feeble answer seemed to appease the last of them, who gave Barry suspicious looks before moving on with their lives. Cordelia stared at them as they walked away.

“This world really is different,” she said. “Or is it? Was that just a distraction so that they could pick our pockets?”

Barry laughed. “They were being genuine. Besides, it isn’t possible to pick my pockets with my - you know - speed.”

He had that proud look on his face again. The one he wore when he was showing off his dorky red uniform. Cordelia couldn’t help but give him a slanted look. “So you have everything on you? Phone? Wallet? Ring?”

“Of cou - please tell me you’re playing a BatJoke on me and that one of those people didn’t actually steal my ring.”

Cordelia smiled at him and held up his golden ring.

Barry sighed and put it back on his finger. “So, I know that you told those people back there that you were fine, but… are you?”

She took a moment to answer, trying to understand her own feelings. Cordelia would usually just say that yes, she was okay. How could she not be? She was a wealthy, healthy teenager who was one of the most talented fighters in the world. It should be hard not to be okay.

So why did Cordelia feel like she was always lying every time she said she was?

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably not?”

Barry nodded. Cordelia could see in his eyes that he felt guilty. She wondered if it was because he pulled her into a different timeline or if it was because he felt like he shouldn’t have caused the timeline that created her to exist in the first place.

“Well, if you ever need someone to talk to,” he said brightly, “I’m your guy! No one knows what it feels like to jump from one timeline to the next like me!”

Something in Cordelia’s chest fluttered. “So I’m going to see you again? Even after you take me to my brother?”

Barry’s smile was as bright as the sun. “Of course! It will be hard to keep me away. Trust me, your brother has tried. So - piggyback or cradle?”

The fluttering intensified. “Cradle, please.”

Suddenly, Barry’s was wearing his red uniform again, and Cordelia only had a moment to think did he just strip in front of me at lightning speed? before she was in his arms and they were running off together.

Chapter 12: Yellow Tulips

Summary:

Cordelia bent down and touched one of the flowers in the flowerbed, barely believing something could actually grow on Wayne Soil. The flower was bright yellow. A tulip.

“This looks very different,” Cordelia said bluntly.

The Wayne Manor she lived in had always reminded her of a medieval, gothic fortress complete with foreboding turrets and scary, spiked gates. It was the perfect shelter for her father, who lived as a bat and started to look more and more like man-bat as the years went on.

This Wayne Manor looked suited for actual human beings. The grass was freshly mowed and the garden was flourishing. There were still gates and turrets, but they weren’t rusted or crumbling. From where she stood at the door, Cordelia could see that there were a few lights on in the house, as well - another thing that a person wouldn’t find at her father’s home.

“Good thing, too,” Barry said, hands on his narrow hips. “Your house looked like a deathtrap - no offense.”

Cordelia bent down and touched one of the flowers in the flowerbed, barely believing something could actually grow on Wayne Soil. The flower was bright yellow. A tulip.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen flowers here,” she told Barry. A memory pulled at her. A memory of an old man tending to a garden. And then another memory of the same man sneaking her sweets behind her father’s back. 

Then the final memory of the man lying in a pool of his own blood, face pale and hands still holding silverware he’d been polishing. 

Cordelia mentally shook herself. She’d seen a lot of dead bodies over the years - she had even killed a few people - but nothing haunted you like the first.

“With Alfred’s talents, you’re going to see flowers here even in the winter,” Barry told her.

Alfred’s alive? She wondered, but stood up and let it go. If she voiced every question she had, then they’d talk for days.

So, instead, she crossed her arms and stared at the large door in front of her. It was somehow more intimidating now that she saw how neatly polished the doorknob was and how tended to the wood was. These were clearly people who cared about first impressions.

“You know, I’ve only started living at Wayne Manor when I turned five,” Cordelia told Barry. Then she continued before he could interrupt and before she could lose her nerve. “My mother was a freelance writer for magazines, so she had to travel a lot. Eventually she got tired of having to bring me with her. It must have been annoying, constantly needing to find babysitters so she could attend the special events and parties writers like her were always invited to. So she finally decided to introduce me to my father.”

Cordelia’s paused, remembering. Barry was watching her, frowning but silent.

“I was really excited. She talked about Father a lot, and everything I heard about him sounded like a dream. A superhero being my father? What kid wouldn’t love that? But when we got to Wayne Manor, I didn’t see a superhero. I saw a broken man still heartbroken about losing a son. Any other mother would have grabbed their kid's hand, walked away, and never turned back. But my mother was hopeful - or willfully blind. She told him that it was his responsibility to look after me, and that she would only be gone for two weeks, so it wasn’t a big deal.

“I don’t think he ever ended up agreeing to watch me. But Mother left anyway… without me. I remember her storming out of this door, pausing when she saw me sitting near the tulips, and ordering me to stay here. Father didn’t like that. He kept shouting that he didn’t want another kid. He didn’t want me.

“I just stood there, listening to them argue about who would have to deal with me. Eventually she left, and she never came back. Her flight went down, Father told me. My mother was dead and he was stuck with me.” Cordelia looked at Barry out of the corner of her eye. “I know you’re trying to do something nice for me by bringing me to my brother, but this sort of feels like I’m reliving that same story in a new timeline.”

Barry’s mask allowed her to see the blue in his eyes. Something like anger swirled within them. Cordelia looked away and tried to think of three different ways to take down a speedster.

His hand gripped her shoulder. She was tense.

“If Bruce speaks about you like that,” Barry said firmly, “I will not leave you here. I’ll take you with me - y’know, after I kicked his Bat Butt across Gotham.”

Hope bloomed as the fluttering in her chest turned into a full-blown butterfly garden. Cordelia was going to ask him if he could just take her with him now when he continued.

“I’d have to ask Iris’ permission, of course. But I’m sure she’ll say yes. It’ll be good practice taking care of a teenager before the babies come.”

Every single butterfly in Cordelia’s garden dropped dead. “Who’s Iris?”

“My wife,” Barry said, a fond smile forming on his face. Cordelia couldn’t look at it. “She’s pregnant right now.”

“Congratulations,” she said miserably.

“Thanks!” Barry said brightly. “Now let’s go reunite you with your family before I reunite with mine - or unite you with your family since they’ve never seen you and… you know what? Let’s just go.”

Barry knocked on the door while Cordelia stood behind him glumly.

It was just her luck to develop a crush on a married man. She should have known someone like Barry would have a partner who loved him. It was only men like her father who ended up bitter and alone.

And she was her father’s daughter.

The door opened smoothly. A familiar balding man with a combover stood on the other side of it, looking unsurprised about seeing the speedster on his doorstep.

“Hi, Alfred!” Barry said.

“Good day, Sir,” the butler replied.

“Is Bruce here?” Barry asked.

Alfred gave a subtle look in Cordelia’s direction before answering. “I’m afraid he’s working, Sir. Might I take a message?”

“Uh,” Barry glanced between Alfred and Cordelia before saying, “she knows.”

“I see.”

“She knew before I met her.”

“Oh?”

“So I didn’t tell her.”

Alfred continued to stare at Barry.

“I’m just saying, for the record, that I did not share any secrets,” Barry said. “And I can explain everything. So… Bruce?”

“I will inform him of your sudden appearance,” Alfred said dryly. “Would either of you like a spot of tea?”

“Sure would!” Barry said. “Come on, Cordie.”

He threw his arm around her shoulder and steered her into the mansion. Cordelia, still numbed from shock at seeing Alfred alive and well, let him.

Everything inside the manor was properly polished and cleaned. There was not a speck of dust in place. So even though everything was structured the same as the Wayne Manor she Cordelia grew up in, it felt like a completely different atmosphere.

“Also,” Barry said. “I would like to speak with him before he - er - meets Cordie. Just so no one is surprised and… I’ll just go see him-“

The weight of his arm disappeared. Suddenly, Cordelia was standing in the foyer with a man she hadn’t seen since she was five.

And who had no memory of her whatsoever.

“Right this way, miss,” Alfred said with a clipped British accent.

Cordelia knew her staring was making him uncomfortable, but she couldn’t help it. Alfred had been the only thing about Wayne Manor that she’d liked in her own timeline. He had been the light in the darkness. Until he was murdered.

But here he stood, without a wound or a scratch. Impersonal. Cool.

Cordelia followed him through the room and toward the sitting room. It was weird to be escorted through the manor as if she were a stranger to it. But Cordelia didn’t speak, and neither did Alfred.

“How do you like your tea, miss?” Alfred asked.

She gave her preferences. She still stared.

Alfred raised one eyebrow. “I’ll go get your tea,” he said before leaving.

Cordelia sat on one of the armchairs and waited, trying not to feel a sense of deja vu. While Barry didn’t leave her standing next to the flower bed, he did leave. And she had no doubt in her mind that somewhere in the mansion he was arguing with Bruce about who would keep her.

Her own miserable musings were interrupted by Alfred’s return. He set down a silver platter with three cups of tea, a teapot, and cookies.

“Thank you,” Cordelia said.

“You’re welcome, miss,” Alfred said. His voice was so detached. “Would you like anything else while you wait?”

“No, thank you,” she said.

Alfred left her in the sitting room, and she curled up in her seat. From how clean everything was, she had no doubt that someone would be upset about her dirty shoes being on the armchair’s cushions. But she would much prefer someone yelling at her than the silence of the room at the moment.

Cordelia watched the clock on the wall tick as she waited for the shoe to drop.

Seconds turned into minutes.

Cordelia wondered how long it took for a speedster to win or lose an argument.

She picked at her shirt. Time had given her clothes made of cheap material.

A bird landed on the windowsill. Its feathers were as red as the eyes on her cowl. It squawked at her angrily before flying off.

A door slammed.

Cordelia jumped from her seat the moment she heard footsteps making their way in her direction. Multiple footsteps. Every single one of them paused outside the sitting room door, and Cordelia waited with dread.

The doors were finally pushed open, revealing three men: Barry, Alfred, and… Bruce.

Chapter 13: INTERLUDE

Summary:

INTERLUDE: Barry's POV

Barry Allen has built a reputation for not thinking things through. More often than not, he thought this was a reputation unfairly earned. He was not as dumb as everyone seemed to believe, nor as reckless. But he could understand how he was perceived that way, considering who he stood beside as a hero.

It was hard to be considered one of the “smart ones” when you were on a team with the Batman.

The Batman, who had a proven and efficient contingency plan for every single member on said team. The Batman, who always seemed to be one step ahead of everyone.

The Batman, who would never have found himself in a situation quite like this.

But what was Barry supposed to do? Leave Cordelia to die?

Barry cared more about being a hero than he cared about being smart. And at that moment, when he was cradling the crying girl in his arms and taking her away from her crumbling timeline, he knew he was doing the right thing.

…And doing the right thing also meant that he had an uncomfortable conversation to look forward to.

Barry believed he was one of Batman’s closest friends (Bruce wouldn’t share his secret identity with just anyone, right?). But even Barry couldn’t predict how this conversation would go. Sure, he felt pretty positive that Bruce would do the right thing and take Cordelia under his wing - after all, he already adopted a bunch of orphans. Why not take care of his sister from another timeline? - but he wasn’t sure if Bruce would be happy about being put in this position in the first place.

Barry couldn’t imagine how he would feel if a random kid was dropped into his lap. He was already semi freaking out about the twins he and Iris were having!

It’ll be fine, Barry told himself as he raced down to the BatCave. Bruce adopts kids like an animal shelter takes in animals. They were all welcome as long as there was room to spare.

He saw Bruce sitting at a table taking apart his utility belt and pulled to a stop.

“Flash?” Batman paused what he was doing to look up.

Now that Barry saw what Bruce’s father looked like in person, he couldn’t help but see their similarities. One was significantly older, but they both still had the square jaw, the broad shoulders, and the deep, gruff voice. And he knew that if Bruce took his cowl off, then Barry would also see the same icy blue eyes.

“Bruce,” Barry said. Then, just to be sure: “It is Bruce, isn’t it?”

Bruce squinted up at him, relaxed but confused. It was nice to be with a Batman that didn’t try to attack him the second he ran into the cave.

“Of course it is,” Bruce said. “What’s wrong, Barry? What’s happened?”

Barry turned away from him, leaning against the table. He tried to keep his emotions under control as he explained everything; tried to be serious and clinical like both the Batmen he knew. But even after everything he’s gone through… the new timeline took a lot out of him.

He saw the world split in half. He saw one of his best friends, Superman, being treated like a lab rat. He saw Cordelia being neglected and mistreated by her father. He saw Bruce’s eyes in Cordelia, only her eyes were teary and far more vulnerable than Bruce ever allowed himself to be. He saw his mother, alive and well….

Barry never got to see his mother in the end to tell her good-bye… or to explain why, once he realized he might be able to take someone back to his timeline, he didn’t - couldn’t - choose her.

Barry knew he was to blame for all of it. He knew that Cordelia was as much his responsibility as she was Bruce’s - maybe even more so. But he didn’t know how he was going to cope with the knowledge that he could have saved his mother and didn’t.

“The whole world changed because you tried to prevent your mother’s murder?” Bruce summarized.

“And it was on the brink of destruction before I changed it back,” Barry said.

“But now everything’s back to ‘normal?’” Bruce asked.

Barry stared back at him blankly.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. Barry now knew that this was something Bruce, Thomas, and Cordelia did when presented with a mystery. “What is it?”

“Well - uh - as… as far as I can tell, everything is almost exactly the same.”

“Almost?”

“Except for one small thing.”

“Barry.”

“Listen, I don’t need a lecture,” Barry warned. “I know that I should’ve known better. Thawne… he was right, I was selfish for trying to change history.”

Bruce was silent for a moment as Barry waited for the inevitable lecture. The Bat surprised him by saying, “Don’t beat yourself up, Barry. If I had your power, I would’ve tried the exact same thing. And don’t think I haven’t thought about it.”

Barry relaxed. Maybe… maybe this conversation wouldn’t turn out so bad. Maybe Bruce would understand why he had to take Cordelia. Maybe he understood why Cordelia needed to be with her brother.

“There’s still something…” Barry sighed. “There is a lot that I can’t explain, even after all my experience with time travel and the consequences of it. My memories of this world were fading every minute I was in the alternate timeline, but now… even hours later… I still remember a thirteenth birthday party. One where my mother baked me a cake shaped like a sports car. I remember taking my driver’s test with her when I turned sixteen. I remember going to her house for dinner on Sundays. Last week, she made lasagna. I brought her dessert. A lemon tart. Her favorite. I don’t know why or how, but I remember every single moment I spent with my mother in that alternate timeline. I’m guessing it could be a temporal aftereffect or the result of chronal residue still in my bloodstream.”

“Or it could be a gift, Barry,” Bruce replied quietly.

They were both silent for a few moments. Two orphans. Would they ever be more than that?

Bruce turned away; back to his utility belt, back to work. “A gift to make it all a little easier.”

Barry swallowed, blinking tears out of his eyes. How unfair it all was; Barry was the one who made the mistake, but he got to see his mother - got to know what it felt like to be raised by her, to be loved by her until adulthood. Bruce, who was one of the best men he knew, would never have that. He didn’t even get to have that in the alternate timeline.

But maybe Barry could give him a gift, too.

“Bruce… there’s a few other things I didn’t tell you yet. There were people there that I met. People I couldn’t have saved the world without.”

Barry pulled two letters out of his suit. He gave Bruce the longer one.

“He gave me this,” Barry said.

Even with the cowl on, Barry could see the emotions Bruce could never hide when he remembered his parents.

“What is it?” He asked, already suspecting.

Barry was silent as his friend read the words of a father long gone. Thomas Wayne had been a harsh man, but his love for Bruce was a powerful thing. Not many fathers could say that they helped bring their sons back from the dead and still had time to write a letter explaining how much they loved them.

Barry tried not to watch Bruce as the normally stoic man broke down. He wanted to give him privacy without leaving him alone. Barry knew what this would have meant to him if someone had brought him a letter from his mother.

Barry knew…

Too much, sometimes.

Bruce had lowered his cowl to read the letter. He turned to Barry with tears streaming down his face. He thanked him. Barry could see in his eyes, more than his words, how thankful he really was.

Maybe the pain of the alternate timeline was worth it if he could make his friend this happy.

Maybe it was worth it.

“You’re welcome, Bruce.”

Barry laid a hand on his shoulder, and the two orphans sat in companionable silence for one calm, peaceful moment.

“…you mentioned there were people you met?” Bruce suddenly said.

“Right,” Barry responded.

“And that everything was almost the same here now.”

“Yes.”

“And you have another letter.”

“Oh. Well. Yes.”

“Barry.”

“So… you might want to stay sitting for this one.”

Notes:

I love the Flashpoint comics. I had to give Bruce and Barry their moment.

Chapter 14: The Resemblance Is Uncanny

Summary:

Footsteps made their way in Cordelia’s direction. They were a lot more quiet than a man Bruce’s size should be capable of. Cordelia felt like a predator was stalking her before the pounce.

Bruce looked like their father.

Tall and intimidating, broad-shouldered, muscular, icy blue eyes (eyes that all three of them shared), and a straight mouth that looked like it was more used to frowning than smiling. But more than any of those surface level things, both Bruce and Thomas Wayne held themselves with purpose and a fiery determination.

With Thomas, that determination would come through in angry, terrifying bursts.

Cordelia had no idea how that determination materialized in this man who felt very much like a stranger.

“Brother,” Cordelia greeted stiffly.

Silence stretched as Bruce stared at Cordelia and Cordelia stared at Bruce and everyone else stared anxiously between the two.

“Surprise!” Barry suddenly shouted, his overly cheery voice made even more ridiculous by his jazz hands.

“Brother?” Alfred was blinking furiously. In his hands was a tray of cucumber sandwiches. “What is going on here?”

“Uh, it’s sort of a long story,” Barry said when no one else answered. “Basically, I messed with the timeline and brought her back with me. She’s Thomas Wayne’s daughter and… Bruce’s half-sister.”

Alfred’s mouth popped open, then shut, then opened again, before the man shook himself out of his state of shock and said, “Quite well. Should I get a room ready for a new inhabitant?”

There was a moment of quiet as Cordelia started to internally spiral, before Bruce broke out of his alarming stillness to drag a hand over his tired face. Everyone watched. “That would be ideal. Thanks, Alfred.”

It was the first time Cordelia heard him speak. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but the sound made her jump. He didn’t just look like their father - he sounded like him, too. In all her imaginings as a child, wondering what her brother would have been like if he were alive, she never imagined that his voice would be so deep. On the contrary, she’d been expecting a high-pitched boy voice. How could she not? The Bruce she’d known died at just eight years-old.

“You’re welcome, Master Bruce.”

Cordelia watched him leave and close the door behind him. The click as it shut sounded ominous in the quiet. Cordelia comforted herself with the knowledge that Barry was also there.

“Should I leave you two to talk?” Barry wondered. He faltered at the betrayed look Cordelia sent him. “Or not! Are those cookies? Yum!”

Quick as light, he sat on the couch and ate the entire plate of cookies.

“Is it weird that I’m still in uniform?” Barry asked no one in particular, talking with his mouth full. “I thought Alfred had a no-uniform rule, but that might just be a rumor. Also, you’re still dressed as Batman, so… are you sure I should be here? I could help Alfred with the room! He really shouldn’t work so much at his age.”

“Don’t let Alfred hear you say that,” Bruce said.

“Right,” Barry nodded seriously. “I should go and apologize to him.”

Cordelia glared at him bitterly. “You promised that you wouldn’t leave me.”

“Technically, I promised not to leave you if Bruce started acting like an asshole.”

Cordelia could see Bruce frown out of the corner of her eye.

“So me catching up with Alfred is not breaking any promises I may or may not have made.”

I knew he would leave me here, Cordelia thought miserably. She sat back down and curled into herself. He would leave her here in Wayne Manor where she would be forced to relive all her past trauma - only this time with a different Batman. Maybe this one was less dangerous than the other.

“You can go, Barry,” she heard Bruce say.

“Are you sure?” Barry asked.

The most childish part of Cordelia’s mind wanted to snap at him for asking a question he already knew the answer to.

“Go,” Bruce said. “Please.”

Barry didn’t need to be told a third time. The door opened and closed before Cordelia could even blink.

Footsteps made their way in Cordelia’s direction. They were a lot more quiet than a man Bruce’s size should be capable of. Cordelia felt like a predator was stalking her before the pounce.

Bruce sat on the couch across from her. She could feel his stare.

“…Alfred would have a heart attack if he saw your shoes on his couch,” he finally said.

Cordelia glanced at him warily, wondering what the intent behind those words were. Was he setting ground rules? Was he already establishing authority over her? Was it a way to break the ice? Or was it a subtle request? From his relaxed frame, she would normally guess that the state of the armchair didn’t matter to him in the slightest. But he was Batman, and he could just be hiding his true feelings under a mask of calm. 

She lowered her feet to the carpeted ground, not missing how his eyes watched the movement.

Cordelia tried not to let that unsettle her. After all, it wasn’t fair to judge him for being observant. She was observant, too. They were detectives, it was a part of their nature to watch and analyze.

Besides, Barry had promised that Bruce was a good man. A compassionate one.

Barry also promised he wouldn’t leave you, Cordelia thought.

But even she knew that this was a petulant thought. She’d only known Barry for a couple of days and she was already getting clingy. So she told herself that it was a good thing that he’d left, so that she didn’t get too used to someone swooping in and saving her.

She was Batgirl. She didn’t need saving.

Cordelia looked over Bruce again, this time as Batgirl and not as the traumatized girl she’d become. This Batman was a mystery, but all mysteries could be solved.

He was a younger Batman, which probably meant that he was quicker and stronger. The house was well taken care of, meaning he was significantly wealthier than their father was, too. He also had children and powerful friends like the Flash - was this because he was friendlier or because he was collecting soldiers for an army? That question would need to be answered quickly before she got sucked into the dynamic. But after a quick glance at his ring finger and not seeing signs of him being married, she had to question why a man of his wealth and status would not marry the woman providing him with kids.

Cordelia folded her fingers together. She had her goal: figure out what kind of man Bruce was. Now she needed to start working toward it. And the best way to do that would be to talk to him. She paused to remember the last thing he said to her, and came up with a reply, “His couch?”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth quirked up in amusement. “I might own everything in name, but Alfred is… Alfred. He’s always made the rules for the Manor. At least since my… our father died.”

Cordelia searched her memory to see if Alfred had been like that in her timeline, but all she could remember were soft smiles and quiet laughter. Candies being passed from wrinkled hands to chubby, childlike fingers. A kiss on the forehead before she was sent off to bed.

Her mouth felt dry. She’d done enough crying over the past few days. More crying than her father ever would have allowed, even if the crying was about his death. She couldn’t cry now - not in front of this strange man who was also her long dead brother.

“Alfred was in your timeline,” Bruce realized.

Cordelia frowned at him. She hadn’t realized that she gave anything away. “No. At least, not for a long time. He died when I was a child and Father never rehired anyone else. It was just him and me after that.”

“That must have been lonely.”

She shrugged.

“How old are you?”

Cordelia’s eyes darted up to meet his. He was still watching her closely, his expression carefully neutral. Discomfort stirred in her belly. He looked so much like Father - like their father when he was interrogating a witness.

“Eighteen,” she told him.

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

The palms of her hands started to sweat. “I’m eighteen,” she said again.

“Tell the truth.” His tone was flat.

“I’m…” Cordelia looked away from his stare. She would not be intimidated by this Batman. The last one was different because he was her father and she loved him. This one was a stranger. “What does it matter? I want to be eighteen.”

“But you’re not.”

“But I want to be.”

Bruce sighed and leaned forward. Cordelia was stiff before she realized that he was just grabbing a cup of tea from the tray Alfred had brought in. The tea must have been cold at this point.

Cordelia tried to read his expression. She wanted to see if he moved so suddenly on purpose or if she was just getting jumpy. But Bruce only had that tired look on his face that she recognized from parents who had more kids than they could handle.

With no small amount of frustration, Cordelia realized that she was already being regarded as a child.

“I didn’t ask you what you wanted, Cordelia,” Bruce said after a silence where he sipped his tea and she stared at her own cup.

She started. “I forgot Barry would have told you my name.”

“He didn’t,” Bruce said. “I read your letter.”

“Oh,” Cordelia felt foolish. She’d forgotten that she wrote him a letter. “He didn’t tell you my name?”

“He didn’t tell me much,” Bruce said. “To be fair to him, I didn’t give him much of a chance. And he was clearly nervous about how I would react. Like you seem to be.”

“I’m not nervous,” Cordelia lied.

Bruce raised one eyebrow at her in disbelief. Lying to Batman clearly didn’t work in any timeline.

It was Cordelia’s turn to sigh. “…how did you react?”

Bruce took a sip of his tea again. “I could hardly believe it at first,” he said honestly. “It might seem childish, but I always considered my parents as the perfect couple. The thought of them ever separating and starting their own families never crossed my mind. But it makes sense. I’ve seen it happen often enough. Still, I didn’t truly believe it until I saw you. You have Dad’s eyes.”

“So do you,” Cordelia said. “And his chin. And his height. And his alter ego, I suppose.”

Bruce smiled again, only this time it was wider and less restrained. “Thomas Wayne as the Batman. That’s another thing I could never imagine.”

Cordelia let out a huff of a laugh at the irony. “I can hardly wrap my head around little Brucie growing up to be the Batman, either. Father always said you were a shy kid… and sensitive.”

The last sentence had been Cordelia pushing the boundaries, seeing what reactions she’d get out of the man if he was poked. But his expression just turned a little wistful. “What must it have been like to grow up with him….”

Cordelia thought of the cold nights sitting on Gotham gargoyles, the night terrors that would come to visit much too often, the lonely breakfasts and the even lonelier lunches. She thought of the “training sessions” that felt more like weekly beatings. She thought of the seemingly endless bottles of hard liquor appearing all around the cave and every room Father bothered to stumble into.

She thought of the insults. The comparisons to a dead brother. The uncontrollable and violent rage every time she did something wrong.

Cordelia pulled her lips into a smile. “It was fine. Never a dull moment living in Gotham with the Batman.”

“I guess not,” Bruce said. His eyes were narrow as he looked at her more closely. “I take that to mean that you patrolled with him?”

She nodded. “Every night. They called me Batgirl. Although my uniform got lost in time.”

“Every night? What about school?”

“The war was becoming too much for my world in the end. No one went to school.”

“What grade did you drop out of?”

Cordelia stopped herself from glaring at him. Somewhere during the course of their conversation, it went from her trying to get answers from him to him demanding answers from her. “I told you, Bruce. I’m eighteen.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I don’t know how to convince you.”

Someone knocked on the door before he could respond. He sent her a slanted look that very clearly stated, this isn’t over. Cordelia pressed her lips together, wondering if this Batman punched as hard as Thomas Wayne.

“Come in,” he said.

Alfred walked into the room with Barry right behind him. The speedster was holding a plate of biscuits that he was quickly working his way through.

“The room is ready, Master Bruce,” Alfred said calmly.

Cordelia glanced between them. “I’m staying here?”

“Of course,” Alfred said with a comforting certainty.

Cordelia looked at Bruce doubtfully. Maybe she should have waited to push his boundaries until after she got a good night’s rest. Bruce frowned back at her. “We’ll work out all the details tomorrow.”

That sounded as much like a for now as you could get without saying the actual words. Cordelia wasn’t sure if she should be saddened by the rejection or relieved by it.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred started, his tone tinged with warning.

“Barry,” Bruce interrupted. The man in question almost choked on his biscuit at being addressed. (He looks terrified - why? Cordelia wondered).

“Uh,” he said. “Yes?”

“How old is she?”

“Fifteen,” Barry stated.

“Barry!” Cordelia growled.

He stared at her with wide eyes. “Whoa, the resemblance is uncanny.”

“Are you sure she’s fifteen?” Bruce demanded.

“Your dad told me,” Barry said. “I asked.”

An overwhelming feeling of helplessness urged Cordelia to say, “why would you ask that?”

Barry looked very nervous now. “Well, we were leaving you to protect Gotham on your own and you look so young and I was worried that maybe you were too young to leave behind so I asked and I was right - you are too young - but Thomas said that you would be fine so…. Did I do something wrong?”

“Other than leaving a fifteen year old to protect Gotham on her own, you mean?” Alfred asked dryly.

“…Yes?”

“No,” Bruce said. His expression was back to being carefully neutral, but when he caught Cordelia’s eye, she could almost imagine that there was a hint of smugness in his look. “You didn’t.”

The feeling of helplessness increased. Whether Barry meant to or not, he had sealed her fate. Now Bruce would create her identification papers and those papers would tell the world that she wasn’t old enough to make her own decisions. If Bruce decided he wanted her to stay at the Manor, then the courts would agree with his choice as long as he could prove they were related. If he decided he didn’t, then the courts would send her into foster care. Suddenly, her options were very narrow.

And the interaction she just saw between the men did not soothe her fears, either. Barry had mentioned that Bruce was compassionate, but there was no hiding the fact that Barry was intimidated by Bruce.

Cordelia did not want to learn why.

“Now that that’s over,” Alfred drawled. “Might I show you to your room, Miss…?”

“Cordie,” Barry said helpfully.

“No,” Cordelia snapped. “Not Cordie. Cordelia. That’s my name.”

“Oh,” Barry deflated. “Sorry. Cordelia.”

His crestfallen expression softened her. “I mean, you can call me Cordie. If you want. But just you.”

Barry smile came back like a beam of light. “Awesome.”

And, despite her current misery and growing feeling of dread, Cordelia smiled back.

Chapter 15: Bye Bye Barry

Summary:

Most things in this Wayne Manor were familiar, but they weren’t comforting.

Alfred was her exception.

Barry left soon afterward, but not before giving Cordelia a tight hug and promising to visit when he could.

Cordelia stood at the open front door to watch him disappear in a blur and felt a wave of melancholy at his absence. Despite his promise to return, she couldn’t help but feel like she was losing a friend. After all, he didn’t live in Gotham. And even if he had super speed, it was difficult to imagine anyone as bright and summery as Barry Allen visiting the gloom of her city often.

Cordelia sighed and turned around to find her brother watching her with crossed arms, looking like the very picture of disapproval.

The familiar sight was enough to set her on edge.

“He’s married,” he said with his gruff voice, “and too old for you.”

Cordelia flushed instantly. “I know - I wasn’t - I don’t - !”

Bruce and Alfred shared a knowing look.

She pressed her lips together and tried to swallow down her embarrassment at being caught. Cordelia was not used to so much attention being paid to her. If she was not receiving orders or providing a report, then her father’s attention was elsewhere and her emotions were free to be expressed.

But Bruce’s eyes had barely left her since he walked through the sitting room door. It was like she was a book and he was the reader, creating annotations about every movement she made and analyzing every word she spoke.

She cleared her throat, “You’re mistaken, Bruce. I don’t like him like that.”

Bruce hummed in a way that was too similar to their father.

Cordelia pressed forward, “It was nice meeting you both. But the day has taken a lot out of me and I don’t feel like I’m making the best first impression. May I go to the room that was prepared for me?”

Bruce opened his mouth to say something, but Alfred swiftly cut him off, “Of course. Right this way, Miss Cordelia.”

Cordelia made to follow the old butler, but Bruce stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. She could feel his callouses through the thin fabric of her cheap shirt, and the strength of his fingers as it gave her a squeeze.

Cordelia’s eyes latched onto the hand for a brief moment, before following the length of his muscular arm, flitting over his broad shoulders, pausing at his square chin, and then settling on the startling blue of his eyes. There were thin lines forming at the corners of them. They were looking down at her with solemn intensity.

“You’ve been through a lot recently,” he finally said once he was sure he had her attention. “I don’t know everything you’ve been through, but I know what it’s like to lose a father. Our father.” He paused as real pain flitted across his features. “I want you to know that you can talk to me.”

Cordelia didn’t trust herself to speak. She nodded silently instead.

Bruce’s eyes searched her own, looking for something, but Cordelia wasn’t sure what. It made her nervous. She was usually very good at knowing what people wanted, but trying to read Bruce’s mind was like trying to find her way through a labyrinth. Every time she thought she knew where it was going, she met a dead end. 

Whatever he was looking for, he must not have found. His eyebrows pulled together with a look that might have been concern. His fingers squeezed her shoulder again.

“Will you be okay?” He asked.

“I…” Cordelia faltered. He wanted honesty. Or he was behaving like he did. “I’m not sure. A lot is changing and I don’t know what it all means for me.”

She was taking a risk being this vulnerable. She waited with bated breath to see what her vulnerability would be met with.

Bruce’s smile does not take up his whole face like Barry’s does. It’s a small smile, a subtle upward curve at the corners of his mouth. It was achingly reminiscent of the smiles her Alfred used to give her as a child when she cried. “We’ll discuss it all tomorrow,” he said. “We should both prioritize resting for now.”

“Truer words have never been spoken in this foyer,” Alfred’s bland tone was tinted with amusement. “Come along, Miss Cordelia. And I expect you to head off to your room, too, Master Bruce.”

Bruce’s smile turned rueful. “I’m getting a little old to be sent off to bed, Alfred.”

“Yes, Master Bruce, you are,” Alfred replied snippily.

Cordelia hid her smirk as she followed the butler up the stairs and down the hallway to where she knew the family bedrooms were. It was surreal to be led right past the bedroom that she knew just yesterday had been her own - the furthest room from her father’s. Now she was being brought closer to the Master bedroom where she guessed Bruce had taken over. She almost asked Alfred to turn around, but didn’t want to be rude and reject a room he’d already prepared for her.

“You’ll be staying right next to Miss Cassandra,” Alfred told her as he opened one of the many doors.

Cordelia gave a quick glance around. It was large and spacious like all of the rooms in Wayne Manor, with white curtains on the windows and a white bedspread.

“I’m afraid it’s a little plain at the moment,” the butler said, “but we can work on personalizing it tomorrow after you and Master Bruce have your chat.”

Cordelia hummed. Alfred appeared certain that Bruce would want her to stay, but her brother did not seem to share in that certainty. Fear and hurt and hope swirled in the pits of her belly like a hurricane, and it was all Cordelia could do to keep her face neutral.

When she turned to look at Alfred, he would see none of the inner turmoil. 

“Cassandra,” Cordelia tested the name on her tongue. “Is she his daughter?”

“Yes,” Alfred said. “And your niece, I suppose. Although she is older than you.”

Older? Cordelia wondered. “How young was Bruce when he had her?”

Alfred chuckled. “Ah. It has slipped my mind that you wouldn’t know about Master Bruce’s tendency to adopt like the rest of Gotham. Miss Cassandra is the newest member of our family. Or she was before you.”

Something warm and gooey wrapped around Cordelia’s heart at his words. This was more like the Alfred that she knew; not the cold, detached man who had ushered her in through Wayne Manor just a few hours prior. Her Alfred had welcomed her into his heart the moment he laid eyes on her as a child - in a way that her father was never able to. 

Most things in this Wayne Manor were familiar, but they weren’t comforting.

Alfred was her exception.

Cordelia wanted to say many things to Alfred. She wanted to tell him that she never stopped missing him, and that memories of him were one of the few memories of her childhood that she cherished. She wanted to thank him for his kindness and for how he never let his grief over Bruce’s death affect his relationship with her.

She wanted to say she would have done anything to prevent his death.

But Cordelia knew that she could say none of this because the Alfred that she knew was not the Alfred that was standing in front of her. So, instead, she said, “I’d like to meet Cassandra. Where is she?”

“Miss Cassandra does not live with us,” the butler said. “Master Bruce provided her with her own BatCave a few months back, but we keep her room as is for when she visits.”

“BatCave?”

“Yes,” Alfred said calmly. “Did Master Bruce call his headquarters something else in your timeline?”

Cordelia frowned as she realized how little Alfred was filled in on the situation. “Bruce wasn’t Batman in my timeline, Father was. Father became obsessed with fighting crime after Bruce was shot and killed at eight years old. Barry told me the opposite happened here.”

So many emotions flickered in and out of the man’s eyes. Shock, horror, and then - painfully - grief. It left him looking pale and weak under the soft glow of the hallway light.

“Alfred, are you okay?” Cordelia asked hesitantly.

“Quite,” he choked out. He hand gripped the door frame. “My apologies, Miss Cordelia. Just the thought of Bruce….”

“Of course,” Cordelia trailed off. “There’s no need to apologize. I… I wasn’t thinking. Of course hearing about Bruce’s death would upset you.”

Alfred took a moment to compose himself, but even after he straightened up, Cordelia could see the paleness of his cheeks and the tightness of his smile. “I’ll leave you to rest.”

“Okay,” Cordelia watched him start to close the door, feeling sick with guilt. Alfred had been nothing but kind and thoughtful, even implying that he already saw her as family, and she couldn’t even return the favor.

Instead, her thoughtlessness caused him pain.

Her throat was tight as she said, “Alfred?”

He stilled, his hand on the doorknob. “Yes, Miss Cordelia?”

“I really am sorry. I should have known.” She swallowed down her guilt and fear, knowing that her apology wasn’t enough but still hoping that it was.

Alfred turned to look at her, eyes scanning her face. It was very similar to what Bruce did earlier, but for some reason this felt less invasive. It was less like being dissected and more like being seen. And whatever Alfred saw caused his face to soften. He gave her a smile filled with something she couldn’t recognize. “It’s alright, my dear. I’m tougher than I look.”

He closed the door, leaving Cordelia frozen and alone in this new room.

She didn’t know how long she stood there, but eventually her tired legs brought her to the bed, and her tired arms helped her crawl underneath the sheets, and her tired head barely touched the pillow before her tired eyes fell shut and she fell asleep.

Chapter 16: Gargoyles

Summary:

“Sorry, Cordie,” Bruce said happily. “But it’s either you or Dad. And I choose Dad.”

Gotham was raining again. But this rain was a soft summer spray rather than the all-consuming downpour.

Cordelia leaned her head back so the droplets would fall on her exposed cheeks.

It was a peaceful night. She did not hear screaming in the city from her place on a gargoyle, but happy chatter and children’s laughter. No one would need Batgirl tonight.

And just as she thought it, she could hear the vigilante’s name being called, “Batgirl! Batgirl!”

Cordelia looked down from her perch. It was still a happy crowd down there, with friends linking arms, men and women flirting, children chasing each other with water guns. But at its center was a boy of about eight years-old.

The boy tilted his head back so that his face was illuminated by the beaming moon. Eyes of ice blue peered up at her from a tiny, innocent face.

“Bruce,” Cordelia realized.

Bruce cupped his hands around his mouth and called up at her again, “Batgirl!”

Everyone was walking by the boy like he wasn’t there. Cordelia jumped from her gargoyle, grappling down until she landed in a crouch beside the boy.

“Are you in trouble?” Cordelia asked her brother. “Do you need my help?”

Bruce gave her a toothy grin, baby teeth on full display. “No, silly! But what are you doing out here as Batgirl? Can’t you see how happy everyone is? You’re not needed anymore!”

Bruce gestured to the people. Cordelia took another look around. It was different seeing everyone from the ground. On the gargoyle, she watched as a detached spectator. A guardian angel, of sorts. But from the ground, she became a part of them. A part of their happiness and community. Some waved hello as they walked by her, a few kids ran in sprints around her legs as they chased each other.

“You’re right,” Cordelia discovered.

“Of course I’m right,” Bruce chirped. He reached over and grabbed her hand. His little fingers could barely curl around her palm. “Now come on!”

Bruce pulled her through the crowd, which parted seamlessly for them. Cordelia smiled at her brother’s exuberance, “Where are we going, little brother?”

“You haven’t met the family yet!” Bruce said happily. “They’ve all been waiting for you.”

“Family,” Cordelia repeated in wonder.

Bruce did not pull her far. As they walked through the crowd, the people became trees, and the cement sidewalk beneath them became dirt and grass and wildflowers. And up ahead of them was the mansion that they grew up in: Wayne Manor.

All the lights were on inside, and in the windows she could see the silhouette of men and women and children.

“Is that our family?” Cordelia asked her brother, heart aching with longing. “And they want to see me?”

“We’ve been waiting for you all night,” Bruce told her.

He pulled her up the front door steps and raised his tiny fist to knock on the door. The sound echoed around the night air like they were in a hollow room. Cordelia could hardly breathe as she saw the doorknob turn and the wood creak open as someone from the other side came to greet them.

She gasped at who she saw. “Father.”

He looked different. His eyes were not rimmed red with a hangover, and he had shaven the stubble from his chin. And more than either of those things: he was smiling.

“Dad!” Bruce cheered with joy. He threw his arms around their father’s middle. Thomas Wayne lifted his son into the air and gave his chubby cheek a kiss. “I brought Cordelia. She was sitting on a gargoyle.”

Father and son giggled together as Cordelia watched with a smile. She had never seen Father look so happy before, so at peace. It was everything she ever wanted.

She took a step closer. “Father,” she said softly. “I’ve missed you. It’s only been a few hours but too much has changed. I’ve been… I’ve been lost without you.”

Her father set Bruce down carefully, hands gently smoothing out the wrinkles in his tiny t-shirt, before turning to his daughter. Cordelia could see that something had changed; he still had a smile on his face, but the look was brittle.

“You’re lost because you don’t belong here, Cordelia,” Father said. “You never have.”

“What?” She felt as if she’d been slapped.

“You were never supposed to be born,” Father said, his voice soothing. His hand extended forward, causing Cordelia to flinch back, but all it did was land comfortingly on her shoulder. “Martha and I were never supposed to divorce. It was always supposed to be me, Bruce, and Martha. Haven’t you learned that by now?”

“I…” Cordelia shook her head. “No. I was born, Father. That means I am supposed to be here.”

She watched his expression darken and become more familiar. “No. You were a mistake. A mistake born from Flash and the Reverse-Flash and myself. A mistake that should have been left to disappear with all the rest.”

Cordelia’s entire body was shaking. The rain was pouring down harder. The lights in the mansion were flickering on and off and the shadows of people in the windows distorted so that they all looked like they had bat ears.

“You’re wrong,” Cordelia forced out. “I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked. I’ve saved so many lives.”

“You’ve killed so many lives,” Father corrected. “And yet you still look at me like I’m the monster.”

“You - you - you told me to kill people. It’s what you taught me to do,” Cordelia argued. His grip on her shoulder was becoming painful. “I never would have done any of that if you didn’t ask!”

“You’ve always been a brilliant liar,” Father said with a wry smile. “That’s something I never had to teach you.”

“Dad, aren’t you coming inside?” Bruce asked, his voice still cheery and innocent. “Everyone is waiting.”

“Just a moment, son,” Father said. “First we have to get rid of your sister.”

“No!” Cordelia wrenched backward, trying to get out of his grip. “I want to see the family! That’s why I came here. I want to see them!”

“We can’t both see them, you stupid child,” Father’s other hand shot out to grip her throat. Cordelia scratched at his fingers and felt blood leak out of them and stain her uniform. “It was always either me or you. And Flash should have chosen me. I’m the one that this family needs. I’m the one that Bruce wanted to see. But Flash decided to bring you back because you were sniveling like a pathetic child in my Cave.”

Cordelia cried out, trying to breath under the pressure of his fists and insults. “Father! I’m - so - sorry!”

“You’re always sorry,” Father sneered. “But that’s never enough.”

The ground beneath them started to shake. Cordelia gasped in fear and used her father’s arms to stay on her feet. Her eyes latched onto him, looking for guidance on what to do next. But Thomas Wayne did not look alarmed; instead, he looked, once again, at peace.

“What’s happening?” She asked him in a whisper.

“We’re setting the world right again,” Father said calmly. “This time it won’t be me who disappears forever.”

An earsplitting crack sounded as the ground behind her opened up. The world was ending. It was ending again and this time Barry was not coming to save her.

“No,” Cordelia said once she realized. “Father, please. Bruce - help me!”

She could feel the heat of Earth’s core against her back. And beside her father, Bruce was still smiling that toothy smile. 

“Sorry, Cordie,” Bruce said happily. “But it’s either you or Dad. And I choose Dad.”

Father started to push her backward toward the abyss. Cordelia’s booted feet scraped against the ground as she pushed back against him uselessly. The heat had become overwhelming.

“No, Father, please,” Cordelia started to weep. She was on her tiptoes at the very edge of the end. Her father peered down at her hatefully while her brother stood beside him, smiling. “I don’t want to die.”

“That’s too bad,” was his reply. Then he pushed her.

Cordelia screamed as she fell, her eyes blown wide. Everything around her was so dark and hot and her limbs felt like they were being restricted as she kicked and flailed.

“Cordelia?”

She was sure that she was suffocating. She would suffocate before she reached the Earth’s core and died. 

“Cordelia!”

Who was calling her? She didn’t know. She didn’t know who kept calling her name and who was grabbing her arms and pinning them down beside her, but she knew that she had to escape them. In all her musings about the afterlife, a part of her had always suspected that she was not good enough to be sent to eternal peace.

“Cordelia, you need to breathe.”

She flinched and gasped when a large hand pressed against the side of her face. She’d expected to feel pain, but the hand did not hurt her. Instead, the thumb moved in gentle circles on the apple of her cheek. It was enough to get her to stop fighting against them.

“You need to wake up,” the voice said softly. “Open your eyes, it was just a bad dream.”

It took a while for the words to register. But when they did, Cordelia obeyed them. Her eyelashes quivered as she squinted up against the light of the bedroom. And through her blurred vision, she could see the silhouette of a man above her.

She almost let out another scream before her eyes adjusted and she saw that it was not her father looming above her.

It was Bruce.

Adult Bruce. The real Bruce. The stranger.

“You’re okay,” he said. His voice was not as gravelly as it was before. It had a soft edge to it, one you would use to comfort a child or a scared animal. His thumb still stroked her cheek. “We heard you screaming and came to check on you.”

Over his shoulder was Alfred Pennyworth, his wrinkled face even more creased with worry.

“I’m sorry,” Cordelia said, her voice raspy from screaming.

Alfred and Bruce glanced at each other, both wearing frowns that made Cordelia want to hide under the covers and never come out.

“Perhaps it is a hot chocolate sort of night,” Alfred finally said.

And that sounded so much like something her Alfred would say. Cordelia felt her self control crumble and crack into a thousand tiny pieces before she burst into tears. Both the men froze, Bruce’s thumb stilling on her cheek as it became soaked with fat tear drops.

Cordelia’s entire body felt like it was shaking as she sobbed in front of these two strangers. She could only imagine how pitiful she looked, and knew she would be embarrassed about it tomorrow. But at the moment she could do nothing as her grief and guilt and fear overwhelmed her.

Bruce bent forward to wrap his arms around her. Cordelia let out a whimper as she was locked into the embrace. She was so tense that she knew it was like hugging a statue, but in her mind’s eye it was not Bruce with his arms around her - it was her father. And her father was about to throw her onto the training mat and start punching so hard that she could hardly think of ways to win the fight.

But these arms were not hurting her. And the hand rubbing circles on her back was not balled into a fist. And the words being murmured into her ear were not insults, but reassurances of her safety.

It happened so slowly that later Cordelia wondered how Bruce even had the patience to wait. But slowly - very, very slowly - she relaxed and laid her wet cheek on his shoulder and returned the hug by wrapping her hands around his neck.

She could feel him turn slightly to address the butler watching them. “Yes, Alfred. I think it’s a hot chocolate sort of night.”

Cordelia hadn’t realized she’d started to close her eyes. When she opened them she could see Alfred retreat from the room, but not before pausing at the doorway to give them both a look that could only be described as haunted.

Chapter 17: Family Portraits

Summary:

Only a few hours prior, she’d been trying to convince Bruce that she was an adult. But now he had caught her at her most vulnerable and pathetic, and she doubted she could erase his memory of the way she’d clung to him and cried like a needy child.

Cordelia was no stranger to bad dreams. They first started to visit her after her mother’s death, and since then they’d only become more frequent. She didn’t bother to count how many times she’d woken up screaming, heart racing, and limbs tangling in her blankets.

In the early years, Alfred would always be there to comfort her. He would ask if she wanted to talk about her dreams, and if she didn’t, he would tell her stories to lighten the mood. Sometimes they would even sneak off to the kitchen for some hot cocoa.

After he died, there was no one to help her brave the terrors of the night.

Cordelia was now used to waking up alone after a nightmare. And she hadn’t realized how used to it she’d become until she was sitting on her bed face-to-face with Bruce. 

She wiped her cheeks of the lingering teardrops and wished that she could also wipe away her humiliation.

Only a few hours prior, she’d been trying to convince Bruce that she was an adult. But now he had caught her at her most vulnerable and pathetic, and she doubted she could erase his memory of the way she’d clung to him and cried like a needy child.

She could barely look him in the eye.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Bruce asked.

“No,” she answered quickly.

The silence fell heavy upon them. Then Bruce said, “I understand not wanting to talk about it. But I hear it’s good for you. It always made the kids feel better.”

The mention of the kids piqued Cordelia’s interest. She chanced a glance in Bruce’s direction. “Your kids have nightmares?”

Wasn’t that a worrying thought. That not just one but multiple of the children he raised woke up screaming in their beds.

Detectives don’t jump to conclusions , she told herself sternly. We’re in Gotham. There is a lot of evil they could have encountered that has nothing to do with Bruce.

“I don’t know if they still have them,” Bruce said, “but I wouldn’t doubt it. I still have nightmares myself.”

“About Batman-related things?” Cordelia asked.

“Sometimes,” Bruce admitted. “There are some cases that stick with me. Some deaths that I wish I could have prevented….” He looked away from her to the hallway outside, where another bedroom door could be seen. “But other times I still dream of that night in the alley. Seeing both my parents murdered in cold blood. That nightmare visits me most often.”

Cordelia tried to imagine what that must have felt like to watch both her parents die, but knew she would never be able to understand that unique pain. In that way, s he was the lucky one. She did not have to witness the moment when they were taken from her.

“That’s horrible,” Cordelia murmured.

Bruce stood up from the bed and offered her his hand. Cordelia’s eyes flickered between the open palm and his eyes hesitantly. Bruce smiled encouragingly. “Come on. Alfred is waiting with hot chocolate.”

She was sure he saw her reluctance to take his hand, but he didn’t drop it. He helped her out of the bed and they walked side by side out of the room, through the hallways, and toward the kitchen.

As they walked, Cordelia noticed the many photographs and paintings lining the walls. She almost expected them all to be of Bruce, similar to how she remembered them to be in the Wayne Manor that she grew up in. Thomas Wayne had made the mansion into an oversized shrine of his deceased son - as if he were worried that someday he would forget him.

But the images on Bruce’s walls were not all of himself. There were a few that Cordelia recognized, like the one of Bruce as a round-faced toddler sitting on his mother’s lap. And the one of Bruce graduating from kindergarten with his tiny cap and gown.

But then there were other images filled with people that Cordelia did not recognize.

One of them was of a very handsome man with a wide, easy-going smile. He was wearing a three-piece suit with an aqua blue tie that matched his eyes. He would have looked like any other rich socialite if it were not for his unruly hair that was long enough to curl past his ears.

Another was of a young black-haired boy standing in front of an adult Bruce. Bruce had his hands on both of the boy’s shoulders, and the boy was practically glowing with pure, unadulterated joy.

Cordelia was smiling unconsciously as her focus drifted to another image. This image was a photograph, clearly taken by the boy in it. His hair was neatly combed despite his casual t-shirt, and over his shoulder Bruce could be seen sitting behind a desk and smiling in exasperation at the camera.

The next painting she eyed was less gleeful and more… arrogant. Adult Bruce stood tall beside a small boy whose shoulders were pulled back and whose chin was held high. The boy’s skin was darker than the rest of the boys she saw, but his features were so similar to Bruce’s that Cordelia knew that he was not someone that Bruce adopted.

Directly beside that painting was a painting of Father, Martha, and Bruce.

This one stopped her in her tracks.

It showed a nice, strong, loving family that Cordelia was both a part of and not a part of.

On the left-hand side was Thomas Wayne, strong-jawed and stern, but with a warm smile and a large hand resting on the hip of his wife. Martha’s smile was wide and proud and beautiful. It was the cruelness of fate that would have a smile as beautiful as that smeared in red paint and warped into something sick and evil. Between them was Bruce, whose shy grin made an otherwise stiff pose look endearing.

“That was the last picture we posed for as a family,” Bruce’s voice startled her out of her reverie. “I hated doing them as a kid. Every pose the painters would suggest always felt unnatural. But now I can appreciate the hard work they put into it.”

Cordelia didn’t know what to say. She’d never posed for a painting in her life. But Bruce was gazing at his parents with a look so sad that she felt she must say something.

“Are all those boys your children?” She asked.

Bruce blinked whatever thoughts he’d been having out of his eyes and nodded. “They are. You can imagine that they don’t enjoy posing for paintings anymore than I did, but we still try to get together every year if we can. This year will be the first time Cass joins us for one,” Bruce laid a hand on Cordelia’s shoulder, “I’d like for you to join us, too.”

Cordelia thought of her nightmare and how little Bruce had taken her hand and said, You haven’t met the family yet! They’ve all been waiting for you.

She gave the real Bruce a suspicious look. “I thought you said that I might not stay here.”

Bruce frowned. “That’s because I assumed that you might not want to. After my parents died, I spent a lot of time grieving in these halls. I felt like I didn’t have a choice. Everyone was recommending that I stay where I was so that I could be around things that brought me comfort and familiarity. I think a part of me also wanted to honor my parents by staying in the home that they built. But now that I’m older, I question whether staying here was as good for me as the adults in my life thought it’d be.”

“You…” Cordelia faltered, “wanted to give me a choice?”

Bruce hummed. “Alfred tells me that I have to be more careful with my word choice. I guess this is another instant in which he’s proven right.”

“Are we even surprised at this point, Sir?”

Both Waynes’ eyes widened as they finally took notice of the aged butler standing at the kitchen doorway. He was still dressed in his pajamas, but managed to keep a dignified aura as he folded his hands neatly behind his back.

“The hot chocolate is ready,” Alfred raised one grey eyebrow. “And might I suggest, as someone who was just proven right, that your chat with Miss Cordelia occur a bit earlier than we all anticipated, Sir?”

Cordelia did not remember her Alfred ever being as sarcastic as the one standing in front of her. It was all she could do not to smirk at Bruce’s slightly chastened expression, which looked out of place on a man of his size.

Bruce cleared his throat, “Right. I don’t think any of us will be able to get back to sleep, anyway. We might as well have an early morning.”

“We can both agree on that,” Alfred turned to Cordelia. “I will lay out a few of Miss Cassandra’s things for you to wear. After you’ve gotten dressed we can plan a trip to the shopping center to get you your own wardrobe.”

Cordelia nodded and thanked him. Then Bruce guided her toward the kitchen so they could have their hot chocolate and long-awaited conversation.

Chapter 18: What's In A Name?

Summary:

Thomas would have snapped by now.

Bruce just set his mug down.

When she first saw Bruce, it was easy to mistake him for their father with his Batman uniform and his intense stare that made Cordelia feel like a mystery that needed to be solved.

But it was different seeing Bruce sitting in the kitchen.

It was hard to find a man threatening when he was holding a mug of hot cocoa with two giant marshmallows sitting atop a mountain of whip cream. It also helped that the mug had a silly little Batman cartoon on the front of it.

This might be calculated, Cordelia reminded herself. He could have told Alfred to give him that cup.

She went to take a sip of cocoa, but ended up with a mouthful of whip cream.

“I’m pretty sure sugar increases the chances of nightmares,” Cordelia said.

“Only if you drink it right before bed,” Bruce replied.

“Hm,” the young girl said. Of course he’d be familiar with nightmares if some of his children had them. She tapped the side of her mug and debated on whether she wanted to ask her next question. In the end, curiosity won. “Where are your kids?”

Bruce’s eyebrows rose.

Cordelia forced herself to keep eye contact so she wouldn’t miss a single micro reaction. “You said that you get together for yearly paintings, so I know the ones I saw were recent. That means that some of your children are old enough to live elsewhere and, I suppose, have their own BatCave, but not all. Especially not your biological son.”

Her brother’s eyebrows were as high as they could get. “Is this an interrogation?” 

Cordelia glared at him. His tone remained pleasant, but for some reason she felt like she was being laughed at.

“My eldest, Dick, has lived in Bludhaven for a couple of years now,” Bruce answered. “He’s part of the police force there, but he’s working his way to becoming a detective. My second eldest still lives in Gotham, but our relationship is… complicated. He can be hard to get a hold of. You won’t see him at the manor often. Then there is Cass. She lives in Gotham, too, but I set her up with her own BatCave. The mission is important to her and she likes her independence. My other two sons still live with me, but Tim is overseas working on a case and Damian has decided to lead the Teen Titans in San Francisco.”

As he spoke about his family, Cordelia could hear different emotions warring against one another. Admiration fought against regret which fought against happiness and pride and worry. All the while, Cordelia mentally repeated every name and location he shared.

“You didn’t tell me your second eldest’s name,” Cordelia noted.

Bruce paused from taking a sip of his cocoa. He regarded her with newfound interest over the whip cream tower. “You are interrogating me. Why.”

The way he asked the question made it sound like a demand. Cordelia didn’t want to lose control of the conversation. “Why didn’t you tell me your son’s name?”

Thomas would have snapped by now.

Bruce just set his mug down.

“Because I didn’t realize I hadn’t,” he answered. “His name is Jason Todd.”

It was a nice name that slid off the tongue. Cordelia thought of all the photographs and paintings and wondered which face to fit the name to. When she was done wondering she saw that Bruce was watching her again.

“Do you have any other questions?” He asked.

She searched his face. Was that question a threat? A criticism? Genuine? She wished Bruce wasn’t so hard to read. Her father had been explosive, but predictable. She knew when she started to irritate him because he would clench his fist before snapping; she knew when he was pleased with her work because he would order her to begin a different task; she knew when he wanted to be alone because he would pick up a flask.

This Batman wore a mask even without the cowl.

She shook her head mutely.

Bruce looked at her narrowly, before nodding. “Then let’s move on, because I have questions for you. Follow me.” She jumped to her feet, but froze when Bruce held up one finger. “And don’t tell Alfred that we’re going to drink hot chocolate outside of the kitchen.”

She nodded once, sharply, and then followed him outside of the kitchen. They crept silently through the hallways with their mugs cradled in their hands, ears listening for the sound of Alfred’s footsteps. Portraits were everywhere, and Cordelia eyed them as they past.

That one must be Damian, she thought, and that one has to be Dick. That one could be Jason, but it could also be Tim. And that girl with the short black hair has to be Cassandra, my one niece.

Bruce led her to their father’s office. But it was no longer their father’s. The shelves had actual books on them rather than partially drunken bottles of liquor, and the desk was brand new dark wood rather than the dusty, broken wooden mass that Thomas kept.

“I kept everything almost exactly the same as our father had it,” Bruce said. “Some things were unavoidable, like the desk. But I could never get myself to move his books.”

He gestured toward the literature, and Cordelia politely stepped forward to look at them.

“Oh, I know this one!” She said in surprise. She set her mug down on the desk so that she could stand on her tip-toes to grab a thick textbook. She flipped it open to see the familiar drawings she memorized as a child. “Father moved it to the library. It was one of the few books with pictures, so it was my favorite to look through when I was a kid. Now I can name every bone in the human body.”

She grinned at the memory of her childhood obsession. Her teachers had been quietly disturbed when she proudly recited the weakest points in the skeleton to them.

“You’re interested in anatomy,” Bruce noted.

Cordelia shrugged. “I think it started out as me wanting to make Father proud by becoming a doctor like him. Then it became necessary to learn how to heal.”

“Gotham Academy has excellent programs for students interested in becoming doctors,” Bruce sat down behind the desk and powered on his computer. Cordelia stared as he started to type away on the keyboard.

“That’s great,” she said slowly, “but I don’t want to go to school.”

“This is non-negotiable, Cordelia,” Bruce said firmly. “You have to go to school.”

“I thought you were giving me choices,” she said.

“Not with your education.”

“But I don’t want -“

“Cordelia,” he spoke her name like it was a warning. Her mouth clamped shut as he continued to type and she hated herself for being such a coward. His fingers stopped hitting the keys for a moment to give her a considering look. “But you do bring up an excellent point.”

She crossed her arms over her chest protectively. “Which was?”

“Your choices,” he said. Bruce turned the computer monitor so they could both see the screen. It showed a profile template with blank spaces that still needed to be filled. “The first being your name. I recommend keeping Cordelia, but keeping Wayne will bring its own complications when we introduce you to the public. People will wonder where you came from and why they’ve never seen you before. It will also put you under a lot of scrutiny - under more scrutiny than most of my children are already under. But if you want to keep our father’s name, then I’ll help you through it.”

Cordelia hesitated. Did she want to keep the Wayne name? Had it ever really been hers?

She’d grown up in Wayne Manor, but there had never been a portrait or a sign that she’d existed in it. And now that she lived in a world she literally didn’t exist in, her grasp on her last name felt even more wispy and unreal.

And here was Bruce, saying that he’d defend her claim on it.

Her attention shifted to the many photographs on the walls. Thomas Wayne looked down at her from several frames, his proud smile practically taunting her from all sides. If he were here, he would undoubtedly say that she should choose a different name.

It hurt her to admit it, but it was true.

Cordelia might love her father, but her father never loved her. And she was deceiving Bruce by not letting him know this.

He’d probably withdraw her choice if he did know. He would honor his father, the way he honored him by staying in his house and keeping his office almost exactly as it was left.

The guilt of deceiving a son who would never meet his father again was almost enough to get her to say, yes, change my name. But that was before she saw the photographs of the rest of the family. The nephews and one niece that she hadn’t met yet, but would. 

She could be a part of that family.

That family could be… hers.

Bruce was offering her this doorway into their lives. He was saying that he’d find a way to fit her into it.

So when she turned to Bruce and told him that she wanted to keep the name Wayne, she wasn’t saying she wanted to keep their father’s last name like he suspected. She was saying that she wanted to have Bruce’s name, because Wayne meant something more when it was attached to him. It meant Dick and Jason, Cass and Tim, and little Damian.

It meant family.

And if she started to hear her father’s voice in her head calling her a greedy Cuckoo bird flying from nest to nest, she would ignore it as her brother filled in the blank space at the top of the profile template: Cordelia Wayne.

Chapter 19: Can You Handle Batgirl?

Summary:

Bruce sighed and Cordelia got the sense that this was a topic that he hadn’t wanted to bring up. “We also have to discuss you going out as Batgirl.”

They filled out the rest of the profile until Cordelia had a solid backstory that the public might find suspicious but not unbelievable. The new Cordelia Wayne was not Thomas’s daughter, but the daughter of an estranged cousin who recently passed from a heart attack.

Bruce quickly hid his surprise when he discovered that Cordelia was not familiar with the Wayne family tree and then pulled up a chart of all the cousins and grandparents that they shared from as far back as the 1600’s.

“I have to memorize this?” Cordelia asked doubtfully.

“The slightest hesitation in answering a question will only bring more questions,” was his answer (which was annoying, but Cordelia chose not to say so).

Then they sat quietly as Cordelia read through the chart and Bruce flipped through the textbook she’d pulled from the shelf. It didn’t take her long to finish, after which Bruce quizzed her on random family members until he was sure she’d be able to list their first names, last names, dates of births, and dates of death.

“Good job,” Bruce said approvingly, “I’m impressed.”

It was ridiculous how much that small amount of approval meant to her. She felt like a dog that was just offered a treat. “It was nothing. What’s next?”

Bruce turned off his computer and gazed at her seriously. She subconsciously straightened her back.

“Now we have to discuss where you’d like to stay,” he said. “As I said before, I can’t ignore the fact that this house might bring you a lot of painful memories, and as much as I tried to keep everything as my parents left it, a lot has changed. It wouldn’t be fair of me to expect you to adjust to all these changes overnight.”

“Where else would I go?” Cordelia asked.

“Where else would we go,” Bruce corrected. “I will still be your guardian. As for locations, any one of my Gotham properties. You can choose whichever.”

Cordelia didn’t realize how many protective walls she’d built around her heart until she felt one of them crumble. Each wall had its own purpose. One was made specifically for her father, to protect her as much as it could from emotional hurt when Thomas Wayne would get aggressive. Another was made to protect her from disappointment when a mission failed or someone she was supposed to protect was killed. And yet another was made to protect her from wishful thinking, when she let her mind wander too much on what if’s and could be’s.

She hadn’t realized that she also made a wall for rejection.

Cordelia didn’t know many people. Her world was a small one. While other girls and boys her age were putting themselves out there, asking people out on dates, Cordelia was breaking noses and saving the day. There wasn’t much rejection in her line of work.

Other than her father.

Father rejected her love with every sneer and dismissive wave of his hand. He did not need a daughter, he needed a soldier. Sometimes he didn’t need either. 

Over the years, she must have become used to rejection, even if she didn’t know it. She must have expected nothing else. But now that someone was… not rejecting her….

It was a shock. As much of a shock as seeing Barry Allen in the Cave for the first time. And buried beneath that shock was also - hope. She felt her scared, jittery, bruised heart reach out to Bruce, even though her mind was telling it to stay far away from him.

We don’t know him, her mind argued. We can’t trust him. Or his acceptance.

But her heart warred against her mind, still terrified of being hurt, but so hopeful that it wouldn’t be.

Cordelia wished that she could look at Bruce right in that moment and just know that he was safe. She wished that there was a sign above his head saying This Man Won’t Hurt You Like Father Did. But helpful signs like that didn’t exist.

Trusting him would be a risk.

Abusers didn’t often abuse people they just met. They bided their time; they waited. They waited until their victim was too dependent on them to leave. They waited until they were sure that they could get away with it.

Her father didn’t have to wait long. All it took was one plane ride to go down and then little Cordelia had become his to torture and terrorize.

She couldn’t let that happen again. But she also couldn’t let her trauma keep her from being a part of a family - from building a relationship with her brother. Barry didn’t save her from an apocalypse just for her to isolate herself. He saved her so she could live. And living meant taking risks.

“I want to stay here,” Cordelia said.

She could see that Bruce was surprised. It gave her a thrill to finally be able to read an emotion on his face.

“Of course,” Bruce said.

Cordelia nodded and flattened her palms to her thighs so she wouldn’t fidget. “Was that all?”

“No,” Bruce sighed and Cordelia got the sense that this was a topic that he hadn’t wanted to bring up. “We also have to discuss you going out as Batgirl.”

“Right,” Cordelia realized. “I’ll need a new uniform.”

“No, you won’t. At least not for a while.”

Cordelia blinked. “What?”

“I won’t allow you to be Batgirl until I’m sure you can handle it.”

“Handle it?” Cordelia repeated in amazement. “I’ve been Batgirl since I was nine years-old. I have more experience than tons of other heroes. Not to mention I’m the sole survivor of an apocalypse. I’m more than capable, Bruce.”

“You have experience with the Gotham that you grew up in,” Bruce corrected. “But that Gotham is not this Gotham. You don’t know the criminals we fight with. You’re not familiar with their superstitions, their habits, or their ways of thinking. Maybe you can take down a few street criminals, but you would be as good as dead if you crossed paths with someone like Poison Ivy.”

Cordelia chose not to admit that she had no clue who Poison Ivy was. Instead, she doubled down: “Bruce, I appreciate your… concern. But the Batgirl mantle was giving to me by Father, not you. I earned it and you can’t take it away from me.”

“Which is why I’m saying you only have to hang up your uniform for a couple of months,” Bruce said. “Out of respect for our father.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” she asked defensively. “You’ve never seen me fight. Why are you assuming that I wouldn’t be able to take care of myself?”

Bruce’s lips thinned.

“Is it because of my nightmare?” Cordelia pushed. “Because I can’t somehow control my subconscious? Because you said yourself that you still have nightmares!”

She watched him fold his hands on his lap, reigning in whatever emotion he was feeling that she couldn’t read. He was probably angry with her - at her defiance, especially after his generosity and kindness. But she was too angry at the moment to care. No matter how angry her father got with her, he never took Batgirl away from her. The mission was too important. Gotham was too important.

She thought Batman would understand that no matter what timeline he was in. But Bruce was sitting across from her looking stubborn and resolved in his decision.

“It’s not because of your nightmare,” Bruce said. “It’s because of how you look and your… behavior.”

Cordelia clenched her teeth, offended. “Because of how I look?”

She glanced down at her body. Her physique was slim, but muscular. Years of intense training made her strong enough to wrestle healthy, grown men into submission - let alone the half-insane criminals in Gotham who were always in-and-out of Arkham.

She never considered herself physically weak. There were very few humans who could beat her in a fight. Other than Batman.

“Your bruises are faint,” her brother continued quietly, “almost invisible to the eye, but the slight swelling gives it away. Injuries are unavoidable in this line of work, but it’s clear whoever you fought recently got the better of you. Then there is the flinching. The wincing. You’re scared. In a way that…. In a way that is worrying, if I’m being honest, Cordelia.”

She felt as if she’d been stripped. Like Bruce had peeled all her skin off and laid it out on the desk between them. She almost couldn’t breathe.

“I’m not doing this to punish you,” Bruce continued firmly. “I’m doing this to protect you. If you go out into this Gotham as you are, then they will eat you alive. You might not come back. Do you understand, Cordelia?”

The flinching. The wincing. You’re scared. In a way that is worrying. 

“I realize that we don’t know each other that well yet,” Bruce said. His voice sounded faraway. “And you might think I’m being unfair. But you’re my responsibility now, Cordelia, and I want to keep you safe. Dad would have wanted me to keep you safe.”

The absurdity of that claim brought Cordelia back into her own body. She huffed out a laugh. “I’m not scared of Gotham, Bruce,” she stated.

“Then what are you scared of?” He asked the question casually, but his body leaned forward like this was a question he’d been wanting to ask but hadn’t. 

Of you. Of Batman. Of being hurt. Of being alone. Of having Batgirl taken from me.

“I’m not scared of anything,” Cordelia lied.

“Hm,” Bruce didn’t believe her.

“Bruce, I was one of the best fighters in the world in my timeline,” she said. “Those skills didn’t go away when Barry brought me here.”

Bruce sighed. “I’m just asking you to wait a couple of months. In the meantime, you can go through my old case files and become familiar with Gotham’s regulars. We will also need to train together so I can know your skillset and see for myself what you’re capable of.”

Cordelia stood up from her seat and backed away. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not training with you.”

No.

“This is another thing that is non-negotiable, Cordelia,” Bruce said. “If you put on the cowl again-“

“If?”

“Yes. If.”

“When did it go from a couple of months to maybe never?”

“When you almost ran away at the mere thought of training,” Bruce’s voice was slowly becoming more and more clinical. More like Batman. The mug of hot chocolate in front of him had melted the whip cream, leaving just murky brown water instead. “I’ve made the mistake of giving a kid a uniform before he was ready. It ended badly. Since then I vowed to never make that mistake again. You won’t be Batgirl until you can prove to me that you can hold your own against the very best.”

“And by very best you mean you.”

“Yes,” he said it like it was a fact. With no arrogance or conceit. Just a fact.

Cordelia felt like throwing up. She wouldn’t train with Batman again. She wouldn’t. 

She couldn’t.

“You can’t take Batgirl away from me,” she told him.

Bruce frowned at her. “This is my city, Cordelia. No vigilante stays if I don’t want them to. That includes Batgirl.”

She shook her head furiously. This was not fair. She’d lost so much in so little time. She couldn’t lose Batgirl. She earned Batgirl through blood, through sweat, through tears. She endured pain like no other, walked onto training mats with her father and limped away from them, all so that she could put on her cowl and do some good.

Now Bruce wanted to put her through more. He wanted to drag her back onto the training mat. He wanted to hurt her.

She wouldn’t let him.

“I’m Batgirl,” Cordelia said, raising her chin. “This is my city, too. You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Oh, dear.”

Alfred was standing at the office doorway with a duster, eyebrows raised. She saw him share a look with Bruce.

Cordelia bristled. She was starting to dislike how often they did that. “What is that look supposed to mean?”

“It means I should have guessed your age sooner,” Bruce said bluntly, “and that you’re over exhausted. Alfred can show you to your room.”

The backs of Cordelia’s eyes stung. “This is why I wanted to be eighteen. You don’t have a right to act so condescending. You can’t just send me to my room when you’re sick of me. It’s not fair!”

Bruce and Alfred shared another meaningful look.

“Stop that!”

“Miss Cordelia, please,” Alfred said soothingly. “I’m sure Master Bruce doesn’t mean to be condescending. Do you, Master Bruce?”

Bruce quirked an eyebrow.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said warningly.

Bruce relented. “I don’t mean to be condescending, Cordelia. To tell you the truth, I’m also exhausted. We can talk more later.”

Cordelia could see that both men were not ready to hear her out. She could see resolve in Bruce’s eyes and the soft concern in Alfred’s. A bitter frustration bubbled inside her chest so fiercely that she crossed her arms just to keep it contained.

“Fine,” she snapped. Then stormed out of the room without waiting for Alfred to leave with her.

Chapter 20: The Investigation Begins

Summary:

Thomas Wayne’s anger had been quick, painful, and instantaneous like a bolt of lightning. Bruce was different. She could tell. She’d watched him as he watched her; he was a more introspective Batman who plotted before executing.

For the first few hours after Cordelia and Bruce’s argument, Cordelia could do nothing but pace up and down her room, fuming at the injustice of it all. It was absolutely humiliating to be sent off to her room like she was an unruly child. Especially by someone she barely knew - especially by someone who was her brother, but who was already acting like he had authority over her.

Over Batgirl.

It was only when her feet started to tire and she sat down on her bed, that the dread started to creep in.

I’ve yelled at Batman, she realized. And suddenly the bedroom walls around her were no longer cage bars she’d been forced into, but the only protection she had between herself and the dark knight. I’ve yelled at Batman and now he’s biding his time to make me pay for it.

Thomas Wayne’s anger had been quick, painful, and instantaneous like a bolt of lightning. Bruce was different. She could tell. She’d watched him as he watched her; he was a more introspective Batman who plotted before executing.

He hadn’t brought up Batgirl until he was sure she was comfortable. Why would he do that? she wondered. What was the goal?

But the goal didn’t matter. At least, not at the moment. Because whatever test that was, she had failed. She’d yelled at Batman, something she’d never dared to do before.

Cordelia pressed a soft pillow to her face and whispered to herself hatefully, “stupid, stupid, stupid.”

She’d gotten stupid. When you were in the presence of someone dangerous, the worst thing you could do was forget that. And she’d forgotten it, for just a moment. All it took was hot chocolate in silly mugs, a hug after a nightmare, a hand on the shoulder as he asked her to join a family portrait and she’d forgotten everything she’d learned over the years.

You’ve been hurt before. You can survive this, she told herself. But her entire body was shaking at the thought of Bruce plotting ways to teach her a lesson.

Cordelia lifted her head from her pillow and looked out her window. The fields around Wayne Manor were a vibrant green, and the grass was trimmed to perfection. But she was looking beyond that: to the horizon.

She could leave.

She should leave.

She both wanted to leave and didn’t.

Alfred, Dick, Jason, Tim, Cassandra, and Damian. Bruce.

Cordelia never had a large family. Before she’d met her father, it was just her and her mom. Her mom had been a creative; frenzied with imagination and energized every time an opportunity landed in her lap. Sometimes she would share that excitement with her daughter, other times the thought of her daughter dimmed that excitement.

But they’d been a family. A little, dysfunctional family.

Cordelia wanted a family again. Even if it was broken.

She closed her eyes and laid her head in her pillow again. She would stay. She would stay until Bruce gave her a reason not to.

Which might be soon considering you yelled at him, her cruel mind taunted.

He might not be like Father, her heart argued. He’s been… nice. He’s been kind and considerate. Compassionate, even. Like Barry promised he would be.

Cordelia shook her head. She was being ridiculous. A detective was not supposed to approach a mystery with bias or fear of answers; they were supposed to look at things clinically. They didn’t snap; they didn’t cry; they did not jump to conclusions.

And she had done all three.

The young Wayne took a deep breath, steadying her heartbeat and clearing her mind of doubt. Becoming Batgirl was like becoming an entirely different person. Cordelia Wayne was flawed and full of self doubt; Batgirl couldn’t be. Batgirl had to be impartial so that she could think three steps ahead and solve whatever case she was on.

Of course, she knew that she wasn’t really becoming an entirely different person, but compartmentalizing helped her pull her act together whenever the situation needed it. And this situation certainly needed Batgirl (no matter what Bruce said about benching her).

So Cordelia got up and searched through the desk in her room for a notebook and pen. Once she finally found what she needed, she sat down on the wooden chair and started to write the facts of what she knew:

1. Bruce as Batman has advantages that Father did not. Bruce is younger, wealthier, more technologically savvy, and has collected a powerful group of vigilantes that can help him with the mission. Relationship with other vigilantes must be investigated.
2. Bruce has many children, but it is possible that he is not close with any of them. Dick has moved to a city more dangerous and rundown than Gotham (if Bludhaven is as bad as it was in my timeline); Jason does not visit the Manor often or ever; Tim has chosen to have missions oversees when there are plenty of missions in Gotham; Cassandra has decided against using Bruce’s Cave; and Damian, as young as he is, has chosen to join a different team all the way in San Francisco. Bruce’s relationships with his children must be investigated.
3. Bruce’s children suffer from nightmares. Reasons for these nightmares must be investigated.
4. There is a possibility that Jason might be dead. Bruce alluded to having regrets about sending a kid out in Gotham before they were ready, and briefly mentioned wishing he could prevent someone dying as he looked toward the bedroom door across from mine. He also stated that Jason might never visit the Manor. Jason’s whereabouts must be investigated.
5. Alfred in this timeline is sarcastic and dutiful. The earlier argument I had with Bruce today hints that if my relationship with my brother turns sour, then Alfred will likely take Bruce’s side. Alfred must be investigated.

Side Note: See if Batman-themed mugs are commonplace in the Manor or if the kitchen scene was skillfully set up by Alfred to manipulate me.

Cordelia sat back and reviewed the list. Once she was satisfied with what she wrote, she searched her room for a place to hide the notebook. If anyone saw it, it would bring up a lot of awkward questions that she’d rather not get into.

Eventually, she discovered that one of the stones that made up the fireplace was loose enough to be wiggled free. She tucked the notebook behind the stone and into the wall, then put the stone back in its place.

She rubbed her eyes tiredly. Cordelia was used to not sleeping, but even she was pushing her limits. She hadn’t had a full night’s rest since Barry found his way into her father’s Cave and told them his plan to end their world to get back his own.

As she tried to remember how many nights ago that was, her eyes became heavier. She curled up in front of the unlit fireplace and rested her head on her knees. The young girl was almost fully asleep when she heard footsteps approaching her door.

A jolt of fear and Cordelia was on her feet, shoulders tense and fists clenched.

The feet stopped outside her door, and then the person on the other side knocked. “May I come in, Miss Cordelia?”

She let out a relieved breath. It was Alfred.

“Yes,” she said breathlessly, before clearing her throat and saying with much more strength: “You can come in, Alfred.”

The butler walked into the room. His expression was pleasant despite their earlier exchange. Cordelia was grateful for this. She was so tired of apologizing.

“I’ve come to inform you that we will be postponing your trip to the shopping center until tomorrow. After all the stress you’ve been through, I don’t want to add to it by bringing you to Gotham’s most lively spot. I also brought you some of Miss Cassandra’s things,” Alfred said, lifting the carefully folded stack of clothes in his arms. The fabric was mostly black, but the material looked softer than the polyester shirt that Cordelia was wearing.

“Thank you,” Cordelia murmured, taking the clothes from Alfred’s arms. “She won’t mind me wearing her clothes?”

“Not at all,” Alfred assured her. “Miss Cassandra doesn’t have a possessive bone in her body. And I hardly think she’d notice. It took a couple of months for her to realize that I regularly clean up her BatCave.”

“She’s Batgirl?” Cordelia asked. “The Batgirl of this timeline?”

Is that why Bruce is so eager to bench me? He already has a Batgirl and doesn’t want two?

“She was,” Alfred answered. “She now goes by Black Bat.”

“Hm,” Cordelia hummed. She walked over to her bed and laid out the clothing. The shirt and pants were loose fitting and plain, like the rest of the room they were standing in. Cordelia chewed her lip, suddenly aware that she wasn’t the only one in the Manor who had questions. Alfred and Bruce must be burning with curiosity about who she was, as well.

To them, she was completely new. A painting waiting to be uncovered.

“I’ve always been Batgirl,” Cordelia told Alfred over her shoulder, sharing just a small bit of information about herself.

“And Master Bruce has always been Batman,” Alfred replied. “It is both worrying and comforting how many similarities I see in the two of you.”

“Worrying?” Cordelia turned to him with a frown. “Worrying how?”

Alfred looked sad even though he was smiling. “I keep hoping that at least one of the children who come to this house will not share the nightlife of Master Bruce. I have been hoping in vain so far. One way or another, they each have donned a mask and grappled into the night, all the while I sit at the BatComputer and worry for each of them.”

Cordelia couldn’t imagine anyone worrying for her all night. 

“It never gets easier,” Alfred continued, eyes meeting hers. “But I’ve managed to comfort myself with the realization that most of the children that Bruce adopted are not all Bat all the time. Master Dick always had his friends. Master Jason had his books and schooling. Master Timothy had his work at Wayne Enterprises. And Master Damian had his many pets and his art.”

“And Cassandra?” Cordelia couldn’t help but ask, drinking in this information like it was water and she was stranded in a desert. “What did she have?”

“Miss Cassandra is like Master Bruce,” Alfred said. “She has the cape, the cowl, and the mission. Neither of them stray far from their nightly paths. And I’m beginning to see that neither do you.”

Cordelia fought hard not to cross her arms defensively. She couldn’t blame Alfred for this assumption. Mostly because it was true. But she still didn’t find it fair. It was not like her father allowed her to cultivate interests beyond Batgirl. It was not like she ever had a choice.

Except that wasn’t true anymore. Bruce presented her with choices.

You… wanted to give me a choice? She remembered tentatively asking him.

“Protecting Gotham is important,” Cordelia said, shaking her doubts out of her mind. “Not many people are willing to stand up for the city. Or not many people in my timeline. The rest of the world abandoned us.”

The sad look in Alfred’s eyes intensified. Cordelia remembered the look he’d given her after she woke up from her nightmare. Haunted. She wondered what he saw that made him look at her like that.

“You have my deepest regrets that you ever went through something like that,” Alfred said sincerely. “But you’re not alone here. Our family is a large one, and we have many friends outside of Gotham just waiting for a call.”

Our family.

Could she trust it?

Cordelia started to fidget. “You also said that… it was comforting? How similar Bruce and I are?”

“Ah, yes,” Alfred’s genuine smile became wry. “With each child comes a new mystery: what are they thinking and how can I keep them out of trouble. It took me a long time to learn Bruce’s tells. I am simply pleased that yours are so similar that I do not have to go through the process of learning them all over again.”

Cordelia huffed out a laugh and crossed her arms, a hint of arrogance in her posture. “I’m Batgirl, Alfred. I don’t have tells.”

Alfred lifted one grey eyebrow. “Then am I to assume that you didn’t hide something in the fireplace just before I got here?”

Cordelia eyes widened as she stuttered. “What - how did you -?”

“I’ve raised Master Bruce when he was going through his troubled teen years,” Alfred cut in calmly. “By now, I know when a young adult is starting to hide things in their room. And as for how I knew your chosen hiding spot: Master Bruce used the same exact location to hide his own secrets when he was your age.”

“That seems… like an unfair advantage on your part,” Cordelia said, half jokingly and half accusingly.

“When you live in a house of detectives,” Alfred said. “You learn a thing or two. Will you be requiring anything else at the moment, Miss Cordelia?”

The young girl required answers, but she knew that any Alfred gave would be tinged with bias. So she shook her head, gave him a smile, and thanked him for the clothes.

No matter what she learned about him or Bruce, she would always have this moment with him.

Once Alfred left the room, Cordelia got changed into the much more comfortable fabric, tied her hair into a tight bun, and took a deep breath.

She had questions. It was time to find answers.

The investigation begins right now.

Chapter 21: The Batman Mug

Summary:

This Alfred might not be hers, but he was still Alfred - fully capable of orchestrating an environment to set guests at ease.

Which was why Cordelia found herself creeping through Wayne Manor like a cat thief, on tip-toes and leg muscles ready to lunge for cover.

With all things considered, the truth of the mugs should have bothered her the least. But for whatever reason, it was the one mystery she could not get her mind off.

Did Alfred set that scene?

Her Alfred had shown that attention to detail was his superpower. When he was alive, everything in Wayne Manor had been impeccable - even her father’s many liquor bottles. Pillows were fluffed to perfection, the garden was free of any weeds, and meals were served as if every dish came straight from a five star restaurant.

This Alfred might not be hers, but he was still Alfred - fully capable of orchestrating an environment to set guests at ease.

Which was why Cordelia found herself creeping through Wayne Manor like a cat thief, on tip-toes and leg muscles ready to lunge for cover. She crept closer and closer to the kitchen, pausing every time she heard a noise.

When she made it to the kitchen doorway, she pressed her ears to the door. It didn’t sound like anyone was in there, but Cordelia counted to thirty before walking inside just to make sure.

The kitchen gleamed with cleanliness. The table was cleared off of all things except a bowl of exotic fruit, the clock on the wall ticked quietly for every second,  and not a single dish was left in the sink.

The window curtains were also thrown open so that sunlight danced through the glass and brightened the room. Cordelia blinked several times so her vision could clear.

She’d never seen such a bright day in Gotham.

“Focus,” she told herself after staring at the sky for a minute too long. She hurried over to the cabinets and started throwing them open until she saw where they kept the mugs in this timeline, and was dismayed to find out that they were kept on a shelf just out of her reach. Bruce was tall, and so were most of his sons. Of course they would keep the items they use daily at a height easier for their backs.

Cordelia glanced around before hopping up on the counter, her socked feet slipping slightly on the smoothness of the marble.

The silly Batman mug was at the forefront. Cordelia plucked it from its place and narrowed her eyes at the little Batman cartoon. It had a huge smile on its abnormally large head, and the bat ears were almost as tall as its chubby body. She rummaged through the other mugs, picking up every single one with silly cartoons on them until her arms were full of them. There were Batman mugs, Flash mugs, Wonder Woman mugs, Aquaman mugs, a mug with a kid in a red, green, and yellow uniform, a mug with a red and blue S on it, a mug with cat eyes, a mug with a Batgirl dressed in black and yellow rather than black and red, and so many more heroes that she either didn’t recognize or did.

It was like she had walked into a house of hero worshippers. Which… was ironic, considering their nightlife. 

“My word!”

Cordelia almost jumped out of her skin. She teetered a bit on the counter, before steadying herself and (mercifully) not dropping a single mug.

It was Alfred. He was gawking at her from the kitchen door.

“Um,” Cordelia said.

Alfred visibly pulled himself together. “Are you thirsty, by any chance, Miss Cordelia?”

“Not at all,” Cordelia answered, slightly confused by the seemingly random question.

Alfred’s pale eyes flickered to her armful of mugs.

“Oh,” Cordelia could feel her face getting red. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “I’m very thirsty.”

“I think only one cup would do the trick.”

Cordelia forced a laugh. “Right. Silly me. I’ll just… go.”

She hastily got off the counter and cleaned invisible dirt off of it with her shirt sleeve, face hot with embarrassment. 

“If you’re thirsty-“

“I’m not… anymore.” Cordelia really wished she had just went to sleep. Her brain clearly needed a rest. Or maybe running through time had damaged it in some way. She should ask Barry about that. “You’re probably very busy. So I’ll just go back to my room.”

She ignored Alfred’s curious gaze as she retreated. 

When she was back in her room, she aggressively crossed out her notes to investigate the mugs and then rested her head against her arms. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Cordelia could still feel her face burning a half an hour later, but a sound outside her window was enough to distract her from her own blunder. She leaned against the glass and peaked down until she could spot the source of the noise.

It was Alfred again, and he was tending to the flowerbed just outside her window a few stories down. Cordelia watched curiously as he dug small holes in a line and gently places beautiful flowers into each hole he dug. He took his time with each of them, patting the soil so that it was firm enough to let the delicate plants stand, and brushed their petals of any dirt that lingered. She could see his head gleaming with sweat as he worked in the heat, but he continued to work anyway.

He just finished planting a yellow tulip when he glanced upward unexpectedly. Cordelia gasped and jumped backward, out of view.

Had he seen her watching him? She waited a few breaths before peaking again. Alfred was back to work digging more holes and planting more flowers.

She sighed. She really needed to rest. She was getting sloppy.

Cordelia tugged off her socks and climbed under the covers of her new bed. She was already sleeping before her head hit the pillow.

Chapter 22: Batgirl VS Batman

Summary:

“Now that we’ve had our rest,” Bruce corrected smoothly, “I thought we could continue our discussion from yesterday. About Batgirl.”

The next morning, Alfred brought Cordelia a new pair of clothes.

“These should be more suitable for our trip to the shopping center,” he told her. “Breakfast will be ready in half an hour.”

She said her thanks and went to shower. The clothes were a tighter fit, rather than the comfortable loungewear she’d borrowed from Cassandra yesterday.

When Cordelia was dressed, she made her way through the familiar halls and toward the kitchen. She could hear Alfred setting plates and speaking to somebody - speaking to Bruce - as he walked around the kitchen.

Cordelia thought of the last time she spoke to Bruce (when she yelled at him), and hesitated. But hunger and determination were enough to get her to power through her fear and push open the kitchen door.

She wasn’t expecting to see so much food. It covered the entire table, which was impressive considering the table could seat a very large family. There were so many options: pancakes, eggs, bacon, muffins, cereal, waffles, peanut butter & jelly sandwiches, toast, yogurt, fruit cups, croissants, and sausages.

“Good morning, Cordelia,” Bruce said pleasantly, folding up his newspaper and setting it aside.

“What would you like to drink, Miss Cordelia?” Alfred asked once he noticed her.

Cordelia carefully sat an arm’s length away from Bruce. “Coffee, please.”

Alfred poured coffee into a cup and set it down in front of her. “Have whatever you like,” Alfred encouraged.

The young girl didn’t know what she would like. She ended up reaching for the cereal, just because it was the most familiar to her, but her hungry stomach growled at her for her poor choice. It didn’t like the fact that she had slept through dinner last night.

“I hear you and Alfred are taking a trip to town,” Bruce said.

She glanced at him warily. “Yes, we’re going shopping.”

“Good,” Bruce said.

Alfred fiddled with a few things at the counter, lingering. 

“You can get whatever you like,” Bruce added into the awkward silence. He cleared his throat. “Now that you’ve had your rest-“

Alfred coughed subtly.

“Now that we’ve had our rest,” Bruce corrected smoothly, “I thought we could continue our discussion from yesterday. About Batgirl.”

The fruit-flavored cereal tasted like ash in Cordelia’s mouth. She carefully chewed it and swallowed. “Okay.”

“I realized after you… left that I was making decisions for you as if you were one of my children,” Bruce said honestly. “I brought each of them into the vigilante lifestyle, I taught them how they could use their talents for good. But you’re not one of them.”

Cordelia braced herself for the emotional blow. For her brother to look at her and say that she didn’t belong. She was a Cuckoo bird. An imposter.

But, instead, he said, “You’re more like me. Batgirl is who you are, just as much as Cordelia is - if not more. Telling you not to be Batgirl is like telling you not to be yourself.”

Her grip on her spoon tightened. Her cereal lay forgotten in front of her. “So you’ll get me my uniform?”

Bruce gave her that inspecting look again, like he was somehow reading her mind through the smallest of micro expressions and muscle movements. Cordelia raised her chin, determined to look strong.

“Not yet,” he finally said.

“But you said-“

“I said that I wouldn’t take Batgirl away from you,” Bruce interrupted. “You will, eventually, be able to go out as her again. But not without training-“

“No.”

Bruce paused. After a beat, he continued, “Is it me that you don’t want to train with?”

“No.”

“Cordelia, I’m going to need more from you than just no.”

Cordelia crossed her arms over her chest so she could reign in her anger. “I need to be Batgirl, Bruce. She means everything to me.”

“I’m realizing that,” Bruce said. “Cordelia… if your scared to train with me-“

“Not everything is about you,” Cordelia muttered under her breath.

She hated this conversation. She hated his inquiries. She didn’t want to talk about what she was scared of because the answer was too complicated. If she told Bruce the truth, then he would either agree with their father’s judgement of her - or be so devastated by what his father had become that she might as well burn the entire Manor down with every memory of Thomas Wayne inside.

“I don’t have to prove to you that I’m worthy of Batgirl,” Cordelia told her brother. “I already proved myself to Father. I am ready for the cowl.”

“That wasn’t what I asked,” her brother countered.

“I’m not afraid of anything, Bruce,” Cordelia said. “I was just tired - and jumpy from time travel. I’m not - I’m not some scared kid.”

Bruce’s eyes flickered down to the two empty seats she left between them. She could see his mind working, piecing together all the clues she was clumsily leaving behind with every encounter she had with him.

She moved without really meaning to. Her hands grabbed the cereal bowl she was eating from, and her legs pushed her out of her seat and brought her to the chair directly next to her brother.

Cordelia hated approaching Batman. It never ended well in the past. But this was for Batgirl and for Gotham, so she set her bowl down on the table, pulled out the chair closest to him, and sat down.

“I’m not scared of anything,” she said again, forcefully.

There was a long, tense silence as Cordelia glared into her brother’s eyes and her brother stared back. Matching blues with equal intensity, one desperate to prove her strength and the other desperate to find answers.

“I’ll have your uniform made,” Bruce said.

Cordelia sighed in relief. “Thank you.”

“But I will not give it to you until we spar at least once,” Bruce concluded.

Rage bubbled in Cordelia’s belly. She pushed her bowl of cereal away and got to her feet. “Are you messing with me?” She demanded to know.

“I’m not asking for much,” Bruce said, his tone reproachful.

“Why are you so desperate to fight me, Bruce?” Cordelia said. “Why do you want-“

She stopped herself before she could say too much. Bruce still waited to see if she would finish her sentence. When it was clear that she would not, he said, “I just want to see if you can defend yourself. Nothing more.”

Cordelia held back a scoff.

“You’re not ready yet,” Bruce said gently. She wondered what she looked like for him to use that sort of tone with her. “We can wait. For now, you can sketch out the design of your uniform and we’ll replicate it.”

Cordelia folded her arms and looked away. She would not be able to go out as Batgirl tonight. She might not be able to go out as Batgirl for a time longer than that… if she listened to Bruce.

There was another option - a reckless option. She could go out without Bruce knowing. She could create a makeshift costume with none of the tools and none of the kevlar, and see how well she did. She wouldn’t be Batgirl, not without the symbol and not without the bat ears, but she’d still be out there doing what Batgirl does best.

The only problem was: Bruce would find out. It would be impossible not to. Rumors in Gotham spread fast, and Batman would quickly hear about a new vigilante fighting criminals in a scrappy outfit. He would connect it to her, and he would be angry.

Maybe angry enough to finally let loose.

The thought was terrifying but… it would also help her investigation. The ultimate mystery, the ultimate question, was what kind of man was Bruce Wayne? So far, he was a patient man. A mysterious one. An intelligent one.

But every man gets angry. And she hasn’t seen that side of him yet. Yelling at him didn’t seem to do the trick (at least not yet, when their relationship was still so new), but maybe directly disobeying his orders would.

Maybe going out as Batgirl was enough to finally crack that calm mask her brother has been wearing ever since Barry introduced her to him.

“Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said, breaking her from her reverie, “I insist that you finish your breakfast. You haven’t eaten a full meal since you’ve been here.”

Cordelia glanced at her soggy bowl of cereal next to Bruce’s elbow. “I’m not hungry,” she said, and made to leave the kitchen.

“Skipping meals isn’t going to convince me that you’re ready to be Batgirl,” Bruce said before she even touched the doorknob. “You need proper nutrients to keep up your strength.”

Cordelia grit her teeth. It was always so easy to listen to her father’s orders. If he gave her one look, then she knew instantly what she had to do and she did it without question. But having Bruce tell her what to do grated. 

She wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because he was a stranger, or maybe it was because he was her brother - but every part of her wanted to continue walking through the door until she reached her room. To show this new Batman that he was not the boss of her.

But, legally, he would be. And since he held the key to this new life that she wanted, she turned and sat down again.

She picked a chair three seats away this time. Then piled her new plate with protein. Alfred poured her orange juice as she ate in silence, body turned away from her brother. She heard the newspaper rustling as Bruce began to read it again.

Chapter 23: Shopping With Alfred

Summary:

The sales woman’s eyes slid up and down Cordelia’s thin form, taking in every detail as if to assess her value. The woman did not bother to hide her thoughts.

Notes:

For the people who don't like OC's: Don't worry, the OC's in this chapter are not major characters. This fic is strictly Bat-Family focused with a side of Barry Allen :)

“Master Bruce means well,” Alfred said during their drive to the shopping center.

Cordelia was leaning her forehead against the cool glass of the window. She’d been forced to sit in the back seat, even though the passenger seat was empty. Alfred told her it was the proper thing to do, but the invisible barrier between them made her feel lonelier than ever.

“Do you agree with him?” Cordelia asked quietly.

“It is not my place to say,” Alfred said diplomatically.

Cordelia blinked the tears from her eyes. She missed Barry. He had been on her side. He’d been the only person in the world who truly defended her. And now he was far away. With his wife.

“I do share his concern, however,” Alfred said after a pause. “Something has been troubling you, my dear.”

“Everyone in Gotham is troubled,” Cordelia said, but her tone had no real bite.

Alfred sighed heavily, “That is true.”

The car slowed as Alfred pulled into a parking lot. The shopping center was a few stories tall, and surrounded with loitering teenagers who flirted and giggled and gossiped with each other.

“Still, if you need anyone to share your burdens with…” Alfred’s tone was hopeful.

Cordelia peaked at him from the corner of her eyes and asked, “Could you get me a Batgirl uniform without Bruce knowing?”

“I don’t think going behind Master Bruce’s back is the answer,” Alfred said disapprovingly.

The look he gave her made her bristle. It had none of the violence or disgust that Father’s disapproval carried, but somehow still held the power to make her feel small. When the car stopped moving, Cordelia wasted no time in stepping out of it and away from that look.

The Summer air felt unnaturally warm against her skin. She leaned her head back and let the sun rays dry the tears that managed to escape her eyes and stick to her lashes. When she was sure that there was no trace of them left, she turned to Alfred.

He stepped calmly out of the car and shut the door behind him. It was weird seeing him now, after all these years. Cordelia’s memories of him were not the best, but she did know that she’d thought the world of him when she was a child. She would never forget how much her heart used to glow when he’d walk in the room and smile her way.

This Alfred was more real, more solid - and more detached. She was a stranger, and he was her butler.

The close bond they used to share was cleanly wiped away as if it never existed. Worse, the affection that he used to have for her was likely transferred to Bruce, instead - the boy he’d taken care of for years.

Where do I fit in here? She wondered. Out loud, she said, “Where to first?”

Alfred replied, “Wherever you like, Miss Cordelia. Which shop do you prefer?”

Cordelia frowned. “I’ve never been here before.”

“Never?” Alfred looked troubled. “I was under the impression that this was the… how do you young ones put it? The Place To Be.”

There was something so bizarre about old people using phrases they thought the kids were using. It made Cordelia want to both cringe and laugh at the same time. But since she didn’t want to offend Alfred, she forced her face to stay neutral. “Um, not in my timeline. The… place to be was indoors if you wanted to stay alive.”

“Then how did you get your clothes from your own timeline?”

Cordelia shrugged. The sound of youthful laughter echoed around the parking lot. Was everyone in this timeline infinitely more happy than the people in hers? “Father let me order a few things online if it was necessary.” And if she was brave enough to actually ask him for money. “I didn’t have a driver and Wayne Manor is pretty much in the middle of nowhere, so…. I don’t remember ever shopping in person. But I ordered most of my clothes from an online website called Amazon. Is there an Amazon shop here?”

A look of dismay flitted across Alfred’s face at the mention of Amazon. “No, my dear. There’s no Amazon here.”

“Oh… Walmart?”

“Oh, dear,” Alfred was scandalized. Cordelia didn’t understand it. “I will show you the shops that I brought Master Bruce when I still did shopping for him.”

“Ok,” Cordelia said, and walked side-by-side with him toward the shopping center entrance. She couldn’t shake the feeling like she said something wrong. “Alfred?”

“Yes, Miss Cordelia?”

“Is there something wrong with Amazon and Walmart?”

She’d been peaking at him for a reaction, so she saw him hesitate before he answered, “Not at all. They offer many affordable options for the frugal and the working class. I simply cannot imagine the judgement you must have received as a Wayne wearing clothing from one of those stores.”

At this point, they were entering the shopping center. The entrance hall was wide with a tall ceiling, and had a giant digital map up ahead. People of all different ages were either loitering or pushing passed one another to get to a specific destination.

Cordelia subtly shifted so that she was walking closer to Alfred. Her eyes were sharp as they scanned the crowd and the building structure, looking for potential threats and exits.

Absentmindedly, she said, “I didn’t go anywhere for people to pass judgement on me.”

“What do you mean?” Alfred’s voice sounded confused. “Didn’t you attend galas? Or go to other events with your father?”

Cordelia knew that this conversation was heading toward dangerous territory. She internally debated on how honest she should be with Alfred, and decided that some honesty would make her usual silence less suspicious. “Father was a busy man. He didn’t have time to go to galas or other events.”

“That does not sound like the Thomas Wayne that I knew.”

“No?” Cordelia said, although she’d guessed this. She’d seen enough photographs and old online articles of Thomas Wayne to know that he’d been a very active member of high society when Bruce was alive. “Then what was he like in your timeline?”

They didn’t stop by the map to see where the shop was. Alfred expertly guided her through the crowd and down a long corridor. They passed many different stores, some selling things like knick knacks, others selling video games, and others selling clothes.

“He was busy, like you said,” Alfred explained. He gave her a quick, inspecting look as he said this. “But family time was very important to him. If he found himself with a day off, he would try to do something that Bruce or Martha wanted. Like host charity events, or play chess, or go to the circus.”

“Or go to the movie theater,” Cordelia concluded.

“Yes,” Alfred had a frown on his face. “So I’m curious what he did with you during his days off.”

The line of questioning was back on her. Cordelia took her time answering, wishing that something would happen to distract Alfred. But even though the shopping center had a sort of chaos to it, nothing was really happening around them. Families were either having a swell time together, or bickering; friends were either giggling, or on their phones; lone shoppers were either staring at items, or speed walking to their next location.

Cordelia sighed. There was no escape, unless she wanted to be rude. And she respected Alfred too much to be rude to him.

“Father’s days off were spent mourning Bruce,” Cordelia said honestly. She always knew to steer clear of Thomas when he had his days off so that he was completely free to lose himself in a bottle of hard liquor. “My brother left a large hole in our family when he died. He must have been a really special kid.”

A sadness washed over her as she said this, partly because she knew that she wasn’t special enough to have effected anyone so deeply, and partly because Bruce was special and she’d been treating him so coolly since they met. Cordelia wished she could stop being so suspicious, but every time she saw Bruce and his calculating eyes….

“He was one of a kind,” Alfred agreed, breaking her out of her reverie. “As are you.”

Words that should have been a comfort felt like a stab of pain in her chest. She couldn’t understand this. Her emotions were a complicated hurricane around her heart, and all Cordelia wanted was for the storm to clear.

She was spared having to answer him when they arrived at the store. It was vacant compared to the others ones that they’d passed, with just two customers within. The air smelled like perfume, and one of the sales women who approached them was wearing a matching blazer and tight pencil skirt.

“Hello, Mister Pennyworth,” the sales woman said. Her smile was simpering and glossy red. “What are you looking for today?”

“A new wardrobe for the young miss,” Alfred said readily with a gesture toward Cordelia.

The sales woman’s eyes slid up and down Cordelia’s thin form, taking in every detail as if to assess her value. The woman did not bother to hide her thoughts. Cordelia could easily see the woman’s feelings toward her go from indifferent to intrigued as she eyed her facial structure, her body type, and her clearly expensive outfit.

“A whole new wardrobe,” the sales woman smile widened, “what a lucky girl you are. I know just the things for you. Will you be joining us, Mister Pennyworth?”

“No, thank you,” Alfred said briskly. “Miss Cordelia, if you need me, I will be picking out a new tie for myself.”

“Let me call my colleague for you,” the sales woman said immediately.

“No need, Miss Emilia,” Alfred said. Then he was gone, heading toward the opposite side of the store.

Cordelia was left with the sales woman, Emilia, who looked about as pleased as a cat that caught a mouse. The young Wayne was led to the back of the store, where the clothes were decidedly more youthful.

The next hour for Cordelia was spent in a fitting room. Emilia would barge in without so much as a knock, each time with new clothes that were becoming more and more expensive. Cordelia hesitated to accept all of them. Her father had always given her a strict budget when he’d handed her his card, but Bruce hadn’t. Quite the opposite - he’d told her to get whatever she liked.

But there had to be a limit to his generosity. And she didn't know whether it was a good idea to test those limits yet.

Cordelia gnawed at her bottom lip as she stared in the fitting room mirror. Emilia had gotten her to try on a ballgown that fit her thin frame snuggly and glimmered like water in the light. It cost a couple thousand dollars.

“How do you like it?” Emilia swung open the door so she could peak in.

“It’s pretty,” Cordelia said objectively. “But I don’t know if I’d need a gown.”

“Every young woman needs a gown,” Emilia said matter-of-factly. She reached over and fiddled with the thin strap on Cordelia’s shoulder. “Especially pretty young women like you. Don’t you want to be prepared when your prince asks you to the ball?”

Cordelia thought of Barry and how unlikely it was that he’d ask her to any sort of event like a ball. Still, if he did…. Her stomach felt like it was in knots, but the feeling was strangely pleasant.

“I know that look,” Emilia simpered. “You’re in love, aren’t you? That settles it. You are absolutely getting this dress! And I know what else you need to impress this man you love so much. I’ll be right back.”

Emilia’s heeled shoes clicked against the marble floor as she walked away. When she came back, she was holding up lacy underwear with frills and silk material.

Cordelia’s face was bright red in the mirror. “Um, no. I don’t-“

“You’ll need it one day, honey. Trust me.”

Emilia added it to the pile of clothes she’d insisted that Cordelia would need, but this was the finally straw for the young Wayne. She tried to look imperious even with her face a darker shade of red than the woman’s lipstick, “I won’t be needing that. You can return it to where you found it, please.”

Emilia’s face froze stiffly, but Cordelia did not back down. Slowly, Emilia’s false smile came back and she gave an airy laugh. “Oh, I see. You’re not ready for that yet. I completely understand. I was young once, too.”

Emilia took the undergarments off the pile and left with them. Cordelia breathed a sigh of relief. Just looking at all the lace had felt embarrassing, she couldn’t imagine ever wearing it.

The rest of the fitting went smoothly after that. Emilia was less demanding. Cordelia didn’t know if this was because Emilia no longer liked her or if it was because Emilia realized that the young Wayne was not a pushover.

When they were done, Cordelia met Alfred at the front of the store while two sales woman brought her things up to the cash register. The final price was larger than anything Cordelia had ever bought before.

Alfred didn’t so much as flinch when he handed them a black card.

“Is the price too much?” Cordelia asked him quietly.

“Master Bruce can certainly afford it,” he replied simply.

She crossed her arms uncomfortably when the cashier gave Alfred the card back. “…will he be upset with me?”

The old butler gave her a searching gaze at this question, before saying, “No, Miss Cordelia. You don’t need to worry about that.”

Cordelia and Alfred left the shop with armfuls of bags. As they walked back through the shopping center, Cordelia became more and more aware of the people surrounding them - especially the other girls her age. They were just so happy and excited about their new purchases, talking about how cute their new skirts were and how much they couldn’t wait to wear their new dresses.

Meanwhile, the entire time Cordelia had been shopping for her new wardrobe, her stomach had felt tight with anxiety.

Why don’t these sort of things excite me? Cordelia wondered. What’s wrong with me?

The only outfit she ever cared to wear was the Batgirl uniform. She couldn’t even remember a single thing she purchased from the pushy sales woman.

“Is everything alright, Miss Cordelia?” Alfred asked.

Cordelia turned to give him a false smile, but something caught her eye over his shoulder that made her gasp.

At first glance, she thought she was seeing the Flash. Her heart soared - Barry had come for her. She would be able to stay with him, become his family - and he would never take Batgirl away from her.

He would never hurt her. He was too good. He was perfect.

But it wasn’t Barry at all. The familiar lightning bolt wasn’t attached to a superhero’s chest, it was attached to a thick red hoodie. The hoodie was on display inside a superhero merch store, where a bunch of boys were running around and picking up anything that caught their eye.

“Master Dick loves that store,” Alfred said once he noticed what she was staring at. “It’s where we got all those mugs. He gets a new one every time he visits this shopping center and forces Master Bruce to keep it.”

Batman gets forced to do things? Cordelia thought.

“Was there something there that you wanted?” Alfred asked.

“Yes,” Cordelia said, hesitating. “Do you think I can get a sweater?”

Alfred smiled warmly, adjusting the bags in his arms so he could gently squeeze her wrist. It was a gesture so affectionate and caring that Cordelia could almost believe his next words: “I think Master Bruce would be happy to provide you with that.”

They walked into the store, skirting past the heavy crowd, until Cordelia got her hands on the Flash hoodie. The material felt thick and soft between her fingers, and the stitching that made up the lightning bolt symbol was near perfect.

“Oh look!” Cordelia held up the sweater to Alfred excitedly. She pointed to the hood. “The hood has little lightning bolt ears! They are weirdly accurate!”

She smiled down at the symbol and hugged it to her chest.

“I’m glad you like it, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said, expression soft. “Would you like anything else?”

They searched the store for other things she might like. Cordelia ended up purchasing her very own Flash mug and a few Flash comic books, but stopped herself from getting anything more once she saw how much Alfred was struggling to carry the bags full of her clothes.

They were halfway out of the shopping center when a group of boys caught sight of them struggling with the bags, glanced at each other with smirks, and strolled over. Cordelia and Alfred tensed as they neared, but the one in the lead smiled kindly.

“Need any help?” He asked.

Cordelia considered this. What were the chances that the boys would run off with her stuff? But then decided to take the chance, since she couldn’t imagine why the boys would want to steal dresses and blouses that were much too small to fit them.

“Yes, please,” Cordelia said.

The boys took the bags (Alfred very reluctantly let his bags go) and asked them where their car was. As they all walked, the one who offered help kept asking Cordelia questions.

“What your name?” He asked.

“Cordelia,” she answered. “What are all your names?”

They prattled them off before the boy next to her asked another question: “What school do you go to?”

“I’m new to Gotham,” Cordelia lied easily. “I haven’t been enrolled in any schools yet.”

“Would you like me to show you around?” He looked eager. “I know all the best places to go. And I’m sure you’ve heard of Gotham’s reputation - it can be really dangerous. So you don’t want to go anywhere alone.”

“I can handle myself,” Cordelia shrugged, “but it would be nice to have a friend.”

The boy’s smile was bright. Cordelia tried to remember what his name was - Henry, she recalled. “I can totally be your friend, Cordelia.”

“I can be a better friend,” one of the other boys said.

“I can be your best friend,” another snickered.

“You don’t want them as friends,” said the last one - James - with a smirk. “They’ll all bore you to tears. I, on the other hand, can show you a good time.”

“Ahem,” Alfred made his presence known.

The first three boys looked chastened, but the fourth just raised an eyebrow at Cordelia with a smug smile.

“So what do you say?” James asked. “We can go wherever you want.”

At this point, the group had made it to the car, and Alfred looked like he had reached his tolerance limit. He huffed and said, “thank you for the offer, gentlemen, but Miss Cordelia won’t be touring a city like Gotham with a couple of boys her guardian hasn’t met before.”

“She said she could handle herself,” James said cockily.

“She is right here,” Cordelia said, annoyed that she was once again being treated like a child. “And I don’t need anyone’s permission to make friends.”

“You heard the girl,” James said, dark eyes sparkling gleefully. “Come on, Cordelia. My car is across the lot.”

Henry shifted uncomfortably. “Come on, James, lay off. You’re going to get her in trouble.”

“Shut up, Hen.”

Cordelia cut them off before they could get into an argument (or Alfred’s face could become anymore pinched). “I actually have a lot to do today. So I guess I’ll see you around.”

Henry pushed forward eagerly. “Can I have your number? You can call me when you change your mind.”

“I don’t have a phone,” Cordelia said, and at his crestfallen expression, she added, “no, really. I lost it when I moved here.”

“Can I give you my number?” He asked hesitantly.

Cordelia smiled, slightly charmed by his eagerness but mostly ecstatic that someone her age was actually interested in spending time with her. “Yes, I would like that.”

He hurriedly pulled off his backpack for notebook paper and a pencil. Alfred waited disapprovingly at the car door as all the boys wrote their numbers down and handed them to Cordelia.

“I saw you in the superhero store, by the way,” Henry said. “The Flash is awesome.”

Cordelia smiled - a bright, real smile. “He’s the best,” she said.

Alfred opened the back seat door for her and stared pointedly until she got in, waving goodbye to the first group of friends she’d ever made in her entire life. It was amazing, really. Back in her timeline, she never had a chance to make friends. Even when she went to school, it was like the other children knew that there was something wrong with her. She never wore short sleeve shirts, and no one was ever invited to her incredibly large home - which didn’t help the rumors that Wayne Manor was haunted by deadly ghosts.

But now an entire group of boys wanted to be her friend.

“They were nice,” Cordelia to Alfred as he drove them back to the Manor. The pieces of paper with the phone numbers were gently cradled in her fingers.

“You shouldn’t speak to strangers, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said in response. “This Gotham might not be days away from ending like your Gotham, but it is still a crime capital in the United States.”

“I’m Batgirl,” Cordelia pointed out.

Alfred barely contained the sigh. “Indeed.”

“Can I get a phone?” Cordelia asked.

“You would have to ask Master Bruce,” Alfred answered. “As of right now, you don’t have an identity. A lot will have to be finalized before you begin socializing.”

“I doubt Henry or James are going to ask to see my birth certificate, Alfred.”

“No, but they will inquire after your last name and how you found yourself to be a ward of Bruce Wayne,” Alfred said. “And we can’t very well tell them the truth.”

“Hmm,” Cordelia hummed.

The rest of the car ride was quiet.

Chapter 24: Bruce: Adopter or Kidnapper?

Summary:

Bruce narrowed his eyes at her false-innocent tone. “I’m beginning to realize the drawbacks of having a sibling.”

“Really?” Cordelia grinned giddily. Father would have never let her tease him. “I’m beginning to notice the benefits.”

By the time they’d made it back to Wayne Manor, Cordelia had fished out her Flash hoodie from the pile of bags next to her, and pulled it on over her head. Her fingers were gently tracing the lightning bolt symbol once Alfred stopped the car.

“Run along, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said, “I will bring your bags to your room.”

“I can help,” she said automatically.

“No, no,” Alfred said readily. “I insist.”

She wanted to argue, much like she wanted to argue about having to sit in the back of the car. But maybe this was another one of the protocols this new Alfred stuck to. Or maybe it was his polite, subtle way of saying that he wanted time alone.

“Perhaps you should find Master Bruce,” Alfred said after they both stepped out of the car.

“Did he want me for something?” Cordelia questioned, stomach tight.

“He did not say.” Alfred walked around the length of the car to get to the trunk. “But I imagine that the two of you still have much to talk about.”

“Like…” Cordelia took a deep breath. “Like our argument yesterday?”

Alfred took a few bags from the truck as he answered, “I don’t believe Master Bruce will bring that up. He understands that it has been a stressful couple of days for you.”

“Did he say that?”

Alfred and Cordelia were walking up the steps to the front door. “Not in so many words,” Alfred admitted. “Master Bruce is not the best at expressing himself, I admit. But after knowing him for so long, I’ve become quite in tune to the intentions behind his words.”

Not the best at expressing himself. That little tidbit of information swirled through her mind as Alfred unlocked the door. It was comforting, in a way, to hear that this Batman had a flaw. A flaw that better fit the little Brucie Wayne of 8 years-old, who always had a shy smile in every photograph he took. 

Alfred and Cordelia walked into the house. At the same time, Bruce was walking into the entrance hall himself. He paused when he caught sight of them, and all the bags Alfred was carrying. One of his eyebrows raised, and Cordelia waited with bated breath for his reaction.

“Successful trip?” He asked, tone casual.

“Quite,” Alfred said, with no hesitation or embarrassment. “The shopkeepers will be glad to welcome Miss Cordelia back.”

Because Cordelia had been watching Bruce so intensely, she saw when his relaxed expression became wry. “I can imagine.”

She wasn’t sure if he was joking or not, but Alfred chuckled like he was.

Bruce glanced at her hoodie. “And you visited Dick’s favorite store.”

Alfred turned to Cordelia, waiting for her to reply. She shoved down her small sense of betrayal at being put on the spot by him and shrugged stiffly, “I got a mug, too.”

A corner of Bruce’s mouth quirked up. “Dick will be happy to hear that.”

Alfred took this opportunity to go back to the car to bring in some more bags. Cordelia hesitated, wanting to follow but knowing from Bruce’s expectant expression that he wanted her to continue the conversation.

Cordelia fidgeted under the pressure, her fingers going back to tracing the lightning bolt on her chest. Her mind automatically drifted to the Bat symbol, and how she should be wearing that instead. But she didn’t want a repeat of the conversation they already had this morning, so she didn’t bring it up.

“I also made some friends,” was the sentence that came out of her mouth.

This seemed to please Bruce, because his half smile widened. “Oh?”

“Alfred didn’t like them,” Cordelia added.

Alfred was walking back into the house with the two other armfuls of bags. At hearing this, he said, “they were overly eager lads.”

“Lads?” Bruce echoed.

“Yes,” Alfred said, with a hint of disapproval. “A group of young boys loitering around the hero merchandise store.”

“They gave me their numbers,” Cordelia pulled the slips of paper from her hoodie pockets as proof. Bruce stared at them blankly - once again, hard to read. He’s not the best as expressing himself. Cordelia kept repeating that phrase in her mind, determined not to let fear stop her from asking her next question: “Can I get a phone so I can call them? And to call Barry. I haven’t spoken to Barry since he left me here.”

Weirdly, Bruce glanced at Alfred - as if he expected him to be the one to answer.

“Oh no, Master Bruce,” Alfred said with amusement. “I’m enjoying this far too much to step in.”

“You’re developing a mean streak, Alfred,” Bruce informed him.

“It keeps me going at my age, Sir.”

Bruce grimaced at the older man. When he turned to Cordelia, he looked very much like he’d swallowed something sour and was trying not to let it show. “I’ll think about it. We still have a lot to work out with your identity before you start… making friends.”

Cordelia quickly hid her disappointment. That sounded like a no. But there were worst things than being told no. “Has Barry asked about me, at least? Has he called you?”

“Barry has been too busy to make phone calls,” Bruce replied.

“Busy?” Cordelia said. “Busy doing what? Maybe I can help him.”

“It isn’t anything any of us will be able to help with,” Bruce said. “He messed with the timeline, and he’s the only one who remembers what that meant for us. It’s his job to write up a report for the Justice League so that we’re prepared for all of the consequences.”

Consequences. Of course. Cordelia had been so caught up in her world ending, that she hadn’t even considered that anything other than her might have followed them out of there.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” Bruce added.

Cordelia didn’t believe that. But she didn’t say it. Instead, she asked, “What’s the Justice League?”

“A group of heroes who protect the Earth,” Bruce answered. “Barry and I are founding members.”

Cordelia chewed her lip. “…I might have more to share about my timeline than Barry. I spent fifteen years there. Barry only spent a couple of days.”

“Barry remembers growing up in that timeline,” Bruce told her. “We don’t know how long he will keep the memories of his other life, but for now what he remembers is more than enough to fill out the report.”

The young girl wondered if this was true, or if Bruce was just saying that to keep her from doing anything Batgirl-related. Meanwhile, Alfred was taking her clothes upstairs to her room. In just a few minutes, only Bruce and Cordelia were left in the entrance hall.

“Did you have a nice time with Alfred?” Her brother asked.

Cordelia carefully put the boys’ numbers in her hoodie pocket. “I… don’t know. Everything here is so weird.”

“Weird how?”

She shrugged. “The sun is out. Is that… normal in this Gotham?”

Bruce tilted his head, considering. “Not usually. Gotham pollution tends to make our skies foggy. But we’ve been having a few lucky days recently.”

“Most days were rainy in my Gotham,” Cordelia said.

“Hm,” Bruce said. “What else is different?”

His tone was deceptively casual, but Cordelia knew an interrogation when she heard one. Bruce was not making smalltalk just for the sake of filling in a silence - he wanted to know something specific, something useful. But what did he want to learn more about?

Their father, most likely. Probably Gotham. Probably even her.

“Is there something specific you’re asking for?” She asked. Cut to the chase and she won’t annoy the Bat.

“No,” Bruce said simply, but his eyes never left hers.

Observant. So observant that it was unsettling. She wondered if this was something they both shared, or if it was something uniquely Batman.

“Everyone here is… happier,” Cordelia said. She kept her tone light, even though she was fully aware of how her words were being put under a microscope the second they left her lips. “I suppose that’s a credit to your work as Batman. You’ve made Gotham a better place.”

A compliment to Bruce; a slight to Father. Cordelia wondered, as she watched her brother, which he would take it as.

“We did not have the world ending to distract us from the mission,” he ended up saying. A defense for their father. This didn’t surprise Cordelia. Everything Bruce did seemed to be in honor of his parents. “I guess we both have a lot of questions for each other.”

She did have questions for him. About his children, and about himself, and about her own future under his care. But she wasn’t sure if knowing the answers was worth sharing details about her own life.

Bruce furrowed his brow, noticing her hesitance. “It isn’t easy,” he began, “talking about the past. Especially after experiencing something terrible. And if you don’t want to…” Bruce hesitated himself then, “you don’t have to answer my questions.”

She gave him a doubtful look. “Really?”

“Really,” Bruce said. The corner of his lips twitched, almost like he was holding back a smile at her obvious disbelief.

“Okay,” Cordelia said, very distrustful. “I did want to ask you about…” she trailed off. Bruce gave her an encouraging look. “My nephews. Cassandra. Your children. What are they like?”

Bruce did smile then, and something tight in Cordelia’s chest eased at the sight. Bruce did not look like their father when he smiled; his sharp eyes softened and the smooth lines on his face deepened. He looked less like Batman and more like a grown up version of the boy she’d seen only in portraits.

Cordelia much preferred this.

“Where to start?” Bruce asked no one in particular.

“How did you end up adopting them?” Cordelia asked.

His smile dimmed a bit, and Cordelia felt like she’d lost something special.

“That is a long story,” Bruce told her. He gave her a once over. “Come on, let’s go get you something to eat.”

Cordelia did feel hungry after all the shopping. She hurried to keep up with Bruce, peaking at him every once in a while to see if there were any sudden mood shifts - if he would bring up how many bags Alfred brought in or how she’d argued with him only a few hours before. But his face remained pleasant, and he slowed his pace so that she didn’t have to quicken her steps.

That small gesture made her heart ache with sadness and tentative hope. He must have been used to walking next to people with shorter legs after raising so many kids.

“That’s another thing that’s strange,” Cordelia said out loud. Bruce quirked an eyebrow at her. “In my timeline, you never grew up past eight years-old. I knew technically that you were my older brother, but once I turned nine I think I started to consider you my baby brother, instead.”

“Having someone as short as you refer to me as a baby is even more strange,” Bruce retorted lightly.

They were in the kitchen now. Bruce opened the fridge, pulled out some containers with leftover food, and popped them in the microwave. With nothing else to do, Cordelia sat down at the table.

“I’m not…” she stopped herself from saying ‘short’ when Bruce gave her a pointed look. “It helps with stealth on missions.”

“You and Damian might get along,” Bruce said, amused. “He’s said the same exact thing to his brothers before.”

Cordelia watched his face with interest, how it became softer when he mentioned his children, and how he became much easier to read. She realized that Alfred had been wrong before: Bruce wasn’t All Bat, All The Time - he was Batman and he was a father. She didn’t know which was the more prominent trait, but she knew in that moment, without a doubt, that he was more fatherly than Thomas Wayne had ever been to her.

“I used to think about you a lot growing up,” she told him. Bruce’s eyes zeroed in on her own. He could have been shocked that she was choosing to share something about herself unprompted; or he could have been satisfied with his ability to subtly manipulate information out of her. Whichever emotion he was feeling did not deter Cordelia from continuing: “There were pictures of you all over the place, so it was hard not to, but…. I would always wonder what you would have grown up to be if you and your parents never walked into that alley.”

Something dark flashed behind the icy blue of his eyes. It frightened Cordelia enough to stop her from talking.

“Sorry,” she said haltingly. “I know it’s a bad memory. I don’t know why I just brought it up like that.”

“It’s nothing I don’t think about all the time myself,” Bruce waved a dismissive hand, but his shoulders were tense.

The microwave beside Bruce beeped. Cordelia grimaced at herself when his back turned. They’d been having such a good conversation, and she had to ruin it by saying something so insensitive - as if she’d like to be reminded of the worst day of her life in casual conversation.

“I want to hear your theory,” Bruce said. “What did you think I’d be like?”

She wanted to take back her earlier words and ignore his question, but she owed him something after being so tactless. And she didn’t want that dark look to return. “I thought that you would be a writer.” Bruce gave her a surprised look. She picked at her hoodie sleeve. “I know I’m completely off with my prediction. Father missed you - a lot. So he rarely brought you up. But when he did, he’d talk about how shy you were, yet how curious. You liked to learn about things. And you would always ask him to read you bedtime stories. In my mind as a child, it sounded like you wanted to learn a lot about the world so that you could share what you learned in your own storybooks.”

Bruce put the warmed up food on two separate plates and brought them over to the table. “I always thought I’d be a doctor like Dad.”

“Why aren’t you?” Cordelia asked hesitantly. Why did Father give up on being a doctor, too?

“It didn’t feel like enough,” was his answer.

Cordelia took a small bite of her broccoli. “I guess that makes sense. You want to be the person who stops people from getting hurt, rather than the person they call in the aftermath.”

Bruce hummed thoughtfully. He barely ate his own food, and instead watched her as she ate. “What about you? Have you given up your dreams on being a doctor?”

“Being a doctor was never a possibility for me,” Cordelia said simply.

Bruce looked confused. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

You’re saying too much, a voice in Cordelia’s head said. She took a moment to find an answer that didn’t directly relate to their father and his demanding lifestyle. “Being Batgirl is too important.”

It was an answer similar to Bruce’s. Maybe that was why he didn’t question her on it. He thought he understood the decision she made to leave a regular life behind.

“You know,” she said softly, “I think you’d still make a great writer. Think of all the stories you’d be able to tell now.”

Bruce’s lips quirked up. “The things I’ve seen would be considered too unbelievable to sell, even to children.”

“Maybe as a novel,” Cordelia agreed with a returning smile, “but you’d make a great comic book.”

She was halfway through her plate and Bruce only took a few bites of his own. Cordelia hesitated from eating more. Was he waiting for her to be finished so he could leave? She was about to set her fork down and let her brother know that she wasn’t hungry anymore, when he said: “You asked about my children.”

“Oh,” Cordelia flushed, “You don’t have to-“

“No, I understand why you’re curious,” Bruce said. “You never thought you would be an aunt before.”

“No, I didn’t,” Cordelia said after a pause. “I couldn’t imagine you as a father, either, even after Barry arrived.”

Many people would have taken this as an insult, even if Cordelia didn’t mean it that way. But Bruce chuckled. “I still consider it strange to think of myself as a father. It almost feels like it happened on accident. I never went looking for children to adopt, you know. Some of them actually looked for me.”

Cordelia frowned in confusion. “What? Like they were part of a door-to-door adoption agency?”

“Tim might have been,” Bruce answered wryly, “and Cass.”

“But you adopted Dick first?” Cordelia asked, even thought she knew the answer. She wanted to hear it all from the beginning, to get a clear picture of her new family’s history.

“Yes,” Bruce’s fork was lightly stabbing a piece of broccoli. Cordelia took another bite of her own. “It was a long time ago. I was in my early twenties and had a date who wanted me to take her to see a traveling circus. The circus was creating a lot of buzz in Gotham at the time, mostly because of a three person act that called themselves the Flying Graysons.”

“Acrobats?” Cordelia deduced.

“The best I’d ever seen. They were famous for not using nets in their trapeze acts, because they were confident that they’d never fall,” Bruce said. “Two of them were in the middle of their act when everyone realized that their trapeze was sabotaged.”

“They fell,” the young girl realized.

Bruce nodded sharply.

“The two were Dick’s parents?”

“Yes,” Bruce said. “The third acrobat watched them fall. And I was sitting in the crowd, watching him lose his family.”

The two Waynes sat quietly in the kitchen, neither touching their food. “So then you adopted him?” Cordelia asked.

“No,” Bruce frowned, lost in a memory. “I didn’t adopt him until years later. I should have adopted him sooner, but… I was young. And I didn’t want to try to replace his parents.”

His voice was filled with so much regret and self hatred that Cordelia felt a sudden urge to protect him from himself. “It was still a nice thing to do,” Cordelia said. “You took him in. A lot of people wouldn’t.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” Bruce admitted. “But I still regret all those years Dick spent wondering where he stood with me.”

Cordelia recalled her suspicions that Bruce and his children weren’t close. Another option was that they were just complicated, as she had been with her own mother. Still, she needed to know: “Why does Dick live in Bludhaven? That place is a murder hub in my timeline.”

“It is here, too,” Bruce said with contempt. “But Dick wants to make it better.”

“And is he?”

“As much as we’re making Gotham better,” Bruce answered. “Sometimes it feels like everything is getting worse. But then there are days like these, when the sun is out.”

They both looked toward the window. The sun was lowering, but the sky was a brilliant blue that you normally only saw in Metropolis. It was a nice day; a better day than Cordelia’d seen in years.

“So you never met a Dick Grayson in your timeline?” Bruce’s question interrupted the peaceful quiet.

“No,” Cordelia said apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

Bruce was frowning to himself. With a jolt, Cordelia realized that she could actually read his expression: he was sad, and worried. Worried about how his son had fared in her timeline without him.

“It’s probably a good thing that I haven’t heard of him,” she added. At his questioning gaze, she continued, “I only really hear of people if they are criminals, heroes, or victims. Maybe Dick lived a normal life in my timeline. Maybe he was still in a traveling circus with his parents.”

“Hm,” Bruce said. The wrinkle that had formed between his eyebrows disappeared. Cordelia marveled at her newfound ability to make her brother feel better. “The next one I adopted was Jason. I’d been patrolling on the night of my parents’ murder, and when I got back to the BatMobile - “

Cordelia choked out a laugh, then hurriedly covered her mouth when Bruce blinked at her in shock. “Sorry! Sorry. It’s just…” a giggle escaped her lips, “the BatMobile?” And she’d thought Barry’s lightning bolt ears were dorky.

Bruce’s surprised expression morphed into a rueful one. “Dick named it.”

“Sure.”

Cordelia gave another snort. Bruce watched her amusement with an amused look of his own. 

“Alfred could back me up on this,” Bruce promised her.

“No, no. I believe you.”

“Did you want me to finish this story?” Bruce wondered. “Or would you like me to wait until Alfred arrives to defend me?”

“No, I want to hear the story. Go on,” Cordelia said with a smirk. “Where did you leave off? You just got back to your what?”

He sent her a glare with no heat behind it, but continued: “My BatMobile. But the tires were missing. There was a skinny little kid stealing my tires in the very alley that my parents died in.”

Cordelia’s smile faltered. “Were you mad?”

“It was the strangest thing: I’d been upset that entire day. And if I’m being honest with myself, I’d been upset since Dick had moved out. But when I walked into that alley that held so many awful memories for me, and met this angry kid with a tire iron who actually had the gall to blame me for getting my tires stolen… I laughed.”

Cordelia tried to picture it: Batman laughing in an alley. The poor kid must have been terrified.

“So then you just… took the kid home with you?” She furrowed her eyebrows in confusion.

“No, I told the kid to put my tires back on my car and then I took him home.”

“What happened to his parents?”

Something dark rippled under the surface of Bruce’s skin. But when he answered, his voice remained even, “His mother died of a drug overdose before I met him and his father was in prison.”

Cordelia winced, knowing how difficult it was to grow up with one addict parent and one absentee parent. “If you helped him from that situation, then… why did you say he won’t visit Wayne Manor?”

“That’s not my story to tell,” Bruce said simply.

The young Wayne did not like leaving this as a mystery, especially since she was still half-convinced that Jason Todd was dead and Bruce was just in denial about it, but she supposed it was fair. After all, she wasn’t sharing much about her own life. Why should she expect Bruce to share about someone else’s?

“What about Tim?” Cordelia asked. “You said he was part of a door-to-door adoption agency. Did he just knock on your door and say ‘hey, adopt me?’”

“That is very close to what happened,” Bruce said seriously. “Except that he didn’t ask to be adopted as Bruce Wayne’s child, but as Batman’s partner. After Jason left, I’d become… unhappy. Tim noticed this and told me that I needed a partner as Batman. Everyone decided that Tim was the best person for the job.”

Cordelia was beginning to notice a pattern. “You don’t like to work alone.”

“I prefer to work alone,” Bruce said immediately.

“But…” Cordelia frowned. “But every time one of your partners leave, you get a new partner.”

“It’s impossible to keep them away.”

“But earlier you talked about how you were Batman, and Gotham was your city, and how no vigilante stays if you don’t want them to.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes at her false-innocent tone. “I’m beginning to realize the drawbacks of having a sibling.”

“Really?” Cordelia grinned giddily. Father would have never let her tease him. “I’m beginning to notice the benefits.”

“Eat your food so I can finish the story,” Bruce commanded, even though he still had a full plate in front of him. “As I was saying, Tim worked as my partner for a couple of years before his father was murdered. When that happened, I knew I had to take him in, too.”

“Where was Damian when all of this happened?”

“I had no idea that Damian existed until a couple of years ago. His mother kept him a secret from me until he was old enough to beat her in a fight.”

“What?” Cordelia almost choked on her food. “Why would-“

“Damian has a complicated background,” Bruce said simply. “He was raised to one day lead the League of Assassins.”

“His mother is an al Ghul?” Cordelia asked in surprise. Bruce nodded. “Bruce! You couldn’t have chosen a worse partner. They’re half crazy from how many times they’ve taken baths in the Pits.”

“Talia isn’t my partner,” Bruce said easily, “and she isn’t crazy.”

Cordelia wanted to disagree, but knew that it would do no good. Bruce already had a child with an al Ghul, so their lives would be connected forever no matter how Cordelia felt about it.

Still, she didn’t like the thought of someone hitting one of her nephews.

“So when did he finally win the fight?” Cordelia asked.

“At ten years-old,” Bruce said, sounding neither shocked or prideful. “His mother brought him to me and he’s stayed with me ever since. I couldn’t send him back to an environment like that.”

Cordelia sat in thoughtful silence, taking in everything she had learned about this new family. She’d misjudged her brother, she realized. He was… better than she imagined he’d be. He was a good person. A good father. And….

And she wished she’d grown up with him around. Perhaps, if she had, she wouldn’t feel so downtrodden every time she thought of her childhood. Perhaps everything that had happened to her wouldn’t have happened at all.

“They’ve been through a lot,” Cordelia said quietly.

“They handle it better than anyone I’ve ever known,” Bruce agreed. “It’s hard not to feel proud when I see everything they’ve grown from. Everything they’ve accomplished.”

“Thanks to you taking them in,” Cordelia said.

“No,” Bruce disagreed this time. “They did all the hard work on their own.”

Bruce believed this wholeheartedly, Cordelia could see. And maybe he was right. But Cordelia also knew what it was like to grow up without a safe place to go, always feeling on edge like a monster was just waiting for you to settle before pouncing. She knew how difficult it was to grow without having a place to plant your roots. His sons might have done well without Bruce, but what he did for them was not nothing.

“When did Cassandra join the family?” Cordelia asked.

“Cass found Barbara, a family friend, before she found me,” Bruce said, with a touch if fondness. “At first, she was just interested in Batman. I don’t think she even realized that there was a man behind the mask. She followed me around on patrol, took orders, asked for assignments. She was so fantastic that I just….”

“Took her home?” Cordelia tried not to sound as in disbelief as she was. “Bruce, do you even check to see if these kids have parents before adopting them?”

“Of course I do,” Bruce said, but his face was curiously blank.

Cordelia gave him a suspicious look. “Really? So how did the conversation go? Did she randomly share that she had no parents or did you ask her?”

Bruce’s lips pressed together, slightly petulant. “Neither. She was mute and didn’t understand language at the time.”

Cordelia’s jaw dropped. “Bruce! That’s kidnapping.”

“She came with me willingly.”

Surprised laughter burst from Cordelia’s lips before she could stop herself. She pressed her hands to her mouth to try to muffle the sound, but it slipped through her fingers and filled the kitchen around them. It was just so absurd how Bruce had managed to collect his family: how it began as a series of accidents until he finally resigned to his role as a father and just took in any kid that happened to follow him home.

Like they were cats and he was a lonely old lady.

Bruce’s sullen expression morphed into one of quiet contentment as Cordelia’s laughter continued.

“You have an adoption problem, Bruce,” Cordelia told him when her laughter turned to sporadic giggles.

“I’ve been told,” Bruce said, his voice dry.

“Did Cassandra’s parents ever show up?”

“Yes,” Bruce said. At his sister’s raised eyebrows, he elaborated: “They’re both assassins. She’s safer with me.”

Cordelia was going to ask him more questions about Cassandra’s parents when Alfred walked into the kitchen.

“Oh,” he said in surprise, eyes lingering on Cordelia’s smile and Bruce’s slight grin. “I was just about to get started on lunch.”

“No need, Alfred,” Bruce said readily. He got to his feet, and Cordelia’s mood dropped a little as she realized he was leaving. “But if you could prepare us movie snacks, instead?”

“Of course, Sir,” Alfred said brightly. He hurried around the kitchen, collecting dishes and ingredients. “Any special requests?”

Bruce turned to Cordelia, and she stared back in surprise. “Um,” she fidgeted uncomfortably. “I’m watching a movie?”

“We both are,” Bruce answered easily. “You have yet to see the theater room. And it’s always the kids’ favorite. We can watch a favorite movie of yours.”

“I don’t have a favorite movie.”

Bruce looked shocked for a moment, but covered it up quickly. “None?”

Cordelia shook her head. The last movie she’d watched had been one that her elementary school teacher put on for the class. It was about an alien boy with a light sword who figured out his father was a cape-wearing murderer.

Cordelia did not like that movie.

“I can show you our movie collection and you can pick one you find interesting, then,” Bruce said.

“Aren’t you busy?” She asked hesitantly.

She could see Alfred’s movements slow before Bruce answered: “Not at all. Gotham is being looked after by a few others at the moment.”

Cordelia searched his expression for any sign that she shouldn’t agree to this - any sign that sitting in a room with him for longer than thirty minutes would end in her getting hurt. But he had that warm smile on his face again, and he had been so nice earlier, and Alfred was giving her an encouraging look over his shoulder, so she said… “Okay.”

“Excellent,” Alfred said. “You two run along. I will provide you with options.”

Bruce led her through the house and toward a room that used to be a cocktail bar in her timeline. (Bruce does not prioritize alcohol like Father, she would later write in her notebook). The room was huge, with a screen three times as tall as Cordelia, and with many dark red seats fat with stuffing.

“Do you sell tickets?” Cordelia blurted out in surprise.

Bruce chuckled. “You can thank Dick for how this room was designed,” he said. “He wanted enough seats for all his friends.”

Dick must be very popular. There were four rows of seats, and five for each row.

“Although, the more this family grows,” Bruce said, “the more I’m glad how much I indulged him on things like this. Otherwise we would have had to drag a very large couch into the family room.”

Bruce showed her his digital movie collection. Cordelia flipped through them, staring at the colorful covers for each movie and reading each description carefully. She couldn’t help but feel put on the spot, like this was some sort of test to see what type of things she found entertaining. Despite how nice Bruce was being, he was still Batman, and she wouldn’t put it past him to find subtle ways like these to learn more about her.

Her mind raced for a good option. She considered picking a murder mystery so she could show him that she was a good detective, and that she was an ideal Batgirl - but then worried that he would think she was creepily morbid and enjoyed murder.

Next she gravitated toward the sillier movies, just so she could prove to him that she wasn’t mentally unwell - but this didn’t seem like a good enough option, either. After all, he already treated her like a child. She did not want to make that treatment increase tenfold.

Eventually, she chose The Secret Garden, because gardening reminded her of Alfred and there was nothing wrong with Alfred.

Bruce hummed when she finally made her choice, confirming her suspicions that this had been a test. Then he started the movie for them. Cordelia spent the next five minutes trying to understand what that hum meant, before actually paying attention to what was going on.

She quickly found out that this was not the lighthearted gardening movie that she would have liked it to be. The main character was not a happy little gardener, but a spoiled, moody girl who lived in a large house but still felt alone because her parents neglected her.

“I was born in India,” the character narrated. “It was hot and strange and lonely in India. I didn’t like it. Nobody but my servant, my Ayah, looked after me. My parents didn’t want me. My mother cared only to go to parties, and my father was busy with his military duties.”

Cordelia wished she’d chosen differently. She didn’t like the main character: how lonely she was, how suspicious she was of everyone around her, and how she could do nothing to change her situation but let the adults around her tell her what to do.

Is this how Bruce and Alfred see me? She wondered, deeply unsettled as the main character glared at another character for treating her like a kid. As unapproachable and unlikable as a feral animal?

She curled her legs to her chest. At the same time, Alfred came in with a large platter of snacks. A bunch of sweets were laid out in front of the Waynes, from popcorn to pop tarts to cookies. It was more junk food than Cordelia knew was healthy, especially for Bats who needed to keep healthy diets to stay strong.

Bruce reached forward and held up the bowl of popcorn until she accepted it.

“Alfred makes really good movie popcorn,” Bruce told her.

She ate some to avoid seeming rude. The flavor exploded in her mouth: salty and buttery, with a hint of cheddar. She ate some more, and Bruce brought his attention back to the screen.

He didn’t say anything more until the main character found the secret garden at last. “Interesting.”

Curiosity got the better of Cordelia. “What’s interesting?”

“That bird that showed her the way into the garden was a robin,” Bruce said.

“Why is that interesting?” She asked.

Bruce just gave her a half smile. “I’ll tell you after the movie.” Then - out of nowhere - he reached over and ruffled her hair. Cordelia stiffened under his touch, not moving a single muscle as his large hand disrupted the strands.

Alfred used to do that when she was little. It was a sign of affection, like a hug. She knew that. But it was only something adults did to children they were fond of. Which was why Thomas never did it to her. No, Thomas would only ever touch her if he wanted to hurt her.

Bruce would never know how similar his hands were to Thomas Wayne’s. He would never know that they had the same shape, the same knuckles, even the same callouses….

But Cordelia did not think that she’d ever forget.

She wished she could enjoy the touch. She wished that the sight of Bruce reaching out to her didn’t make her want to curl into a ball and never come out. She wished that everything she learned about Bruce, about how great of a father he was, meant that she was no longer terrified of what he could do to her, but….

She couldn’t forget Thomas Wayne’s fists.

She didn’t relax until the other main character started to become more a part of the story: the girl’s cousin - a sick little boy who was more isolated and lonely than the girl. 

They were a miserable pair but, strangely, they made each other better. The growing garden was a bright flame in the girl’s life, and in turn, the girl became a bright flame in her cousin’s life. It was as if the characters were collecting happiness and sharing it with one another - like flowers that could be passed from one hand to another.

Halfway through the movie, Alfred came back in with hot tea. Cordelia blinked sleepily as she drank some. The mixture of a full belly, a warm beverage, the dim lights, and the soft music from the movie allowed her body to relax. Slowly, she rested her head on one of the armrests, and was pleased to feel that it was as soft as a pillow.

Dick is a interior design genius, she thought as she curled snugly into her seat.

Cordelia watched as the garden in the movie grew and grew and grew until the land was so beautiful that she wanted nothing more than to crawl inside the screen and sleep on top of a flowerbed.

“The Manor should have a garden like that,” she murmured.

By the end of the movie, she was fully asleep, and woke up only briefly when she felt herself being moved.

Someone was cradling her in their arms as they walked through the Manor. She could feel her head resting against a broad shoulder, but could see nothing from her position but a strong, square jaw.

Father? She thought, before her heavy eyes fell closed once again.

Notes:

A sweet little Bruce and Cordelia bonding moment before everything completely falls apart.

Chapter 25: BONUS CHAPTER

Summary:

After a while, she asked her most pressing question: “Doesn’t it get confusing to have a cat named Alfred?”

“Absolutely,” was Bruce’s instant response.

Another pause, and then she asked her second-most pressing question: “Has Alfred ever peed on the carpet? Because I think that’d be funny to say.”

“Hm. Let’s go meet Ace now.”

Notes:

Originally, there was a time skip after Bruce and Cordelia watched The Secret Garden. But my brain filled in what happened during that time so I just decided to write it down. Hope you enjoy!

Cordelia’s next week at Wayne Manor was like something out of a childhood dream. Gone were the mornings that she would eat breakfast alone, because Bruce and Alfred were always there to greet her. Granted, Alfred never actually sat down with the Waynes, but sometimes he would linger and join in on their conversations (or even start them, since neither sibling had a talent for that).

Then, after breakfast, Bruce would ask her if she’d like to do something.

---

On the first day, Bruce asked if she’d like to meet all their pets.

“I didn’t know you were an animal person,” Cordelia said as she followed her brother through the Manor in search of his cat.

“I wouldn’t call myself an animal person,” Bruce said. “I just like my animals. And most of them are Damians.”

Cordelia knew that this would be another tidbit of information she wrote in her notebook later that day. If Damian liked animals, then she needed to remember that for when they met.

“There he is,” Bruce said suddenly. He made clicking sounds with his tongue. “Come here, Alfred.”

Cordelia waited for the butler to appear. But the footsteps approaching them were much too soft for the formal shoes that Alfred chose to wear everyday. She was going to ask Bruce where Alfred was, when her brother stooped down and picked something up.

“Oh,” Cordelia blinked. He’d picked up a cat. The cat blinked back at her with tawny eyes. “I was expecting Alfred.”

“This is Alfred,” Bruce lifted the cat up a bit. It gave off a soft mew, as if agreeing with Bruce’s assessment.

Cordelia furrowed her eyebrows. The cat’s whiskers twitched as it continued to stare at her calmly. “…I can see the resemblance?”

Bruce’s lips quirked up, amused. “Would you like to hold him?”

“Um,” Cordelia folded her arms. It was ridiculous to be shy about holding a cat, so she tried not to look it. “I can see him just fine from there.”

“I thought you liked animals,” Bruce said, confused.

In truth, Cordelia didn’t know how she felt about animals. She just agreed to see them because she wanted to spend more time with Bruce. Instead of admitting to her earlier fib, she stretched her arms out for the pet.

Bruce laid the black cat in her arms and Cordelia awkwardly tried to make it comfortable there. She was very glad it was being so patient with her and demurely accepting any position she moved it to. Cordelia did not think the human Alfred would be so accepting of this treatment.

“He’s nice,” Cordelia said, knowing a compliment was in order. “I like his paws. They look like the white gloves that Alfred wears.”

“I think that’s what inspired Damian to choose his name,” Bruce said.

The cat twisted his head to stare directly into Cordelia’s eyes. It was unnerving, but she just reminded herself that this was Damian’s cat, so she had to become friends with it. Carefully, she began to scratch its genteel head, and relaxed when its tawny eyes closed and its body began to vibrate in a purr.

The purr was loud and strong, filling the silence between the two Waynes. Cordelia didn’t realize when she started to smile. Maybe she was an animal person - or simply a person who liked her animals, like Bruce.

After a while, she asked her most pressing question: “Doesn’t it get confusing to have a cat named Alfred?”

“Absolutely,” was Bruce’s instant response.

Another pause, and then she asked her second-most pressing question: “Has Alfred ever peed on the carpet? Because I think that’d be funny to say.”

“Hm. Let’s go meet Ace now.”

---

On the second day, Bruce asked her if she wanted to read with him in the library.

“This was Jason’s favorite room growing up,” Bruce told her. “He liked it even more than the BatCave.”

Cordelia liked the library, too. It was one of the only rooms in Thomas’s Manor that wasn’t in complete shambles. But Bruce’s library was noticeably different; it was full of well-kept books, dusted shelves, lavish furniture, and window seats.

Cordelia walked down an isle, noticing that Bruce also collected books that her father never had: like novels, manga, and even a few comic books. The young Wayne suspected that these books were not collected for his own sake. She couldn’t imagine Super Serious Bruce Wayne sitting down and enjoying a romance manga. 

“What did Jason like to read?” She asked him.

“Mostly the classics,” Bruce gestured toward a few books low on the shelves. “He’s a Jane Austen fan.”

“Jason was the short one in the portraits, right?” Cordelia asked after plucking a Jane Austen book off the shelf. “The one with the biggest smile?”

Bruce looked away, but not before she saw the flash of pain cross his features. “Yes,” he said shortly, then went to a different aisle to pick out his own book.

Cordelia wandered over to an armchair near the window and curled up with her novel. It was Pride & Prejudice, a story she would have had to read if the schools didn’t shut down when the war started. If Bruce got his way, and she went to school, then she would be embarrassingly behind on her academics.

Bruce soon joined her with a book of his own, a hardback with engraved lettering.

They stayed reading for hours before Bruce broke the silence with his question: “Why are you smiling?”

Cordelia’s smile widened. “No reason. Just… Mr. Darcy reminds me of someone.”

“Who?” Bruce quirked an eyebrow.

“…I don’t know,” Cordelia raised the book to hide her face was scrutiny. “Someone.”

They didn’t stop reading until lunch time. And by then, Bruce had to leave to meet with someone — but he wouldn’t say who.

---

On the third day, Bruce brought her to the art room.

He told her that it was something he created for Damian after he discovered how gifted the boy was. Cordelia saw for herself how much talent he had when she entered the room; unfinished canvases littered the space, but even those were outstanding. His work was incredibly detailed, but leaned into darker elements, something that was most likely influenced by his upbringing.

She paused in front of a painting of Batman. The dark figure stood over a broken body in an alley and was glaring down at his own bloodied fist. The tall ears cast a gruesome shadow on the bricked wall behind him. But the most disturbing part of this painting was the perspective it was painted from: someone small enough that they had to look up to the dark vigilante in order to see his stony face.

“Here,” Bruce said.

Cordelia nearly jumped out of her skin.

Bruce was holding out a blank canvas, face as smooth of any emotion as the portrait in front of her. She gently took the canvas from him without a word.

“Do you have an idea of what you want to paint?” He asked.

Cordelia shrugged, then said, “Alfred’s garden, I think.”

Flowers were simple enough to paint - just splashes of vibrant colors on a green landscape. Cordelia followed Bruce to a table with painting supplies laid out, and sat down across from him.

“What about you?”

“Gotham’s skyline,” Bruce replied.

Despite herself, she perked up with interest. She would love to know how Batman saw Gotham. Was it as dark and gritty as the rest of the world saw it? Or did he see something special, something worth saving?

As they painted, Bruce asked her questions. Almost all of them were about the present, rather than the past, which Cordelia really appreciated. He asked her about Pride & Prejudice; if she liked it, which character was her favorite, if she knew that they had the movie adaptations in the theater room. He asked her about the animals; if Alfred was still her favorite and if she’d like to see photographs of Ace dressed as BatHound.

She’d nearly finished painting her garden when she asked her own question: “When will I meet your children?”

Bruce’s hand froze in painting a gargoyle on a rooftop. The gargoyle was a familiar one - it was the one Thomas visited the most. It had a perfect view of Crime Alley. 

“My children can be… overwhelming,” he said finally. He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. “Especially Damian and Jason when it comes to new members of the family. I want to make sure that you’re ready for that.”

“I’m ready,” Cordelia said immediately.

Bruce frowned. “Cordelia, Damian was raised by assassins. He’s doing better, but sometimes he slips.”

“Are you saying that he’ll try to kill me?” Cordelia asked somberly. It was just her luck to leave an abusive father and move into a house with a murderous nephew. 

“Yes,” Bruce said, very seriously. “He’s tried to kill Tim before, several times.”

Cordelia dragged her brush absently down her canvas. When she spoke, her voice was resigned, “Are they close now, at least? Damian and Tim?”

Bruce considered this before answering: “They’re brothers.”

Which wasn’t an answer at all.

---

On the fourth day, Bruce and Cordelia got into an argument. 

It started when Bruce noticed Cordelia drinking from her Flash mug.

“We have Batgirl mugs, too,” he told her.

“I know.”

Bruce looked bothered by this answer. “And you still chose to use a Flash mug?”

Warning bells rang in Cordelia’s mind. She’d done something wrong, something that would make Bruce unhappy with her. A familiar tightness spread through her muscles like a chill.

It was Alfred who spoke next. “Don’t take his moodiness personally, my dear. Master Bruce behaved the same way when Miss Cassandra developed her first crush.”

“I —“ Cordelia wished she could control the blood rushing to her face the same way she could control her features. “I don’t have a crush on Barry. I just like him — but in a friend way. Not a….”

Bruce’s eyes connected with Alfred’s in that annoying way they always seemed to.

“Why would it matter to you, anyway?” She was defensive now. “Who I like has nothing to do with you. It’s not like Barry and I could be together. Not while he’s married.”

“Not ever,” Bruce corrected firmly.

Cordelia crossed her arms. “You don’t know that. Anything could happen.”

Bruce looked very upset now. “Cordelia, Barry is much too old for you. He would never even consider looking at you as anything other than his friend’s little sister. And if that ever changed, I would —“

He cut himself off abruptly when he saw Cordelia expression. She quickly looked away, embarrassed at how much those words managed to hurt her.

“I’m — sorry,” Bruce’s words came out haltingly, as if someone was forcing him to say them. “I just don’t want you to hurt yourself by developing feelings for someone who would never reciprocate them.”

Cordelia wished she had the power to ignore him, but her brain was too accustomed to listening to everything Batman said. And what he said cut straight to her heart.

She carefully peeled her orange with stiff fingers to give herself something to do.

“Cordelia?” Bruce said.

He wanted her attention. She pressed her lips together and forced herself to look him in the eye. He still was not happy, but he was clearly trying very hard to appear not upset.

“I’m not saying this to hurt you,” he told her, somewhat gently. “Do you understand that?”

She did not. She did not understand why Bruce cared so much about who she liked. Especially when the person she liked was already so out of reach. So what if she wore a Flash sweater and drank from a Flash cup? It wasn’t like she was confessing her feelings to the man.

“Barry is my friend, too,” Cordelia said, voice hard.

Bruce blinked. “What?”

“You said that he would only ever see me as your little sister, but that’s not true. We’re friends.”

Her brother frowned. “Friends are people who share common interests and who spend time together. Barry is a grown man with a pregnant wife. You have nothing in common, and you won’t be spending time together.”

This was too much. Barry was the only friend she’d ever made in her life, and Bruce was telling her that it was all a lie. Even worse: he was telling her that he would actively stop whatever friendship they did have from growing. 

Not being able to be Barry’s friend hurt worse than knowing he was in love with someone else.

Suddenly, Cordelia was not so excited about her future in Wayne Manor if it meant that Bruce could control who was or wasn’t her friend. She pushed away from the table and made to storm out of the kitchen.

“Cordelia, you haven’t finished eating,” Bruce called after her.

“Yes, I have,” she snapped, and left.

Bruce did not follow her, and she refused to go downstairs to eat lunch when Alfred came looking for her. Her stomach ached with hunger, but she did not want to see Bruce after what he said.

How could he pretend to know anything about her and Barry if he’d barely even seen them interact? He didn’t see when Barry defended her from Father; or when Cordelia checked on him after his lightning injuries; or when he comforted her when she cried; or even when he woke her up with a warm hand to her cheek after saving her life.

Cordelia pressed her own hand to her cheek. She still remembered what that felt like.

Would she ever feel that again? Was what Bruce said true? Did Barry only ever see her as Bruce’s little sister?

The implication was devastating, because that meant that Barry just saved her for Bruce’s sake.

Why did everything always have to be about Bruce?

It wasn’t fair. She wished Bruce never said those things to her. Barry had been her one comfort throughout this entire situation, because she knew that if her life under Bruce’s care didn’t work out, then she could always go to Barry. But what if that was a lie? Did Bruce really have the power to keep the speedster away from her?

These worries followed her for the rest of the day until she fell asleep.

---

On the fifth day, Bruce found her sitting on a window seat in the library, staring blankly at an open book. He silently sat down next to her, so close that Cordelia felt crowded.

Bruce did not meet her eyes. He was holding a plate of breakfast food and sitting straight-backed with his jaw set, practically looming over her.

“You can’t keep skipping meals,” he said bluntly. He held out the plate until she took it. “You’re starting to worry Alfred.”

Cordelia felt a stab of guilt. “I’ll apologize to him.”

“From now on, you have to attend breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” Bruce continued. “And you have to eat more than a few bites. No exceptions.”

Her guilt turned sour. More rules. “You can’t force me to eat,” she snapped.

“No exceptions, Cordelia.” He said this in a flat, no-nonsense way that instantly cowed the young girl. She nodded meekly. “That includes breakfast today.”

Cordelia took the hint, glancing down at the plate he brought her. It had all the important food groups - a balanced meal that would probably have had her elementary school health teacher cheering for joy. But it didn’t look appetizing to Cordelia, who always had a hard time eating when she was upset.

Bruce didn’t say anything until she took her first bite, chewed, and swallowed.

“Good,” he said. Cordelia did not feel good. They sat in uncomfortable silence while Cordelia forced herself to eat. Then Bruce said, “I need to apologize, too.”

Cordelia blinked up at him morosely.

“I shouldn’t have been so harsh on you about Barry,” he continued. “I’ve definitely had my fair share of inappropriate crushes-“

“It’s not inappropriate,” Cordelia said before she could stop herself.

“It is,” Bruce said firmly. “You have to know that, Cordelia. As Batgirl, I’m sure you’ve seen a lot of age gap relationships - and not a single one of them are healthy for the younger partner. Especially if the younger partner is under eighteen.”

“Those are rules for civilians,” Cordelia said. “I’m not a normal girl. I’m Batgirl.”

“Those are rules for everyone,” Bruce emphasized. “And it is also my rule for you. I fully trust Barry, but I don’t want you to start a habit of liking older men. Not all of them have morals.”

The back of Cordelia’s eyes stung. “I’m not planning on liking older men, Bruce. Please, just… stop. Why do you want to talk about this so much?”

“I’m trying to take care of you,” Bruce said. 

“I can take care of myself,” Cordelia insisted. “I don’t need to be told when to eat or who to like. You can just be my brother.”

“No,” Bruce said. “You don’t know how to take care of yourself. You’ve missed most meals since you’ve been here, and you don’t even realize how - how naive you are.”

“Naive?” Cordelia could hardly believe what she was hearing. Father had called her many things, but never naive. “Bruce, I’ve witnessed death and murder and terrorism. I’m not naive.”

Bruce gave her a look. “Maybe you’ve seen a lot, but I don’t think you’ve experienced much. Especially when it comes to… relationships. Friendships. Boys your age.”

“Now I can’t talk to boys my age, either?” Cordelia asked moodily.

Bruce’s lips thinned. She was walking on a dangerous edge. “You can talk to boys your age. You can talk to girls your age, too. Just as long as you’re aware that not everyone who acts friendly is looking for friendship. Like those boys at the shopping center.”

Cordelia flushed at the implication. “They were looking for friendship, Bruce. You can’t just decide otherwise, especially since you weren’t even there. It’s like you’re trying to isolate me by making me think that no one could ever like me for me.”

“That’s not true at all. Why would I want you to feel isolated?”

Cordelia glared at her breakfast, frustrated. “What am I supposed to think? I’ve never had a friend before in my life until Barry. And I was happy to consider him my friend. But now you’re making me question everything, and it makes me feel so….” She sighed, her brow furrowing sadly as her fork pushed scrambled eggs around her plate. “Bruce, do you have any idea what it’s like to feel as if not a single person in the world actually cares about you?”

Bruce didn’t say anything at first, and Cordelia was too self-conscious to check for his reaction.

“No,” he finally admitted, his voice strained. “I always had Alfred.”

They were silent once again. Cordelia forced herself to take another bite of her eggs.

“You’re right,” Bruce said, surprisingly. It technically wasn’t Batman saying he was wrong, but it was close. “I shouldn’t have said that about Barry. I’m sure he cares about you. He must have, to have given up what he did. But he’s not the only one who cares about you, Cordelia.”

The young Wayne finally looked up from her plate of food. Bruce was turned away from her, his attention trained on the library door with such intensity that he appeared just seconds away from bolting.

She almost thought he would, but then he continued, “Alfred cares about you.”

Cordelia felt awful for being disappointed. “Oh…. I care about Alfred, too.”

“Good,” Bruce said, finally meeting her gaze. “Now do you understand why we’re having this conversation? If no one cared about you, then we would let you skip as many meals as you wanted and trust anyone who said a kind word to you.”

Cordelia didn’t want to answer, but Bruce was waiting for her response. “I understand. But, Bruce, I’m not stupid. I know the difference between a good person and a bad person.”

Bruce looked at her seriously. “You don’t. No one does. You don’t know if someone is capable of hurting you until they finally do.”

His words sent a chill through her heart. Their eyes locked, and Cordelia had a horrible thought that Bruce was trying to tell her something. Was this a warning of his true nature? Or were these words said innocently?

“Do you understand?” Bruce asked her.

Her eyes flickered between his. Slowly, she nodded. And when he asked if she wanted to watch a movie, she said no.

---

On the sixth day, Bruce surprised her at breakfast with a folder full of her identifying information. 

“It has everything you need,” Bruce said. “I have a few copies in my office.”

Alfred had left the kitchen early, probably to give them this privacy. Cordelia opened the folder carefully and flipped through birth certificates, report cards, health records, a passport, an ID, and a document naming Cordelia Wayne as a legal ward of Bruce Wayne.

It was all there. Everything that would allow her to live a full life in this new timeline.

She eyed the word “ward” for a long time before looking up at Bruce. “Thank you.”

Bruce nodded in acknowledgement. “After our talk yesterday, I realized how important it was to speed up the process. This way you can go to school by Fall, make friends your own age and… like people your own age.”

Cordelia really wished she could stop blushing. “Bruce, I —“

“I heard what you said about being lonely,” he cut her off. He looked flustered, and oddly formal with his hands folded on the table in front of him. “I don’t want that for you. I want… I just want you to be happy.”

His words were said with a strain of awkwardness, but that did not matter to Cordelia. It was as if what he said had filled an empty place in her heart, one that had been cold and aching for a very long time. She blinked rapidly at the sudden warmth.

Bruce must have seen the raw emotions on her face, the ones she could not hide. One of his hands lifted to her cheek.

Cordelia gave an involuntary flinch away from it, but Bruce didn’t hurt her.

The palm of his hand was warm against her face, and his thumb began to rub comforting circles into her cheekbone - the same way it did when he woke her up from her nightmare. She hesitantly reached up to keep his hand there.

“Thank you,” her words were murmured. She did not trust that her voice would be strong enough to speak any louder.

Bruce pulled his lips into a smile, but his eyes spoke a different story. He was thinking, analyzing, wanting to ask questions but knowing she wouldn’t want to answer.

“I should have said this yesterday,” Bruce began. Cordelia almost drew back, remembering their argument, but then he continued, “I told you that Alfred cared about you. But what I meant to say was that I cared about you. Cordelia… you’re not alone.”

Cordelia felt small as she nodded and leaned into his touch. Her heart was glowing in the same way it used to do for Alfred when she was a child.

“I’m sorry I’m so moody,” she said to her brother.

Bruce gave a surprised huff of a laugh. “Don’t worry. It runs in the family.”

Family. She was part of the family. Cordelia moved before she could even think about it. One moment she was sitting one seat apart from Bruce, and then next she had thrown her arms around his torso in a tight hug.

He stiffened in surprise, before hugging her back. Cordelia loved the way they both awkwardly relaxed into the hug, because it was just more proof of them being related. 

---

On the seventh day, Bruce and Alfred and Cordelia had a picnic by the barn where BatCow lived. It had been Alfred’s idea; he wanted a way to celebrate Cordelia’s new legal documents and a way to get the Waynes out of the house.

The three sat on a red and white checkered blanket, with snacks and sandwiches spread out in front of them. The sky above them was a light blue and the sun was especially warm.

Cordelia couldn’t stop smiling.

“She thinks your hat is food,” Bruce told the butler.

Alfred huffed with irritation and made a shooing motion toward BatCow, who kept trying to take a bite out of his large straw hat. “Well, it is not. This is unacceptable, Master Bruce. I thought Master Damian finished training his animals.”

BatCow paid no attention to Alfred’s flaying hands and inched closer to him.

“She’s just hungry,” Cordelia said. She grabbed an apple from the basket and offered it to BatCow. The large animal happily trotted away from the old man to eat the gleaming red fruit from Cordelia’s hand. The young girl cringed when BatCows tongue slid across her palm.

“Nows your chance to get rid of the hat, Alfred,” Bruce said.

Alfred looked offended. “Master Bruce, it is much too hot to sit in the sun without cover.”

Cordelia had a secret suspicion that Alfred just didn’t want to be outdone by a cow. A cow who was quickly loosing interest in Cordelia’s empty hand. The young Wayne fed her another apple.

“Speaking of which,” Alfred continued. “I brought you both some sunscreen.”

“Alfred, this is Gotham,” Bruce protested. “It is never too hot for sunscreen.”

“You’re actually supposed to wear sunscreen everyday,” Cordelia pointed out. Reading an endless amount of health books from her father’s library taught her that much, at least. “Even when its cloudy.”

Alfred sent Bruce a smug look before pulling out a blue tube of sunscreen from his bag and handing it over to Cordelia. BatCow, sensing that the three were distracted, snuck back to Alfred and took a big chomp out of his hat.

Bruce actually laughed at that.

“Master Damian has clearly spoiled her,” Alfred complained. He took off the hat to inspect the damage. “I’ll need an entirely new one. And no, BatCow, that doesn’t mean that you can have the rest.”

Bruce finally took pity on the old man. He pointed to the barn and said to the cow, very sternly: “BatCow, that’s enough. Go to your room right now.”

Cordelia and Alfred watched in amazement as the cow actually listened. Her tail flicked happily behind her as she retreated, still chewing part of Alfred’s hat.

The moment she disappeared from view, Alfred sent Bruce an annoyed look. “And why didn’t you do that twenty minutes ago, Master Bruce?”

This time, it was Bruce and Cordelia who shared a look. Bruce said, with a slanted grin, “I’m sorry, Alfred. You were doing so well with her that I didn’t think about it until now.”

Alfred narrowed his eyes at Bruce, but let it go when Cordelia started to laugh. The rest of the picnic went smoothly, with only a few pointed remarks by the butler and only one missing piece of his hat.

Chapter 26: Because You're Batman

Summary:

“Cordelia, look at me.”

She did. Bruce’s eyes were like Father’s when he was close to solving a mystery: laser-focused and half-starved for the answer. His grip on her was almost painful.

“Why do you think I’m going to hurt you?” Bruce finally asked.

Cordelia’s lips trembled as she said, “Because you’re Batman.”

Batman needed her help.

He was being overpowered by a cluster of dark figures. They pulled at his cape and slashed at his back. Cordelia watched his mouth open wide in an agonizing yet silent scream. Pieces of kevlar scattered on the floor around him. The sky was blood red.

Cordelia ran forward to help, but her foot snagged onto something, and she fell face-first. She expected to feel concrete scrape her cheeks and hands, but the ground was plush and soft.

“What —“ she looked around herself in amazement. She hadn’t landed on a Gotham sidewalk, she’d landed on a training mat. But why was there a training mat in the middle of Gotham?

“I told you that you couldn’t be Batgirl without training with me first.”

That voice — it was Bruce’s. Except it was more deep and guttural. The change made every hair on Cordelia’s arms stand on end. She turned, slowly, toward her brother. He was standing at the end of the training mat, wearing all black workout clothes. And at the top of his head, were two pointed, tall ears.

“Bruce,” Cordelia said, her voice shaky with unease. “I’m sorry. But Batman needs my help.”

He didn’t look concerned for Batman at all. Behind her, she could still hear the scraping and slashing of the shadowed figures’ claws on kevlar. Bruce didn’t even glance in that direction. His attention remained on Cordelia as he stepped onto the mat and kept walking until he was looming over her.

“Then we should stop wasting time,” Bruce said dryly. “You’ve been lazing around my house for long enough.”

Cordelia winced, hurt. “I… I don’t want to spar with you,” she whispered. Her words carried through the night. The sky darkened when it heard her.

“She’s not usually so stubborn,” a frightfully familiar voice chimed in.

Cordelia cringed into herself. Batman was approaching them now. Her father’s cape was torn to shreds around him, and his red-eyed glare glowed in the dark. The shadows he’d been fighting were twitching and spasming on the ground behind him, broken and dying.

“A few days with you and she’s already forgotten everything I’ve taught her,” Batman said, his voice like a growl.

“I might have spoiled her a bit,” Bruce shrugged casually.

Cordelia’s heart was beating painfully in her chest. She didn’t know which was worse: Batman’s glare or Bruce’s apathy. Every part of her wanted to run, but she knew they would catch her if she tried.

“You can’t be lenient with her,” Batman told his son. “Sometimes she forgets her place. Every once in awhile, you just have to show her who’s boss. Let me teach you how.”

His words sent a chill through her heart. She couldn’t take sitting there anymore. Cordelia slowly got to her feet, palms out in a plead for peace, and backed away from them. “No, I thought…. I told Bruce I didn’t want to train with him. We agreed that I — I didn’t have to until I was ready.”

“I figured you would give in by now,” Bruce said, uncaringly. He and their father stalked toward her. “What kind of hero gives up her cape for so long? Don’t you care what’s happening out there?”

“Bats aren’t heroes,” Cordelia said desperately.

“You’re no hero,” Bruce corrected her. “I expected more when we met, but that’s okay. You can still be useful as Batgirl.”

Cordelia’s back hit a barrier. She quickly looked behind her, heart thumping widely, but whatever was blocking her retreat was invisible. She pushed and pushed, but it wouldn’t give. A sob escaped her throat.

Batman and Bruce were within striking distance, looking over her with matching cruel smiles. The sharp points of their ears glinted in the night like knives.

“Please —” Her voice broke. She felt pathetic and small. She tried again, “Please, don’t hurt me.”

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Bruce replied, with false-soothing tones.

“We’re training you,” Batman agreed. “It’s going to make you stronger.”

“I don’t want to train anymore,” Cordelia wept. “Bruce, please! I thought you cared about me, I — I can’t go back! I can’t go back to living like this again. It was too painful.”

“Spoken like a spoiled brat,” Batman snapped.

A sudden movement, and then Cordelia’s head whipped to the side. He’d slapped her. Blood pooled in her mouth; she started to choke on it.

Bruce didn’t care. “I’ve been letting her get away with too much.”

The last thing she saw before waking up was Bruce’s closed fist heading straight toward her face.

---

Cordelia woke with a gasp.

Her eyes darted around her room, heart racing. She was in Bruce’s Wayne Manor, her room was plain, and she was safe.

Once she convinced herself of those three things, she finally allowed herself to relax. She just had a nightmare. That wasn’t so uncommon.

She quietly got out of bed and got ready for the day. And as she got ready, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different this morning. She felt this way as she brushed her teeth, and took a shower, and brushed her hair.

It wasn’t until she started to get dressed that she realized what was so different.

Cordelia fingers delicately trailed down her arms and legs, searching and searching and searching. When she couldn’t find what she was looking for, she rushed to her wardrobe mirror and twisted and twisted until she was sure…

It had been a week since her and Bruce watched The Secret Garden together. A little bit longer since Barry pulled her into this new timeline. And she did not have a single bruise on her skin.

That was the thing that was so different this morning: her. 

And so, despite the horrible nightmare, she smiled. She didn’t mind being different. In fact, it excited her. The old Cordelia, who was always so scared and hurt, was not someone that she would miss.

Cordelia quickly got dressed and then headed downstairs to the kitchen, where she was sure Bruce and Alfred would be with breakfast.

This new Cordelia had people to eat breakfast with. She had a caring brother who watched movies with her and an intuitive butler who cooked way too much.

Cordelia was unsurprised to see Bruce sitting at the kitchen table and Alfred making coffee. The breakfast table was completely covered, and the smell of it danced in the warm air around them.

“Good morning, Miss Cordelia, how did you sleep?” Alfred asked her.

Cordelia sat down next to Bruce. “Better than usual,” she answered.

She glanced at the table curiously. Alfred served more fruits and vegetables with morning. The old man gave her an approving look when she started to put together her own plate.

As they ate, Bruce talked about the different school options Gotham had for girls Cordelia’s age. In the end, it was clear that Bruce was pushing her toward two options: Gotham Academy and Eastwood High, an all-girls school.

“The first one,” Cordelia said.

“Eastwood High has an excellent community,” Bruce said. “And their basketball teams make it to nationals every year.”

“But I don’t know how to play basketball,” Cordelia took a sip of her coffee, her Flash mug cradled gently in her hands.

“I can teach you,” Bruce suggested.

“You’ve been part of a basketball team?” Cordelia asked in amazement.

“No, but it can’t be hard to do,” Bruce said logically, “All it takes is aiming a sphere through a circle. A child can do it.”

“Sounds boring, then.”

“Let it go, Sir,” Alfred said as he walked into the kitchen. “We both know that you are simply delaying the inevitable.”

Bruce grumbled. “Fine. Gotham Academy.”

Cordelia nodded her agreement. Just two days ago, Bruce had handed her all the documents she needed to prove that she was an actual person, including documentation that she was a legal ward of Bruce Wayne. Ever since then, Cordelia allowed herself to imagine more for herself. School wouldn’t be so bad. She could make friends, become more than just a girl locked in a giant house. Maybe James and Henry and all their friends went to that school. She’d have to check the student lists.

“Besides,” Cordelia added. “I can’t be Batgirl and play basketball.”

“Hm,” Bruce hummed. “Speaking of Batgirl, there is something that I’ve been wanting you to do.”

Over the past week, Bruce had been inviting her to do different things around the house with him: like meet all the pets, or go on a picnic with Alfred, or read in the library. So Cordelia was not surprised by his statement in the slightest.

She followed him out of the kitchen and through a familiar path to his study. She didn’t have a reason to be alarmed until he continued his stroll through the room and toward the broken grandfather clock.

Cordelia stopped at the study door’s entrance. “What are you doing?” She asked.

“We keep an entrance to the BatCave behind this clock,” Bruce told her. He moved the clock’s hands until it read 10:47. The clock predictably slid to the side, revealing a hidden door into a stone passageway. Cold air seeped through the opening and creeped into Cordelia’s skin. “Follow me.”

Bruce disappeared into the passageway, but his sister did not move from her place near the office door.

He was going to the Cave. He wanted her to follow.

No…. Cordelia pressed her back against the frame of the study door, her body wanting nothing more than to run the other way, straight out of Wayne Manor and toward the horizon until she was nothing but a small figure in the distance, something to be overlooked and never seen again.

Why would Bruce bring her down to the Cave? That was where Cordelia became Batgirl and Bruce became Batman. Yet he’d told her, very decidedly, that she was not allowed to be Batgirl until they sparred.

Did he change his mind? Why would he? What changed? She instantly remembered his words from her dream: I figured you would give in by now. What kind of hero gives up her cape for so long? Don’t you care what’s happening out there?

She’d taken too long to agree to spar, so her time was up. He was going to force her to train. He was going to — to —

“Cordelia?” Batman’s deep voice echoed from the passageway. Disembodied.

No air was escaping her lungs. She had less than a minute to run. Batman would return quickly to drag her down to the training mats, just like he used to do when she was a kid and still brave enough to fight back.

Ask once, demand the second time — that was Batman’s way. Disobeying the third time meant painful consequences.

Just remembering this rule was almost enough to convince Cordelia to leave Wayne Manor forever. But then she caught sight of the family portraits. Joyful faces grinned down at her from all directions.

Her nephews. Her family.

Were they worth training with Batman for?

If she left now, she’d never meet them. She’d lose her chance to be a part of them. Everything she learned about them would just become a memory, a what if. It would never be a reality for her.

She couldn’t leave.

The realization — the acknowledgement of how stuck she was — had the air rushing painfully from her lungs. There was no running away from them, no matter what she faced in the Cave. She could almost admire Batman’s expertise in setting traps, if she wasn’t the one who was caught.

Cordelia’s entire body felt numb. She barely knew how her legs were able to carry her from the door and toward the passageway to the Cave, but she counted every step. It took her ten paces to reach the grandfather clock, and then another five down the stone steps before her face smashed against a hard surface.

Two large hands clamped down on her arms like chains, keeping her from falling backwards. Through her tunnel vision, Cordelia could see nothing but eyes made of ice peer down at her from the darkness.

“What’s wrong?” As the man spoke, flashes of white teeth appeared.

“Nothing’s wrong,” her voice replied. It was even. It was Batgirl.

“Hm.”

One of the hands released her to press against her forehead. She held perfectly still under the knuckles.

He didn’t move, either. He was waiting for something. The eyes kept staring.

Cordelia could feel her body begin to tremble under the scrutiny, even as her face remained as still as carved stone.

“I’m ready,” Batgirl said. Always ready.

Batman let his hands drop from her. She stopped trembling.

“We can do this another time,” he said.

“No,” Batgirl said quickly. “I’m ready now.”

No more waiting. No more hoping it would be different.

Batman slowly nodded. She moved to walk past him toward the Cave, but his hand once again reached for her and latched onto her shoulder. They walked side-by-side toward the Cave, Batman and Batgirl once again.

The grandfather clock slide closed behind them and submerged the girl in a suffocating darkness.

Trapped, trapped, trapped.

Cordelia started to tremble again, and the tremors became worse with every step she took. By the time she saw the light of the Cave, her breath was escaping her lips with shakes and weak gasps. The sound was loud in her ears - louder than their footsteps and the bats that screeched up ahead.

The sound must have bothered Batman, because his fingers clenched on the meat of her shoulder.

“You don’t want to go to the BatCave,” he realized.

The displeased note in his voice made her stomach turn. She forced herself to regain control of her breathing.

“I’m fine,” she said, although she sounded slightly panicked.

Batman stopped walking, and turned her to face him. “I thought you wanted to be Batgirl. But you’re scared to go in the BatCave.”

“I am Batgirl,” Cordelia said, shakily. “I’m not scared of anything.”

Batman was silent in the dark, his thoughts a mystery to everyone but himself. After a moment, he nodded — this time firmly, decidedly.

“Then let’s go,” he said. He gestured for her to walk ahead of him.

It was like a death march. The Cave was the gallows. She’d had a few days of healing from her father’s bruises, but that treat had just been a last meal of sorts. Now she had to pay for the short reprieve.

She should be grateful, now that she thought about it. Batman was a creature born of misery, after all. He needed an outlet. This was true in every timeline. And wasn’t it almost noble of him to only let his anger out on one innocent person? Other men hurt everyone around them without discrimination; Batman only hurt criminals and Cordelia.

Knowing this did not stop a tear from trickling down her cheek.

The light of the Cave was up ahead. They kept walking until they reached the last step and still Batman did not say a word.

Cordelia could absentmindedly see that the Cave looked different. But that didn’t matter, because the training mat was still in the same spot: a large black mass that took up too much room near a wall of weapons.

Batman led her further in, closer and closer to the training section. Her eyes did not leave the mat. It was scrubbed clean - basically new. But the more Cordelia stared, the more she was sure that she could see a dark pool of blood rising from the fabric’s cushion. In the back of her mind, the frightened pants she was letting out were turning into pained grunts, and…

These weren’t real training sessions. Cordelia knew this. This wasn’t how teams were supposed to train with each other - with every hit aiming to do the most damage possible. But it didn’t matter what Cordelia wanted or knew, because Batman was coming at her like a bull with bared white teeth and muscles bulging and eyes full of nothing but critical hate.

He didn’t wind up his punch like a normal fighter would. Batman learned from the best, and the best don’t have tells when they’re fighting. The best don’t let you know their next attack move until you were already victim to it. 

But Batgirl learned from Batman, so she managed to leap out of the way before the hit could actually land.

Cordelia had an opening with his back turned. She could wrap him in a chokehold and wait until he surrendered. She could hit his pressure point and watch him collapse. She could kick him in the back of the head hard enough to disorient him.

She hesitated.

Batman turned, looming over her at full height so that her small frame became lost in his shadow. He knew that she hesitated to hurt him. He didn’t care. Batman finally got to land his hit after Cordelia wasted so much time dodging them. The hit was solid. She was on the ground instantly, hands cradling a face soaked with blood gushing from the nose.

In spite of all her fighting experience and how many times she’d taken a punch, she never got used to that: getting punched by her father. It broke something within her each time. Something she didn’t think could ever be repaired.

It was this weakness that allowed him enough time to pin her. That was when the training session should have ended - they both knew Cordelia didn’t know how to get out of the pinning hold Batman had learned from the legends. This was something that should have been taught to her, but instead Batman used her ignorance to his advantage.

Hit after hit landed on her already bloody face, to the point where her vision blurred and the world tilted and she finally stopped crying out for help.

Cordelia squeezed her eyes shut. No.

The numbness that had taken over her body was rapidly replaced with violent panic. But it had none of the grace or strategy that would have made Batgirl proud. No - it was as mindless as a muscle spasm, as reckless as a man caught on fire. She slammed herself backward into the wall of flesh that had been guiding her toward the training mat, determined to get it to move. When she felt resistance, she turned to claw at it ferociously, dragging her nails deeply into the black fabric hard enough to hurt.

The wall grunted and hands caught her wrist.

“Cordelia!” The wall spoke to her, and she looked up. Voice deep, eyes blue, chin square - it was Bruce. Bruce who had told her the night she woke up from a nightmare that she was safe. Bruce who dragged her down to the Cave. Bruce who stood in the way of her freedom. Bruce who had a family and their father’s love. Bruce who had Alfred and children and friends. Bruce who lied.

And that was the worst of it: that he’d lied about her being safe. A wail of helpless grief ripped through the air from Cordelia’s throat, sharp like a knife. Bruce winced. The bats above stirred.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Bruce demanded.

Ask once, demand second, no third chance so listen before it’s too late.

“Don’t do this to me,” Cordelia said, her voice as weak as delicate china. “Please, don’t. Please.”

She tried to tug her hands from his grip, but he held fast. Batman was always stronger than Cordelia; her best hope was to not get caught, but she always did. “Don’t do what, Cordelia? Talk to me.”

“Don’t hurt me,” she said brokenly.

“Listen to me, Cordelia: I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Why are you lying?” She asked him. He’d brought her down here to train, even after she told him she wouldn’t. Her fingernails dug into the flesh of his wrists, but he still didn’t release her. No escape. “Is this because of the clothes? Or because I’m always arguing with you? What did I do?”

“Clothes?”

“I’m sorry,” Cordelia said tearfully. She shouldn’t have gotten so much; she shouldn’t have tested him. Father would have slammed her head into a wall. She would have deserved it for being so stupid.

Bruce suddenly yanked at her wrists so that she fell forward into his torso. She did not have time to react before his arms trapped her against him. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he told her quietly, but he was lying. She quivered so badly that Bruce held her even tighter, making sure she had no room to fight free. As if there were any possibility that she could beat Batman in his own Cave. “You’re safe.”

He was lying. He was cruel. He was crueler than Father, because Father wouldn’t have lied. Father did not find delight in making her trust him just so he could watch her break when the trust was broken.

Father did not play these mind games.

Cordelia was exhausted with them.

“Please, stop,” she whispered into Bruce’s chest.

He just held her tighter.

There the Waynes stood in the cold Cave: Bruce with his arms wrapped around Cordelia and Cordelia with her fingers clenched in the fabric of Bruce’s shirt.

“Why are you doing this?” She whispered pathetically. There was no strength left within the young girl; Bruce had successfully taken Batgirl away from her.

“Doing what?” Bruce asked. His deep voice rumbled in his chest, a stark contrast to the wispy sounds Cordelia mustered up.

“Playing all these mind games,” she asked with no real venom. The fear was bone deep, but mostly she felt resigned. “If you’re upset with me, just tell me. Please. I promise that I won’t argue with you anymore. I promise.”

“Why do you think I’m upset with you?” Her brother asked.

Fat teardrops leaked from her eyes and soaked into his shirt. She didn’t want to explain to him all the things she did wrong, all the reasons he had to punish her - but he asked her a question, and she needed to answer. “I spent too much on clothes.”

Bruce made a surprised sound. “I do that constantly, Cordelia. It’s okay.”

“It’s not my money to spend,” Cordelia said.

“Probably not,” her brother said slowly. “But I told you to get whatever you liked.”

“I got more than I liked.”

“Cordelia, I’m not upset about the clothes.”

She started to weep bitterly. Why was he making it so hard? “Then you’re upset about something else.”

“I’m not.”

She let go of his shirt to wipe at her eyes. “Then you’re not upset at all and just wanted to teach me a lesson,” she said. “But you don’t have to. I promise I’ll do everything you say. I’ll stop challenging you.”

“Cordelia, look at me.”

She did. Bruce’s eyes were like Father’s when he was close to solving a mystery: laser-focused and half-starved for the answer. His grip on her was almost painful.

“Why do you think I’m going to hurt you?” Bruce finally asked.

Cordelia’s lips trembled as she said, “Because you’re Batman.”

Bruce’s face stiffened so intensely that Cordelia jerked backwards, trying to get away from anger that terrifying, but he didn’t release her. “What?” He said, frostily.

“B — Because —“ she said something wrong. She needed to say something else. She needed to think of something else to say.

Bruce grabbed her arms with enough strength to bruise. “What did you mean by that?”

“I’m sorry,” Cordelia quaked.

Bruce dropped her arms and stepped away from her, hissing as if he was the one in pain. Cordelia had never seen him so furious before, so out-of-control. He’d only ever been slightly displeased or quietly upset, which made her assume that her father’s anger was the more terrifying of the two.

But she’d been wrong.

This timeline’s Batman was more terrifying in every way.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, desperately.

He turned his back to her. Cordelia could see the angry line of his shoulders, could almost feel his disgust toward her radiating off of him.

She felt sick at the thought. Had it been only yesterday that the two were teasing Alfred during a picnic? Now he could barely look at her. And she couldn’t blame him. She was pathetic, sobbing, wincing, shaking. She should never have resisted coming to the Cave. She should have held her head high and let him drag her to the training mat - no, she should have walked there herself.

“Bruce, I’m sorry. I’ll…” Cordelia mustered up the strength to say, “I’ll train with you.”

At her words, he whipped around, his furious scowl still in place. Ice blue eyes pinned her where she stood. “Is that what this was about? You thought I brought you down here to train?”

She gulped reflexively. “Yes, Sir.”

“I didn’t,” Bruce snapped hatefully.

“I’m sorry for assuming,” she said automatically.

“Stop that.”

Her palms started to sweat. She didn’t know this Batman. She didn’t know what he wanted from her. This meant she would have to start from the beginning. Make mistakes, take the punishment, and make sure she didn’t make the same mistake twice.

“I’m ready to train,” she tried.

“Stop.”

Her face crumpled. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She was doing everything wrong. “Please, Sir, tell me what you want.”

“I want you out of here,” Bruce growled through gritted teeth.

She froze, hardly believing what she was hearing. “What?”

“Get. Out,” Bruce snarled, his white teeth bared and his muscles bulging.

Ask the first time, demand the second.

Cordelia ran out of the Cave and she did not look back.

Chapter 27: Visiting Gotham City

Summary:

Every step came with a splash of a puddle. Her shoes would be useless after today, but it was better than walking Gotham barefoot. In her rush to leave Wayne Manor, Cordelia hadn’t thought to grab rain boots or a coat or even money. And without any way to contact Barry, she would have to rely on nothing but her training as Batgirl.

Notes:

TRIGGER WARNING: threats of sexual assault, guns, swearing.

Cordelia felt as if the darkness was chasing her out of the Cave. She scrambled up the stone steps, not daring to look back in fear of what she might see. It was all blackness around her until her hands pressed against the wooden panel behind the grandfather clock.

The frightened girl hurriedly shoved the clock to the side and kept running.

Get out, Bruce had said.

Get out.

She had to leave. Cordelia was half blind with tears as she raced to the front door of the Manor and sprinted out into the rain. The light drizzle had transformed into something ugly; cold rain pelted down on her, mixing with her tears and almost making her slip down the steps.

The water soaked through Cordelia’s clothes and sneakers as she ran, but she didn’t slow down — not until she reached the gates of Wayne Manor. She grabbed the bars desperately and tried to tug the gate open, but it wouldn’t budge an inch.

Lightning lit up the sky. The shadows from the gate’s points looked like bat ears looming over her.

Cordelia threw up in the bushes.

She had to get out of Wayne Manor — quickly. She’d never seen Bruce so angry before, looking at her as if she were the monster, as if she were the one capable of causing the most pain.

I want you out of here, he’d told her. Those words echoed in Cordelia’s mind as she rushed to the gate’s panel and tried to think of what the password to unlock it could be. Her father’s had been the month and day that Bruce died, maybe Bruce’s was the same.

Cordelia punched in 0426. The gate didn’t open.

Thunder growled in the sky.

She thought back to the grandfather clock in Bruce’s study, and punched in a different code: 1047. The gates swung open, and Cordelia was gone.

Wayne Manor was miles away from the city, a distance she’d once thought was too far to walk, but images of Bruce’s glare kept her from taking even a single look back. He wanted her gone, and she was too terrified to disagree with him.

Had she really been brave enough to think she could spar with him? She felt like a silly little idiot just thinking about it now. All he had to do was look at her and she’d been cowering like a teenager caught stealing their first wallet.

She stopped again to dry heave over the side of the road. All her breakfast had been left in the bushes, and yet her body refused to believe that there was nothing in it to expel. Cordelia stayed there long after, bent over and painfully gasping as her mind raced over everything that happened.

Bruce had kicked her out. She’d messed up… and Bruce had kicked her out.

What was she supposed to do? She’d never been kicked out before. For all her father’s faults, he never deprived her of a place to sleep. 

You should have just sparred with Bruce without complaining, the cruel voice in Cordelia’s head griped. Maybe that’s what Bruce wanted her to learn when he kicked her out: just stop complaining. It was an effective lesson. Cordelia would never go against him again.

If he ever let her back in Wayne Manor.

And then the terrifying thought surfaced in her head: what if he never let her back in Wayne Manor?

The idea was even more devastating that the thought of sparring with Bruce. Because she didn’t want to lose him forever. Not after everything that happened over the past week; not after him showing her more affection than she’d ever received in her entire life. If kicking her out was just a lesson, then she would gladly learn it if it meant Bruce accepting her back.

Cordelia shivered in the cold. The rain was so heavy that her clothes sagged against her skin and her hair drooped in its ponytail. She had to find shelter before nighttime came and the temperature dropped even further.

As Batgirl, she’d seen more than a few abandoned apartments and warehouses in Gotham City. They were places where more crime happened than not, but Cordelia wasn’t scared of a few criminals. She was scared of having to stay there the whole night, not knowing if Bruce hated her or was just angry with her.

Cordelia choked on a sob. He’d been so angry. 

Lightning flashed again. She stared at the sky with an aching heart until thunder shook the ground and she knew she had to keep walking.

Every step came with a splash of a puddle. Her shoes would be useless after today, but it was better than walking Gotham barefoot. In her rush to leave Wayne Manor, Cordelia hadn’t thought to grab rain boots or a coat or even money. And without any way to contact Barry, she would have to rely on nothing but her training as Batgirl.

Except her training never involved finding a comfortable place to lie her head. She doubted any other homeless teenager would feel very sorry for her.

Poor little rich girl doesn’t have a mansion to sleep in tonight, they’d think. And she’d agree. 

Cordelia must have walked for hours until she saw the mirky lights of Gotham City. The smell of the harbor blew in her direction, and for the very first time Cordelia looked at the city she loved with dread. Perhaps it had been easier for her to love the city when she knew she didn’t have to spend the night there.

A car almost passed her before screeching to a halt a few paces ahead. Cordelia paused and stared, wondering what sort of person would stick their head out the window and greet her. It was a balding man with a sharp chin; he smiled when he saw her.

“Hey, Sweet Thing!” He said. “You need a ride?”

Cordelia’s eyes flickered past him toward Gotham City, and all the distance she’d have to walk in the rain to get there. Then she looked over the man (his skinny shoulders that held no muscle, his crooked nose that must have gotten broken several times, and his overly cheery disposition) and nodded.

“Hop in!” He said. His head disappeared back into the car window. Not a moment later, the back door was thrown open for Cordelia, who ran toward it and ducked inside.

There was another man in the car: the driver. He was portly, with a dingy baseball cap and a scraggly beard. He didn’t bother to say anything to Cordelia before pressing on the gas pedal, barely waiting for her to close the door.

The bald man who invited her in turned in his seat to get a good look at her. His smile was so wide that she could see he was missing a few molars. “I’m Jerome,” he said. He stuck out a hand for her to shake.

Cordelia took his hand in her freezing one, and shook it. “Cordelia.”

“You’ve gotta pretty name,” Jerome said. His thumb gently stroked the skin of Cordelia’s knuckles.

She ripped her hand out of his. “Thank you,” she said shortly. It seemed like this timeline’s Gotham wasn’t that different from her own. Although she usually wasn’t the young girl being ogled at.

“Nice accent, too,” Jerome continued, still staring at her. “Sounds upperclass. What are you doing out here on your own? Mommy and Daddy make you mad so you run away?”

“No,” Cordelia said. She focused on the city up ahead, and how quickly they were approaching it. “My parents are dead.”

“Oh,” Jerome said. Cordelia didn’t miss the glance he shared with the driver. “Too bad.”

All the doors’ locks clicked shut. Any hope that she had that the driver, at least, was normal left her instantly. She tore her eyes from the city and focused again on Jerome. He was slight, and clearly not much of a fighter. There was no reason to worry about him; he would be easy to take down. The driver was the stronger of the two, but she’d gone up against trained killers from the League of Assassins, so she wasn’t worried about him, either.

Still, after the horrible day she’s just had (and the horrible day she was expecting to have), Cordelia couldn’t help but feel weary.

“Who’s taking care of you, then?” Jerome asked.

This answer should have been obvious to him. He should have taken one look at her red eyes and her wet clothes, and known that she was on her own. But they just reached the first few buildings of Gotham City, and Jerome would not stop staring, so she answered: “I am. You can drop me off here.”

“Here?” Jerome acted surprised. He looked around at the rundown buildings and boarded up windows. “Where is here? Which building are you staying in?”

“That’s none of your business,” Cordelia snapped.

Jerome’s smile dimmed a little. She could see irritation in his eyes, even as he tried to cover it up. “Sheesh. You do a kid a favor and this is what you get for it,” he nudged the driver with his elbow. “Stop here, Ronny.”

Ronny sent his friend a glare, but slowed down the car until it stopped right in front of an alley. Jerome spared a glance around them, most likely noticing the vacancy and the dark shadows that the tall buildings casted.

Cordelia frowned at him. “The door is still locked.”

“Well, why are you trying to leave so quickly for?” He asked, playing offended. “You haven’t even thanked us for giving you a ride.”

“Thank you for giving me a ride.”

“You’re welcome, sweetie,” Jerome smiled, showing his missing molars again. The doors remained locked.

Cordelia watched him dig in his pocket, and wondered at how casual he was about everything. In her experience, there were two types of creeps: the ones who liked to taunt and tease their victims; and the ones who did everything in a hurried rush, afraid they’d get caught. She usually observed them from the tops of buildings before jumping down to save whoever was getting attacked — it felt almost surreal being the person in the dangerous situation.

“You want a cig?” He asked. He’d pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

“I don’t smoke,” she said.

“I coulda guessed that.” Jerome’s false cheery smile was slowly being replaced with a leer. Cordelia could see that he was more than just attracted to her — he almost looked… hateful. He lit up his cigarette and took a long drag from it. “What do you like to do, then, Cordie?”

Her morbid curiosity withered and died at the nickname. “I like to be left alone when asked,” she said. “Unlock the car door now or you both will regret it.”

Jerome didn’t take her threat seriously. Grey smoke dribbled calmly from his nostrils as he shared another look with Ronny, who rolled his eyes. “No need to get hostile, sweetheart,” Jerome said, amused. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

“Just tell her to take her shirt off already,” Ronny snapped. His black eyes reflected in the review mirror, and his focus was aimed directly at her rain-soaked t-shirt.

“Geez, Ron, that’s no way to talk to these upperclass girlies,” Jerome said, his voice sneering at upperclass. “Sorry about my friend, Cordie. He’s got a one track mind. But he’s also got a point. He did do you a favor, so… show him something that makes it worth it.”

Cordelia wasn’t sure whether it was his use of the nickname or his demand that caused her to lash out so violently, but either way: she punched him — hard. She felt his nose collapse under her knuckles and slick blood coat her fingers. Predictably, Jerome started cursing and calling her names. Ronny, apparently, had enough of both of them. He twisted in his seat entirely, reached past his screaming friend, and tried to grab at Cordelia’s shirt with thick-fingered hands.

Cordelia grabbed his forearms and twisted them until she heard his shoulders pop from the sockets.

They both started screaming. Cordelia felt like Batgirl had made her return.

“Unlock the door,” she demanded over the noise.

Jerome started to curse at her more violently. His hands flayed around his face like he wasn’t sure if he should try to stop the bleeding or avoid disfiguring his nose even further by touching it. Cordelia thought of all the victims he probably hurt in the past and relished in the pain she’d caused him.

That was when he pulled out a gun and Cordelia realized: she wasn’t wearing armor.

Jerome shoved the gun in her face until the back of her head pressed against the seat behind her. She stared down the barrel of the gun into Jerome’s angry blue eyes, filled with hatred despite him not even knowing her. Was this what civilians felt like before she rescued them? Was this what the civilians who weren’t rescued felt like? Her hands felt useless at her sides. The gun was too close for her to dodge a bullet.

Her heart beat painfully in her chest as she thought, what was the next move? She’d been too cocky, too sure of herself. She should have broken both his arms before he even remembered that he had a gun.

“Don’t feel so tough now, do you?” Jerome growled. “You spoiled little bi —“

A gunshot was fired. Glass shattered. Cordelia flinched as blood splattered in her face. She heard Ronny and Jerome start screaming, and felt his gun fall into her lap.

Cordelia blinked her eyes open. Jerome was gripping his bleeding hand, face white with shock. Ronny was trying to start the car, but his twisted arms were completely useless. And both of them were looking into the alley with fear she usually saw in criminals when she wearing her Batgirl uniform.

Cordelia followed their line of sight, and then understood their fear. Through her shattered window, she could see a man even taller and bulkier than Batman walking out of the dark alley; he was wearing dark cargo pants, a leather jacket, and a red helmet that completely covered his face. Two glowing white eyes glared at the three in the car as he trained his own gun at them.

“Who’s going to tell me what’s going on here?” The man in the red helmet asked conversationally. His voice was deep and distorted through the mask. “I thought I heard a girl scream from two blocks down, but when I get here, I find out that it was the two of you.”

He gestured to Jerome and Ronny casually. Cordelia slowly grabbed the gun from her lap while he was distracted.

“Nothin’s going on,” Jerome said, his voice high and squeaky with panic.

“You should be pointing your gun at her,” Ronny growled. “Look at what that bitch did to my arms!”

The man in the red helmet tilted his head as he looked at Ronny’s unnaturally shaped arms. “Huh,” he said, then gave Cordelia his attention. Before he could say anything, she had her gun pointed at him. “Okay. Not at all what I was expecting.”

Cordelia didn’t take her eyes off of the man in the red helmet as she said to Jerome, “Unlock the car.”

“Fuck you!” Jerome snarled.

Cordelia grit her teeth. The man in the red helmet was the biggest threat, so she couldn’t take the gun off of him, but she really didn’t want to be in the car anymore. She needed to leave what almost happened behind her forever.

“Unlock the car or the next shot I take will be in your head,” the man in the red helmet said to Jerome.

Jerome started cursing again, but Cordelia heard the doors unlock and she quickly got out. The heavy rain fell on her again, but adrenaline was keeping her warm. The man in the red helmet was still staring at her with his expressionless mask.

“Who are you?” Cordelia demanded. Her gun was on him, but his gun remained pointed at Jerome. He was every bit as cocky as Cordelia had been before Jerome pulled out a weapon. He was likely wearing armor. The only parts of skin she could see were his forearms.

“The name’s Red Hood,” he said. “Are you okay?”

Cordelia hesitated, surprised by the question. Was he a vigilante? Was she being saved as if she were a civilian? The absurdity of the situation almost made her laugh hysterically.

“I’m fine,” she answered.

Jerome was using this time to scramble into the driver’s seat of the car, not bothering to avoid Ronny’s mangled arms. Ronny was squealing like a pig.

“Were these guys hurting you?” Red Hood asked.

He was definitely a vigilante. His tone was gentle in a way that told Cordelia he was trained in speaking to victims.

“No,” Cordelia said. “They were just threatening to.”

Red Hood bent down so he could get a good look at Jerome and Ronny, who froze in fear once they realized that the attention was back on them. “Don’t even bother trying to get away,” he said coldly.

“You heard her! We didn’t do nothin’!” Jerome protested.

“Shoot her!” Ronny roared. “The hell is wrong with you Bat freaks? You don’t see that we’re the ones banged up?”

Bat freaks? Cordelia lowered her gun, looking at Red Hood with newfound interest. She didn’t see a Bat emblem on his chest, but Bruce did mention that no vigilante stayed in Gotham without his approval. Red Hood might be a friend. He might even be one of her nephews.

“What I saw was you shoving a gun into some kid’s face,” Red Hood said, voice like steel. 

“All we were doing was giving her a ride and then she started breaking noses and arms,” Jerome said. He had the gall to look at Cordelia pleadingly.

Cordelia scowled at him. She couldn’t shake her unease at having his gun pointed in her face — at how vulnerable it made her feel. “That was after you locked me in the car and told me to take my shirt off.”

Red Hood’s entire body stiffened with anger. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” He asked coolly. Two more gunshots were fired; one in Ronny’s thigh and the other in Jerome’s shoulder. He ignored their screams as he tapped a hidden button in his mask. “Tell B I have two creeps for him to pick up on Odmark Drive. They have a few more hours before they bleed out.”

Red Hood shot the car tires and watched them deflate.

“You two can either stay here and wait for Batman to pick you up,” he told the two men who were becoming increasingly pale. “Or you can run and bleed out in some Gotham hole. Your choice.”

Cordelia watched him approach her in the rain. She didn’t recognize his form in any of the portraits at Wayne Manor. Dick Grayson was definitely not as tall as Red Hood, nor as muscular. Tim Drake was too skinny, and Damian Wayne was too young. There weren’t any pictures of Jason Todd past the age of fifteen or fourteen, at which point he’d still been a pipsqueak.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Red Hood asked her. “You look like you’re about to throw up.”

“I’m okay,” Cordelia said. She blinked the rain from her eyes. “What’s your real name?”

Red Hood tilted his head at her. “I have a secret identity for a reason, kid.”

“But…” Cordelia frowned in frustration. But you might be my family. But he might not be, and telling him her suspicion could result in Batman’s secret identity being revealed. “Fine. Thank you. For helping me. I… didn’t expect them to have a gun.”

Her eyes flickered to the men in the car. They were both slumped in their seat, either passed out from pain or blood loss.

“No problem, kid,” Red Hood said. “What were you doing with them in the first place? Are you running away or something?”

Cordelia crossed her arms uncomfortably. “No, I… I got kicked out.”

And not even a couple hours after getting kicked out, she’d almost been assaulted. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the bubbling hysteria and panic with the sound of rain falling on cement. If anything, this entire situation proved that her father and Bruce were right: she did need to train with them. She was already losing her touch.

“Hey, I’ve been there,” Red Hood said, his voice turning gentle again. She blinked at him, confused. But then he said, “parents can be assholes.”

“He’s not an asshole,” Cordelia said defensively. She thought of Bruce kindly handing her identification documents just because she’d told him she was lonely. “It was my fault. I — I messed up.”

The rain got heavier around them. Cordelia could feel Red Hood watching her, even if she couldn’t see his pupils. She looked down at her hands, at the gun she still held. It would be useful to keep.

“Listen, kid…” Red Hood finally said. His voice had an odd edge to it. “Maybe you did or said something stupid. But that’s no excuse for your dad to kick you out, especially in Gotham. You’ve seen what could have happened. This place isn’t safe.”

“I can take care of myself,” Cordelia said. “And he isn’t my dad. He’s… my cousin. I just moved in with him, so I’m still learning the rules.”

Red Hood scoffed in disgust. “You just moved in with him and he’s already kicking you out? Who is this guy?”

Cordelia looked at him suspiciously, at how careless he was with shooting people and car tires. “I don’t think I should tell you that.”

“So you do know a thing or two about living in Gotham,” Red Hood said approvingly. “Good. Maybe now you also know not to jump into strange men’s cars?”

Cordelia scowled at him. What kind of vigilante lectured the victim? You were supposed to save them and move on to the next fight. “Don’t lecture me. You saw what I did to them. You know I can defend myself.”

“Until they have a gun.”

“Now I have a gun.”

Cordelia glared at him, and the mask glared back. Or she thought it glared back, until she heard Red Hood speak, and she realized that the man behind the mask was not upset with her, he was surprised with her: “Oh my God, you look like…. Is the cousin who kicked you out Bruce Wayne?”

The young girl flinched back in shock. How had he known? What would he do with that knowledge? She saw Jerome and Ronny passed out in the car, recalled how quickly Red Hood had shot them, and immediately pointed her new gun at him.

Red Hood might have saved her, but Bruce was her brother.

“If you try to hurt Bruce,” she said seriously, “then I will kill you.”

Red Hood stared at her, and she glared back, her finger on the trigger. Slowly he raised his hands in surrender.

“I’m not going to hurt Bruce,” Red Hood said carefully. “Okay? I promise.”

Cordelia’s glare intensified as she tried to decipher his tone and body language, as she tried to see if his promise was genuine or not. But it was hard to tell with his mask. She almost wanted to tell him to take it off, but that sounded too close to what Ronny had demanded of her, and the similarity made her queasy.

“Okay,” she said, deciding to trust him. She lowered her weapon. “I’m sorry, it’s just… he’s my family.”

“Yeah,” Red Hood said. “I understand. This situation isn’t weird at all.”

He continued to stare at her. Cordelia was unnerved with his silence. She glanced up into the sky, at the heavy rain and the grey clouds. She wondered if Alfred noticed if she was missing or not. She should have said good-bye.

Red Hood made a sudden movement, and Cordelia tensed, but he was just shrugging off his jacket. He held it out to her and Cordelia stared at it.

“You look cold,” Red Hood said when she didn’t take it.

“So?” Cordelia shifted away from him, uncomfortable.

“So you don’t have to be,” Red Hood said. Then, under his breath, he said, “Geez, what trauma hole did Bruce pull this one from.”

“I heard that,” Cordelia snapped. “And I don’t want your jacket. Thanks for your help, but I really have to go.”

She turned to leave, but the man grabbed her arm before she could take a single step away from him.

“Let go of me,” she said through gritted teeth. 

Red Hood dropped his hand instantly. “Listen, kid, I…. I know Bruce Wayne, okay? He’s a jerk, but he wouldn’t kick a kid out into the street.”

“Are you implying that I’m lying?” Cordelia demanded.

“No,” Red Hood said, “I just know that Bruce sucks ass at communication and it can be easy to misunderstand what he’s saying. How about I get someone to call him and we can straighten out the situation?”

Cordelia thought of Bruce’s anger in the Cave, and shuddered. She couldn’t imagine how much angrier he’d be if he found out she was telling everyone in Gotham that he’d kicked her out. She could cause a scandal if anyone believed her.

“No, don’t call him,” Cordelia said decidedly. 

“Fine,” Red Hood said reluctantly after a pause. “How about if I call Alfred?”

Alfred? Cordelia once again looked Red Hood up-and-down. He knew Alfred; and he knew that calling Alfred meant something different than calling Bruce’s butler. He had to be one of her nephews, but his profile didn’t suit any of them. She wanted so badly to ask him what his name was, but he’d already said no.

“You know Alfred?” She asked instead.

“Nice old guy who cooks too much?” Red Hood said. She could almost hear him smile. “Yeah, I know Alfred.”

Would calling Alfred be okay? She didn’t think that Alfred would get her into trouble, and she did feel guilty about leaving without telling him good-bye. Maybe he could even bring her a coat and rain boots if he had the time.

“Okay,” Cordelia said.

“Great.” His shoulders drooped, some of the tension in his posture leaving. He held out the jacket again. “Here. If Alfred sees you without a jacket on in this weather, he’s sure to blame me.”

Cordelia hesitantly took the jacket. It was heavy, with thick padding on the inside similar to her Winter Batgirl uniform. She put her arms through the sleeves and felt warmth instantly seep into her skin.

“Thanks,” she murmured. She zipped it up awkwardly, still holding her gun in one hand.

“No problem, kid,” he said. He put his gun back in its holster. “Now let’s get out of this rain. Have you been to BatBurger yet?”

“Um… no.”

“You’ll love it. We can have Alfred pick you up there.”

Chapter 28: Jokerized Fries & BatBurgers

Summary:

“Try the Jokerized fry,” he demanded. “It will make me feel less like shit for liking them.”

Cordelia didn’t want to like the fry, either, but took a bite for him. It was disappointingly tasty.

On the way to BatBurger, Cordelia learned two things about Red Hood.

The first: he swore… a lot. He swore when a rat scuttled by him on the way to his motorcycle, he swore as someone cut him off in the road on their drive to BatBurger, he swore when he heard screaming on the way to the restaurant and had to stop to help someone out, and he swore mid-way through the fight when he reached for a weapon and realized that Cordelia still had his jacket.

“Do you need my help?” She called after him, trying to be heard over the thunder.

He’d told her to “guard” the motorcycle as he beat up a couple of drug dealers threatening an addict. From what she saw on the outskirts of the alley, he was a decent fighter and didn’t need any backup — but her fingers itched to redeem herself after what happened with Jerome and Ronny.

“You’re fucking kidding, right?” Red Hood said after punching the last drug dealer in the throat and kneeing his face. The large man went toppling down, unconscious, at Red Hood’s booted feet.

Cordelia shrugged, and fiddled with her new gun. “It looked like you needed help.”

Red Hood shook his head at her, then bent down to handcuff the fallen men. The drug addict thanked him profusely, even reaching down to shake Red Hood’s gloved hand before asking him for money.

“It’s for a bus ride home,” the drug addict said urgently.

“Get the hell out of here,” Red Hood snapped, “and get clean. I won’t always be there to help you when you can’t pay what you owe.”

The drug addict started apologizing, and thanking Red Hood, and promising to get clean, then going back to asking him for money. Cordelia still couldn’t see his face past the mask, but she could tell he was angry by the sharp line of his shoulders and how roughly he lined up the bodies of the drug dealers.

“What about you?” The drug addict asked Cordelia. He looked more like a begging dog than a man. “Do you have money?”

“Don’t talk to her,” Red Hood said sharply. He pressed a hidden button in his helmet (a comm link, Cordelia realized), and said, “Four drug dealers. Physical assault. You know what to do, O.”

He stood up and straightened out his clothes before walking back to the motorcycle.

“You’re just going to leave them there?” Cordelia asked him as he settled on the bike.

“Oracle will send the police to pick them up,” he said shortly. “If it was up to me, I would let them rot. But Batman has his rules.”

The second thing Cordelia learned about Red Hood: he was cool.

This fact she’d concluded after seeing his motorcycle. It was a huge, glossy black bike with red detailing that matched his helmet. There were a bunch of buttons and switches at the front that helped Cordelia come to the conclusion that the bike was custom-made, or at least highly upgraded.

In other words, it made her Cordelia’s old motorcycle in her timeline look like a tricycle. 

“Can I drive the rest of the way?” She couldn’t help but ask.

“Fuck no. Get on.”

That was another thing that made Red Hood cool: he said everything he was thinking, and didn’t bother to filter anything out. Although, in this particular instance, Cordelia didn’t appreciate it. 

She scowled at the back of his head, but did as he said.

“Hold on tight, kid,” he said, then took off.

Cordelia gripped his torso and buried her face in his back to keep the wind from making her eyes tear. Red Hood completely disregarded any Gotham speed limit, to the point where Cordelia was amazed they didn’t make it to BatBurger in under twenty seconds. It was like the man had a death wish, or was just really hungry.

She heard him laugh at her over the sound of the wind. “Scared?”

“It’s easy for you to be brave with a helmet on!” Cordelia shouted back.

“You’ll be fine!” Red Hood said. “I haven’t crashed in at least a month!”

“What!"

Cordelia imagined crashing at this speed without a helmet or her Batgirl uniform and practically glued herself to his back. She felt Red Hood’s laughter more than heard it.

It was a relief when he started to slow down a few minutes later. She blinked her teary eyes slowly and took a look around. They were in a more popular part of town, with young teenagers milling about and newer cars. Red Hood parked his motorcycle next to a building with colorful windows.

Cordelia stared at the neon sign in bewilderment. BatBurger.

Except the theme wasn’t just bats — it was Gotham, with all its heroes and villains. Each window was a different color, with symbols that represented a different villain: a green one with question marks for the Riddler, a yellow one with tally marks on it for Victor Zsasz, and a pink one with the words HA HA HA scrawled all over it for… the Joker.

“The theme sucks but the food is good,” Red Hood said once he saw her reaction. “Trust me. You won’t want to like Jokerized fries, but you will. It kind of makes you hate the Joker even more afterward.”

Cordelia stayed seated on the bike. “The Joker is alive. How is she alive?”

“She?” Red Hood echoed.

Cordelia frowned at him. “Yes. The Joker. She.”

Red Hood tilted his head at her. “Okay. Seriously, where did Bruce get you from? An alternate dimension?”

He wasn’t too far off from the truth, Cordelia would give him that. “The Joker isn’t a woman,” she concluded.

“No. He’s barely a man.” His voice came out bitter even through the helmet that distorted it. “Where did you hear that he was a woman?”

Cordelia didn’t hear about it, she saw it. In her timeline, the Joker was the embodiment of evil trapped into the slender body of none other than Martha Wayne.

From the stories that Cordelia heard, Martha was driven insane by the murder of her son. Thomas had tried to bring her back by committing her to Arkham Asylum for a couple of years, but all that ended up doing was giving Martha the space to convince herself that it was Thomas’s fault that Bruce died. Ever since then, she’d taken up the name Joker and made it her personal mission to make her husband’s life miserable.

Thomas’s love for Martha was the only reason why the Joker was alive in that timeline. If she’d been anyone else, and done all the things she’d done, Cordelia didn’t think Thomas would hesitate in killing her.

If this timeline’s Joker was half as bad as Martha, Cordelia couldn’t understand why he’d still be alive. Unless he was also someone that Batman cared about.

“Wow, you and Bruce really are related,” Red Hood said, breaking her out of her reverie. “You have the same thinking face.”

Cordelia thought of Bruce’s intense stare whenever he was trying to read her thoughts, and frowned.

“Same frown, too.”

Cordelia scowled at him.

“Same —“

“Can you stop?” Cordelia asked stiffly. “We don’t look that much alike.”

The man chuckled and held out a hand for her to take.

“How do you know Bruce?” She asked as he helped her off her bike.

“Everyone knows Bruce Wayne,” He answered easily.

“You don’t know him as Bruce Wayne,” Cordelia countered. “You know Bruce. And Alfred. Who are you to them?”

Red Hood reached up to press two buttons hidden under the chin of his helmet. There was a click and hiss before the man pulled the helmet from his head. The face underneath wore a red domino mask to protect his identity, had a strong jawline, hardened features, and black hair with a tuft of white in the front.

A stranger.

Except for his mouth, which was pulled into a smirk that was vaguely familiar until Cordelia realized that she was more used to seeing that mouth smile.

“You’re Jason Todd,” she said in amazement.

“In the flesh,” he said wryly. And now that it was confirmed, Cordelia could see more similarities between this man and the portraits of the joyful boy on the Wayne Manor walls: the arch of his eyebrows, the upturned nose, the pointed chin — boyish, mischievous features on an otherwise intimidating man.

The height and the muscles were new. As well as the white in his hair. And as the rain started to flatten it, Cordelia could see that the hair had been hiding a thick, painful-looking scar.

“What happened to you?” She wondered out loud.

“That’s rude.”

Jason walked away from her and toward BatBurger.

“Wait!” Cordelia hurried after him. He didn’t bother to slow down his pace like Bruce did, so she didn’t meet him until they were both in the restaurant. “I didn’t mean it like that, I meant — shouldn’t we have left our weapons outside?”

“Nah,” Jason shrugged. “They just hope we’re dressing for the theme.”

The inside of BatBurger was just as loud as the outside. Some workers were dressed in bad-fitting Batman costumes, while others wore things like Wonder Woman costumes or what looked like a cheesy acrobat’s costume. The walls were much more Batman-themed, with a replication of the Bat Signal taking up the entirety of the ceiling.

“Do you know what you want?” Jason asked as they approached the counter.

Cordelia eyed the menu. “Am I supposed to know what any of that means?”

“I’ll just order for you then,” he said.

Then he did just that. The cashier barely blinked as he took the order, his bored acne-riddled face as lifeless as if he were sleeping. The food came too quickly for it to be remotely healthy, but Jason looked happy enough walking them toward an empty booth.

“Try the Jokerized fry,” he demanded. “It will make me feel less like shit for liking them.”

Cordelia didn’t want to like the fry, either, but took a bite for him. It was disappointingly tasty.

“I didn’t mean to offend you back there,” she began as her nephew started digging into his food. “I just… I assumed you were dead.”

Jason choked on his burger. “Why the hell — has the old man been telling everyone that I’m dead?” He asked furiously.

“Old man? You mean Alfred?” Cordelia furrowed her brow in confusion. “No, he never talks about you.”

Jason glared at her. She pressed her lips together and wondered if eating another fry would make him forget all the slightly-offensive things her mouth kept spewing.

Cordelia took a fry and bit into it.

“I meant Bruce, but thanks for that,” Jason said, voice dripping in sarcasm.

“Bruce never said that you were dead,” Cordelia said, choosing her words carefully. “I just assumed that you were. There are no pictures of you passed the age of fifteen, and Bruce said that you might never visit Wayne Manor when I asked about you. And then he mentioned someone having died, and looked at one of the bedrooms, so… I thought the person who died was you and that Bruce was just pretending that you were still alive to feel better.”

“You never thought to just ask him if I was dead?”

Cordelia shrugged uncomfortable. “I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. If it made him feel better to think of you as alive, I didn’t want to take that delusion away from him.”

“Oh my God,” Jason was still upset with her. “You thought that you were living with a delusional asshole and just went with it?”

Cordelia got the feeling that another lecture was coming along. So she said the only thing she could think of to avoid it: “Bruce is my brother.”

She wasn’t sure what reaction she was expecting — some reaction, certainly. But the man in front of her didn’t react at all. He just stopped moving entirely, his BatBurger Deluxe halfway to his mouth and the white lens of his domino mask staring at her unblinkingly. Cordelia’s fingers fidgeted under the table as she waited and waited for Jason to say something, anything, about the news she just dropped.

I’m your aunt, she screamed in her head. Your my nephew! We’re family!

But Jason didn’t move, and Cordelia didn’t know what to do about that.

Finally, after what must have been forever, he said, “Impossible.”

“Yes,” Cordelia tried not to sound so relieved that he was still talking to her. “But it’s still true.”

“Kid, the definition of impossible is not possible,” Jason said. “Meaning… it’s not true. You’re his cousin.”

“That’s only what we’re telling the public,” Cordelia insisted. They’d started to speak low so no one would hear what they were saying, not that anyone in the restaurant was paying them any attention. “But you’re not the public — you’re my nephew!”

“Nope.”

Cordelia’s face fell. 

“Sorry, kid, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Jason said with a wave of his hand. He took a bite of his burger and started talking with his mouth full. “But Bruce is the embodiment of an only child. Not to mention his parents died years before you were born. There is zero chance that you two are siblings.”

“But we are,” Cordelia said, wishing that she had proof on hand. “I’m from an alternate timeline where Father lived and Bruce died.”

“Uh huh,” Jason said, clearly not believing her. “Then what are you doing here?”

“My —“ She forced down whatever emotion almost made her voice crack. “My world was falling apart. Flash brought me here so I could… so I could live. With Bruce. And meet all of you. Jason…” She met his eyes pleadingly, willing him to believe her next words. “I’ve really been wanting to meet all of you. I’ve never had a family before and now I’m part of a huge one. You have no idea what this means to me! Please, believe me.”

She waited for his reaction with bated breath. And the longer he took to respond, the more worried she became. What if she said too much? Should she not have been so open with how much she wanted to meet him? Did she say something weird or awkward? Would Jason even want an aunt?

Would Jason even want her as an aunt?

All these worries crowded her mind until she was sure she’d need a trip to Arkham just to flush them out.

Finally, Jason broke the silence by saying, “I need to use the bathroom.”

Then he was out of his seat and across the restaurant in seconds, disappearing behind the men’s restroom door and taking all of her hope with him.

Cordelia was left in the booth on her own, with nothing but the loud chatter of the other customers to keep her company. She lifted her feet onto the cushion of her seat and wrapped her arms around her shins.

Was Jason’s reaction normal? Cordelia didn’t think so. Bruce had ran to see her and talk to her after he found out, Barry had accepted the truth without much drama, and Alfred had instantly prepared a room for her to stay in.

What was Jason doing? Throwing up? Sneaking out the window to leave her behind?

The second that thought entered her head, Cordelia couldn’t let it go. She glanced around the restaurant one time to make sure no one was watching, then snuck over to the men’s restroom and slipped inside. If Jason was ditching her, then she’d prefer to know sooner rather than later.

The inside of the men’s restroom was smelly and, fortunately, not entirely visible the second she walked into it. There was a wall that hid the door from the stalls, making it easy for Cordelia to eavesdrop on the person who was pacing around the other side.

“Why do you sound so anxious, Alfie?” She heard Jason say, voice oozing sarcasm. “Missing something?”

He’s talking to Alfred on the phone, Cordelia realized. It took everything in her not to run over and snatch the phone out of his hand so she could talk to the butler herself.

Alfred must have said something, because Jason continued after a pause. 

“Yeah. I met her. She was being held at gun point by a couple of perverts —“ This time, Cordelia could hear a tinny voice cut Jason off, but she couldn’t hear what it was saying. “She’s fine. I think. She said that they didn’t do anything to her, but she looked shaken up…. Okay, okay, I’ll ask again. But if she gets pissed at me, I’m telling her you put me up to it…. You’re welcome, Alfred.”

In the following silence, Cordelia could hear Jason stop pacing and let out a long sigh. She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, wishing that he’d start talking again so that she no longer had to think about Jerome and Ronny and how stupid she felt sitting in their back seat with a gun to her face, knowing that the only way to get out of that situation alive would have been to just do what they said.

“She told me that Bruce was her brother, Al. Is that true?” Jason finally asked. A beat of silence, and then Jason started talking again, his voice strained with anger. “What the hell, Alfred? You’re telling me that our lives were erased and Bruce decided not to tell us? How could you go along with that…? Has it really been that bad…? She said that Bruce kicked her out and that’s why she was in Gotham. What the hell happened over there…? Hold on. Bruce doesn’t even know that she’s gone?”

Cordelia gasped — then covered her mouth with her hand to muffle the sound, but it was too late. Her gasp echoed around the bathroom, silencing the man on the other side of the wall. The young girl creeped closer to the exit, determined to get away before she was caught.

“Kid?” Jason’s voice echoed back at her. She froze. “Hold on, Alfred. We’ve got an eavesdropper.”

Cordelia took one longing look at the exit, but knew it was too late. When she turned around, Jason was standing at the other end of the wall.

He turned his head slightly to speak into his phone. “We’re at BatBurger. See you in ten?” Jason hung up the phone and stuffed it into his pocket, not breaking eye contact with her. “How much did you hear?”

The young girl fidgeted under his hard stare. “Nothing happened with the men,” she said. “Honest.”

Jason’s eyes raked over her, but not in the way Jerome’s or Ronny’s did — or even the way Bruce’s does when he’s trying to figure out what she’s thinking. Jason’s eyes were searching for something specific. “Good.”

“…So, you spoke to Alfred?” She asked, wanting to fill the awkward silence.

Jason stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Yup.”

Cordelia watched him in distress. This wasn’t what she wanted — this detachment. She’d wanted a family; affection. But not even her nephew seemed capable of it.

So she tried again, “…and you believe me about being your aunt?”

Jason snorted. “Please. Don’t call me your nephew again. You’re, like, half my size.”

“Oh,” Cordelia didn’t know what else to say. Speaking with him had been so much easier when he hadn’t known. Now their conversations were as stilted and awkward as her conversations with Bruce used to be. Maybe Bruce had been right to keep them away from her.

“Shit, kid,” Jason let out another sigh. He ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t mean to be an asshole, okay? But you’re throwing a lot at me right now.”

“I’m sorry,” her voice came out in a sad whisper.

“Can you just go?” He said next, his words tearing through her emotions like a shredder. “Okay, don’t look at me like that — I didn’t mean go go. Just — like — go back to the booth and let me think, okay? I just found out that I almost got fucking erased. That takes a moment to sink in for those of us who aren’t Bruce fucking Wayne.”

Cordelia gave a small nod, before leaving the restroom and sitting back at the booth. Someone must have swiped their food, because the table was empty, but Cordelia didn’t care. She just laid her head in her arms and watched the rain fall outside, wondering where Barry was and if his wife had given birth yet and if he was happy.

She really hoped he was happy. He deserved a happy family.

Jason returned to the booth a couple minutes later, as quiet as a man his size could be.

He didn’t say anything for a while. Then: “What the fuck happened to all our food?”

Cordelia, still half-hidden in her arms, said, “I think someone stole it.”

“Fuck Gotham. This place sucks.”

The young girl hummed in agreement.

“…Are you sure nothing happened with those guys? Because you aren’t acting like I saved you from something, you’re acting like something already happened.”

Cordelia felt like everything inside her was shriveling up. “Nothing happened, Jason. I promise. It was just… it felt really demeaning. The way they were staring at me and talking to me….” She was glad he couldn’t see her expression, or the way her mouth crumpled up. “I should never have gotten into that car. I knew they were bad people, and I went in anyway.”

“You knew?” Jason repeated. “Jesus, kid.”

Cordelia shrugged, the movement awkward in her position. “I thought I’d be able to take them in a fight.”

The silence that followed was tense. She could practically feel Jason’s anger take up the space between them. “Is that what you thought?” He asked. “Newsflash, kid: it doesn’t matter how tough you think you are. Staying out of dangerous situations is the only way to stay safe — and even that isn’t guaranteed.”

“I know that —“

“Do you? Because not long after what happened with those guys, you followed me into an alley and let me take you to an unknown location. You don’t even know me. I could have been dangerous! You can’t just follow random men around.”

His angered tone was like a gun to the face. Cordelia could almost feel the cold metal pressing against her nose and the hateful eyes of a stranger leering at her chest. Without realizing what she was doing, Cordelia reached up and rubbed the spot where the gun had been. She felt her finger slide against thick liquid, and pulled it back to see that it came away pink.

It was blood. She still had Jerome’s blood on her.

“Shit,” she heard Jason sigh. “Here.”

He pulled napkins from the dispenser and held it out for her. She took it and gingerly wiped her face clean.

He cleared his throat when she was done. “I’m… sorry.”

He apologized the same way Bruce apologized: stilted, pained. Not used to being sorry. Or not used to expressing it.

Cordelia swallowed past a lump in her throat, and nodded. Cordelia hoped the nod portrayed her forgiveness, because she didn’t trust herself to speak.

“I’m not usually the one who lectures, believe it or not,” Jason continued when she didn’t say anything. “It’s usually Dick.”

Still, she didn’t speak.

Jason made a motion toward her, almost like he was going to rest his hand on her shoulder like Bruce always does, when the door behind her opened up. Her nephew straightened up in his seat and said, “Alfred!” with a voice so filled with relief that Cordelia wondered just how torturous sitting in front of her was.

Cordelia’s head snapped up in the direction of the door. It was Alfred. He was folding up a large black umbrella and wearing a black hat that looked too formal for the Bat-themed restaurant he stood in. At hearing his name, Alfred turned toward the two and bustled over, his eyes zeroed in on Cordelia with so much concern that it made her heart ache.

“Miss Cordelia,” he said when he was within earshot. “What on earth happened? What are you wandering around Gotham by yourself? And without an umbrella?”

She could have told him what happened in the Cave, or everything that had happened afterward. But she couldn’t. Seeing Alfred there, when everything felt like it was falling apart… it was just too much.

So all Cordelia could get herself to say, in a voice so small and scared that it could have belonged to someone years younger than herself, was: “Alfred.”

Suddenly the butler was in the seat beside her and pulling her into a hug. The young girl instantly melted into the hug that felt so familiar, so safe, after so much trauma. This was her Alfred, even if he couldn’t remember it. She snuggled even deeper into his shoulder, ignoring the cruel voice in her head saying, That Alfred died years ago and you will never get him back.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Cordelia whispered shamefully.

Alfred held her tighter. “Nothing is wrong with you,” he said firmly. “Absolutely nothing.”

“I was almost — they might have almost….” The same hysterical panic from before rose to the surface and made her voice crack. She saw Jason’s face harden at the sound. Cordelia looked away from it and closed her eyes, imagined the rain on her cheeks washing the tears away, the smell of Alfred’s cooking, Bruce’s amused eyes as she laughed quietly at something Jane Austen wrote in her novels.

Everyone in this timeline seemed to treat her like a child, and now she was starting to feel like one. She’d never felt so unsure of herself before, of the decisions she made, her skillset, where she stood in a family. But every time she acted, she got a reaction she wasn’t expecting.

Like Jerome pulling out a gun.

“I feel so stupid,” she told the man holding her.

“Nonsense,” Alfred told her. “Out of all the horrible, awful people in Gotham, you managed to find one of the best young men there are and stuck by his side until I got here. You’re exceptional, my dear.”

And that was all it took for Cordelia to let go and start crying in his arms.

Notes:

Coming Up Next Week: Alfred's POV!

Chapter 29: INTERLUDE: Alfred's POV

Summary:

If there was one thing Alfred learned about living in Gotham, it was this: that Gotham was a city where your worst nightmares could come true in the blink of an eye. So it was best not to take long blinks.

Alfred was not a fan of magic or science so fantastical that it might as well be magic. These things were far too unpredictable. He preferred the exactness of a dinner recipe, the knowledge that some flowers in his garden would grow and some flowers wouldn’t, the assurance of a date marked on a calendar.

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate miracles when they came along (Lord knew that Jason Todd coming back from the dead was an event that Alfred Pennyworth had been grateful for). He just didn’t appreciate how these miracles always had terrible consequences.

Like how they got Jason back, but not the sweet boy he used to be.

So when the aging butler searched all around the house for their newest miracle, and did not find her, he couldn’t help but worry that the consequences had arrived.

“Have you seen the young miss?” Alfred asked Master Bruce. The billionaire was already dressed in his patrolling gear despite the day being so early, a sure sign that something bad happened and he wanted to use Batman to escape it.

“I sent her to her room,” Master Bruce grunted. He pulled his cowl over his face to hide whatever emotion he was feeling. “I won’t be on comms tonight, Alfred. Don’t bother waiting up.”

Alfred watched the young man leave in his BatMobile, knowing that he would wait up anyway and knowing that Master Bruce knew that, too.

Then the butler set off in search of the younger Wayne. Contrary to what her guardian thought, Miss Cordelia was not in her room, but Alfred continued his search in the less likely areas: the others children’s rooms, the attic, the kitchen, and the abandoned rooms on the West end. Finally, he grabbed his umbrella and searched outdoors.

It was hours after lunch time before he finally had to accept the awful truth: that Miss Cordelia was not on the premises. And Alfred had to wonder why a girl who rarely stepped foot outdoors even when the sun was out would venture off into a rainstorm.

Had she run away? That seemed very unlikely to Alfred, who saw the adoring way the young miss looked at Master Bruce every time she saw him at the breakfast table.

Had someone taken her? After so many kidnapping attempts on the boys, Alfred shuddered to imagine what type of villain would be able to break through their defenses to steal a girl who hadn’t even been exposed to the public yet.

Had time erased her? The thought was so devastating and likely that Alfred had to sit down after thinking it. Time was tricky business from what the butler knew; one wrong move and the effects could be horrendous. Was it possible that Barry messed with time again? Was it possible that someone else did? Had it ripped Miss Cordelia from them right when she was finally starting to get comfortable?

Alfred rested his head in his hands and just… sat there.

Then — the phone began to ring.

Alfred lifted his head, straightened out his clothes, and answered the call.

“Wayne Residence,” he said, formal. “Master Bruce is currently not available —“

“Hey, Alfie.”

It was Master Jason. Alfred had to blink a couple of times to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. “Master Jason! During any other circumstance, I would be more than happy to speak with you. However, I am quite busy today.”

“Why do you sound so anxious, Alfie? Missing something?”

And then Alfred’s shoulders relaxed. Because Miss Cordelia hadn’t been erased — she’d simply been misplaced.

---

The drive to BatBurger felt like a long one to Alfred, even though he drove well over the speed limit and arrived at the barely two-star restaurant within eight minutes. Anxiety followed him the entire way there, and did not entirely settle until he rushed into the booth and had Miss Cordelia safe in his arms.

As the young girl cried into his shoulder, Alfred rubbed soothing circles into her back and, not for the first time, questioned whether following Master Bruce’s no-kill rule was worth it. 

I was almost — they might have almost….

Alfred closed his eyes and pictured the shotgun he kept in the caves beneath the Manor.

“You must tell me what happened,” Alfred said once her shoulders stopped shaking. “Why did you leave the manor?”

“Bruce told me to get out,” Miss Cordelia murmured. “So I did.”

I sent her to her room, Master Bruce had said. And although Alfred loved his dear boy, Alfred found himself cursing his inept communication skills more often than he praised his detective skills.

“He did not mean it that way, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred assured her. “But I will have a talk with him about being clear with his intentions.”

Master Jason scoffed from across the table. “Like that ever works.”

Alfred sent the boy a withering look. Master Jason dropped his gaze.

“Did you and Master Bruce get into an argument?” Alfred questioned her.

Miss Cordelia pulled away from the hug to wipe at her devastatingly expressive eyes. Through them, Alfred could see years of quiet sadness, desperate hope, and terrible fear. In the past week, he’d been blessed to also see happiness there — only for it to be taken away in just a few short hours by a mysterious argument and two Gotham scum.

“No, I…” her wet eyelashes blinked slowly as she avoided his stare. “We didn’t fight. I don’t think. I just… I didn’t want to spar with him.”

Alfred could feel Master Jason’s confused stare, but he kept his focus on Miss Cordelia. “Was Master Bruce pressuring you to start training?”

Miss Cordelia shook her head. Her wet black hair drooped messily around her pale face. “No. I just thought he was. I was being stupid.”

The old butler heard the things she wasn’t telling him and pulled her into another hug. She immediately tucked her head under his chin as if hugging him were one of the most familiar actions in the world and Alfred wondered, for the first time, if him being her guardian instead would be the better option for everyone.

He rubbed small circles into her back and said softly into her hair, “everything will be okay, Miss Cordelia.”

Alfred knew that he had a loving family, but he had never had an emotional one. Master Bruce had mastered his emotions very early on, hardly ever seeking comfort from his guardian even when he needed it. Master Bruce’s sons very quickly took a page from their father’s book, and became very independent young gentlemen. Miss Cassandra, for as amazingly perceptive as she was with other people’s emotions, required comfort and assurances even less than her brothers did.

Miss Cordelia was different from all of them. Perhaps this was because she’d never had the support that the rest of them knew was always on-hand. Or, perhaps, she was just so used to being alone that hiding her emotions had never been a priority. 

Whatever the reasons, Alfred knew that he’d have to adapt to having a more emotional child under his wing.

And so would Master Bruce.

---

“What did she mean that she didn’t want to spar with B?” Master Jason asked.

Alfred had walked him to his motorcycle after getting Miss Cordelia in the car. Both he and the young sir stood facing the vehicle, silently concerned that looking away from the girl would mean losing her once again.

If there was one thing Alfred learned about living in Gotham, it was this: that Gotham was a city where your worst nightmares could come true in the blink of an eye. So it was best not to take long blinks.

“I do not know for sure,” Alfred said slowly, considering his words and who he was talking to, “but I have a suspicion that Miss Cordelia’s life with Thomas Wayne was not a loving one.”

“You think he abused her?” Master Jason asked, as direct as he ever was.

Alfred was fully aware that this was the first time he’d spoken his suspicions out loud. He’d thought, foolishly, that this secret would not need to be one that surfaced — especially after the past week, where he’d watched Miss Cordelia grow happier and happier with Master Bruce as her guardian. But now he had to come to terms with the fact that keeping his suspicions a secret for any longer would be selfish on his part.

He could not choose protecting Master Bruce from the truth over protecting Miss Cordelia’s well-being.

“I can say with absolute certainty that he did,” Alfred said, and the words felt heavier than the rain that slapped against his umbrella.

The last time Alfred saw Thomas Wayne had been the night he died. Master Bruce had been over-the-moon with joy; not only did he get to spend the day with his normally very busy father, but he also got to watch a movie he’d been looking forward to for the past two months. The young boy could barely hold still while Alfred straightened out his tie.

And Thomas Wayne had been happy, too. A loving father, a caring husband.

They’d left the Manor a picture-perfect family. Then Master Bruce returned as something else entirely.

Alfred never had time to wonder what would have happened if it was Thomas Wayne who’d returned without a family.

He looked over at Miss Cordelia, who watched the teenagers roaming up and down the street from the car window, as detached from them as if she were looking at them on a movie screen. He thought of her initial fear every time Master Bruce entered the same room as her, her determination to not train with him, her worry that spending too much money on clothes would upset him. Alfred thought of how she innocently misunderstood romantic interest for friendship, and how clear it was that she didn’t have experience with either of those two things.

He thought of how quickly she believed Master Bruce would kick her out.

“Well shit,” Master Jason said, summing the situation up splendidly in two simple words. “How did B take it?”

“He isn’t aware,” Alfred said.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Alfred couldn’t see Master Jason’s eyes past the domino mask, but he was positive that the young lad was rolling his eyes. “That kid has abused, neglected, and traumatized written across her forehead. You’re telling me Mr. World’s Greatest Detective hasn’t figured it out yet?”

“It is a very complicated situation, Master Jason,” Alfred said.

“Why? Because it’s his dad who’s doing the abusing?” Master Jason scoffed. “So his dad is a piece of shit — aren’t they all?”

Alfred sent him a look. “I hope you refrained from swearing this much when you were looking over Miss Cordelia.”

Master Jason snorted. “Oh, please. The kid was enjoying it.”

This was not a pleasing thought. Having one of the children with an uncontrollable potty mouth was quite enough for Alfred. 

Master Jason barked out a laugh. “Don’t look so disapproving, Alfie. I’m starting to get offended.”

Alfred forced himself to relax. It was a credit to the youth that they were able to bounce so quickly from horrifying events. Sometimes Alfred felt himself to be stuck in the same awful moment for days on end, until he spoke with one of the children and then the sun finally spilled between the silver clouds.

“Will you visit the manor soon, Master Jason?” He could not help but ask.

The boy sobered up quickly. Not even a new aunt could stir his interest in visiting the house he grew up in. “Sorry, Alfie,” was his answer.

Alfred sighed, but did not push. “Will you, at least, call? The young Miss Cordelia has not stopped asking about you since she arrived. You and your siblings have been her main focus for the past two weeks. I believe she was more excited to meet you than to meet her brother.”

Master Jason turned away to get on his bike. Conversations with him always ended quickly when the subject of family came up. “I’ll be busy for the next, y’know, year. So maybe I’ll shoot Dick a message. Tell him to get his preppy ass to the manor and cheer up a new kid. We all know Bruce is incapable of that.”

“That is not how I remember it,” Alfred said smoothly.

He saw Master Jason’s jaw clench at the reminder of his childhood, and just how happy it was with Bruce. No amount of rewriting history could erase that solid truth.

“Whatever,” Master Jason muttered bitterly.

“Will you not at least say good-bye to her?” Alfred tried.

“Listen, Alfie. She’s an okay kid, but this entire situation is too weird for me — and I dug myself out of my own grave. If you think I’m gonna start calling her ‘auntie’ and sing Kumbaya songs with her, then you’re crazier than Bruce.”

He put his Red Hood helmet on and almost started the bike when Alfred pulled out his last weapon, “She’s read all of Jane Austen’s novels in the past few days just because Master Bruce told her they were your favorites.”

The boy froze, and Alfred knew that he’d won. If the helmet was off, he was sure that he’d see Master Jason shooting a glare his way. But it was on, so all he got to see was Jason’s shoulders droop in defeat before he stepped off his bike and walked toward the car in the rain.

Alfred stayed by the motorcycle, giving aunt and nephew privacy before they split ways.

He watched as Master Jason knocked on Miss Cordelia’s window with gloved knuckles. Then he watched Miss Cordelia open the door, perhaps hoping he would join her in the car. But Master Jason just kneeled down so that he was at eye level with her, and then took off his helmet to talk.

Alfred could not hear what they were saying over the sound of rain, thunder, and the chatter of the crowd. But he could see Miss Cordelia’s expression change from wariness, to wonder, and (finally) to amazed happiness.

It was then that Alfred decided to approach.

“…And if you grow about three inches, I’ll let you ride my motorcycle,” Master Jason was saying, in the voice he used so often when he worked as Robin. “Or maybe I can talk to the guy who made it and you can get your own.”

Alfred smiled. He recognized that look in Miss Cordelia’s eyes: it was the look Robin often got from children he saved. One of complete awe and admiration.

It was nice to see that Robin’s spirit was still alive in all the boys that took on the uniform.

“What about if I wear platform shoes?” Miss Cordelia asked. “I promise I won’t crash the bike. I had my own bike in my timeline that I’ve been riding since I was eleven.”

Master Jason thought about it, before shrugging. “That might work.”

The girl brightened instantly. “This is amazing. You’re so…. I’m so glad I met you, Jason.”

Alfred could not see Master Jason’s reaction to that statement, but he hoped it warmed his heart as much as it did the old butler’s. He saw the boy reach up and ruffle the young girl’s wet hair affectionately, and was glad that she wasn’t self conscious enough to avoid it.

Perhaps he and Master Bruce had been wrong in worrying about how the boy would react to a new family member. Master Jason was doing excellently, and Miss Cordelia did not fear him in the same way she feared her brother.

“I’m glad I met you, too, kid,” Master Jason told her.

“Cordelia,” she told him. “I don’t think I ever introduced myself to you.”

“That’s a nice name,” Master Jason said.

A strange expression passed over her face, before going away. “So I’ve heard,” she said with a touch of bitterness. When Master Jason stood up to leave, she added, almost shyly, “Thank you for… calling Alfred. And everything else.”

“You’re welcome, kid — Cordelia,” he corrected himself. “And, hey, anytime you’re mad at Bruce, just mess with his paperwork or something. Don’t run away.”

“I wasn’t mad at Bruce.” The young girl was quick to say. “I told you, it was my fault. Bruce is amazing.”

“Yeah,” Red Hood snorted. “Until he isn’t.”

“Oh,” Miss Cordelia replied. Her large eyes flickered up to her nephew’s white hair, a question filling them.

“That’s a story I only tell when I’m wasted,” Master Jason said, noticing her stare.

“Master Jason,” Alfred said sharply. Honestly, if I leave her alone with him any longer she’ll come back to the manor cussing like a sailor and sneaking alcohol into the floorboards. 

“What? It’s not like I offered her a drink,” Master Jason said defensively. He stretched his long limbs. “Y’know, yet.”

“That’s quite enough,” the butler said. “I thank you for your help in looking after Miss Cordelia, but it’s long past lunch time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Master Jason said, waving his hand carelessly. “I’ve got a patrol to finish. See ya, Alfie.”

The tall boy went back to his bike, put his helmet back on, and kicked it to life. Miss Cordelia and Alfred watched him race down the street and disappear into the thick Gotham fog.

Alfred only got into the driver’s seat when he could no longer see the lights of the motorcycle or hear the sound of its engine.

---

Miss Cordelia’s talk with Master Jason clearly left her in better spirits than before. In fact, she did not stop smiling to herself until they reached the gates of Wayne Manor. Alfred peaked into his rearview mirror just in time to spot Miss Cordelia’s face flush as she sunk into her seat.

Alfred politely pretended like he did not notice.

Neither said a word until the car was parked and Alfred had opened Miss Cordelia’s door with an umbrella covering them both. The young girl stepped out of the car, finally dry after sitting so long in the heated vehicle. Alfred was pleased to see that Master Jason had provided her with a jacket — but he was less pleased to see the state of her new shoes.

In his mental checklist, he added the task of getting her replacements. And to also get her platform shoes, since she was unlikely to ask Master Bruce for a pair herself.

“Right this way,” Alfred said.

But Miss Cordelia hesitated. “Are you sure that Bruce didn’t kick me out? It’s okay if he did, I can find somewhere else to stay like Barry’s —“

“I am absolutely positive that he did not kick you out, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said, before she could worry any longer. “I spoke with him before I left to pick you up. Master Bruce was under the impression that you were in your room before he left to patrol.”

Miss Cordelia frowned, but seemed to trust Alfred in a way he did not completely understand. She walked beside him to the Wayne Manor entrance, and only hesitated once before taking a step into the house.

Alfred promptly folded the umbrella and put it back in its place, then added getting Miss Cordelia her own umbrella to his ever growing and changing mental checklist.

When he turned back to the young miss, he saw that she was still hovering by him.

“I suggest changing into new clothes, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said after looking her over. She had naturally pale skin, similar to Master Bruce, but she looked especially pale this evening. “And perhaps taking a warm shower.”

Miss Cordelia nodded obediently and left. That was another thing Alfred discovered about the girl: she so rarely disagreed with his suggestions.

---

Alfred spent the rest of the horrible day worrying and waiting.

Worrying for Miss Cordelia, who just went through a terrible trauma; and waiting for Master Bruce to return from his patrol so that he could finally have the talk with him about his father.

It was hours after dinner (which was a sad affair once Miss Cordelia noticed that her brother would not be at the table like he normally was), when Alfred received an alert that someone had entered the BatCave. The butler straightened up, re-heated Master Bruce’s dinner, and then travelled down the long staircase behind the grandfather clock.

Master Bruce was still dressed as Batman when Alfred arrived, and seated at his BatComputer. The young man’s back was to the butler, but they both knew that Batman had heard his entrance.

“Did you have a successful night, Sir?” Alfred asked him.

Master Bruce grunted.

“You missed dinner,” the butler said. He laid the tray next to the man’s elbow pointedly. “Miss Cordelia was quite disappointed.”

Master Bruce continued typing on his BatComputer, immovable.

Alfred frowned at his behavior. “I recall us both agreeing that being present for family meals was beneficial for Miss Cordelia’s comfort.”

“Things change, Alfred,” Master Bruce said shortly.

“Yes, they certainly do,” Alfred replied pointedly. “That is precisely what I thought when one moment we had a happy young girl in our home and the next moment she was nowhere to be found.”

Master Bruce’s fingers finally froze from their typing. His frown was sharp. “Explain,” he demanded.

“Whatever discussion you had here in the cave gave her the impression that you were kicking her out.” Alfred did not like to give bad news, but sometimes bad news was the only way to get Master Bruce to respond rather than Batman. “I assured her that you weren’t. Was I deceiving the poor girl?”

The BatGlare was pointed in his direction. Alfred looked back, unfazed. “I never kicked her out, Alfred. I sent her to her room.”

“And were those the words that you used? ‘Go to your room?’”

They both knew the answer. Master Bruce did not bother to voice it.

“I understand that you are used to communicating with the boys and Miss Cassandra this way,” Alfred began softly. Despite everything, sometimes all he could see when he looked at this hardened man was a small, broken boy who just returned from the movie theaters without his parents. “But Miss Cordelia is different. She does not know you, Master Bruce. You are a complete stranger to her. And you have a tendency to be very hard to read for the people who do not know you.”

This was not news to the man. He and Alfred had discussed this a week ago, when they realized that Miss Cordelia was not warming up to her brother as quickly as they would have liked. It was Alfred who suggested that Master Bruce try to be more expressive when she was in the room.

The young man finally dropped his glare. He reached up and pulled his cowl back. If anyone else was looking at him, they would think that he looked careless. But Alfred had raised the boy, and knew his heart, so he was able to see the regret and pain that he was trying so desperately to hide. 

“Is she okay?” Master Bruce finally asked.

Alfred thought of how she’d clung to him in BatBurger and the tears that had wet his shoulders. There were times when Alfred wished he could protect Master Bruce from the truth, but this could not be one of those times. “She made it all the way to the city when she was attacked by two men.” At Master Bruce’s startled gaze, Alfred continued. “Master Jason saved her before anything terrible happened, but he told me that they were holding her at gunpoint.”

Master Bruce got out of his seat and started pacing. “Jason…. He left two men in a car. They were both shot and bleeding out. They were near death when I got them to the hospital.”

Alfred could not find it within himself to be sorry for them.

“Why would she be in a car with them?” Master Bruce muttered to himself furiously. “What was she thinking?”

“Perhaps that she needed a ride to find shelter after being kicked out of her home during a rainstorm,” Alfred answered coolly.

“That’s no excuse,” the young man sneered as he stalked up and down the BatCave. “She’s grown up in Gotham, she’s patrolled its streets. She’s seen the worst of it just as much as any of us have. She must have known what those men were thinking, and she got into the car anyway.”

“Master Bruce, these are just assumptions.”

“No, Alfred, it’s a pattern with her,” he finally stopped pacing to point furiously up the steps toward Wayne Manor. “She’s incapable of taking care of herself.”

Alfred did not feel like that was fair to say, especially since he had a suspicion that Miss Cordelia spent her entire life looking after herself. “I’m not sure what you mean, Master Bruce.”

“The only reason she eats three times a day is because I ordered her to,” Master Bruce snapped, listing off the things like they were strikes against her. “She has an inappropriate infatuation with Barry even though he’s old enough to be her father. And this isn’t the first time she’s put herself into a vulnerable position, knowing how dangerous it would be for her.”

“You can hardly judge someone else for skipping meals after you’ve skipped both lunch and dinner,” Alfred stated pointedly. “And I seem to recall having to chase older women out of the house when you were just eighteen. As for putting herself in dangerous situations… well, that is something you both share.”

Master Bruce did not seem to appreciate that comparison. He looked seconds away from punching something. Alfred was sure that he was cursing the sun for rising just because it kept him from patrolling.

“I understand your fear for Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said kindly. “But I implore you not to blame her for what happened tonight. She already blames herself. I worry that hearing you say these things will absolutely destroy her.”

Master Bruce looked away from him. Something was bothering him — something other than just Miss Cordelia running away. Alfred approached him quietly and laid a hand on his shoulder. The man was a head taller than the butler, but in this moment he seemed very young.

“What happened between you and Miss Cordelia?” Alfred asked gently. “You two were getting along splendidly before you brought her to this cave.”

“She…” Master Bruce sat on the chair in front of the BatComputer and laid his head in his hands. “She begged me not to hurt her.”

“…And did you tell her that you wouldn’t?” Alfred asked.

“Of course I did,” Master Bruce snapped. Alfred raised his eyebrows, and the man looked down again. “I told her that I wouldn’t hurt her, then asked her why she thought I would. Do you know what she said, Alfred? Because I’m Batman.”

There were a lot of things Alfred regret about his life. Not telling Master Bruce the truth about his father would be one of them. Perhaps if he’d told him his suspicions earlier on, then Master Bruce would not have had to find out in such a devastating way, and Miss Cordelia wouldn’t have had to deal with the aftermath of his realizations all on her own.

When the butler did not say anything to that, Master Bruce looked up at him suspiciously. “You knew.”

Alfred bowed his head in a nod. “I knew.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Master Bruce demanded.

The butler felt an immense amount of pity for the man when he answered, “I didn’t want to see you in pain.”

“You made a bad call, Alfred,” Master Bruce snapped bitterly. “I should have known. He’s my father.”

Alfred could have defended himself. He could have said that the man who was his father died years ago, and was an excellent man. That whoever Miss Cordelia had been living with was a shadow of the real Thomas Wayne, just a twisted vapor. He could have said that Master Bruce knowing would not have benefited any of them. But he didn’t. Because, in Alfred’s heart, he knew that Master Bruce was right.

“I’m sorry, my dear boy,” the butler said sincerely.

Master Bruce looked at his hands. Alfred and Miss Cordelia were probably the only living souls who knew how similar Master Bruce’s hands were to his fathers.

“He hurt her,” Master Bruce said. “He’s been hurting her. I see it now; all the flinches, all the looks, like she was trying to figure out how angry I was. Even the way she barely leaves her room unless one of us invites her out. It’s more than just neglect or the occasional punch. He was… he was terrorizing her, Alfred. Why would he do that?”

Alfred did not know the answer to this.

“He was a great man,” Master Bruce said, mostly to himself. “Wasn’t he?”

“Some men change,” Alfred told him. “Especially after enduring horrible events. Losing a son… is a dreadful thing.”

Alfred thought back to when they all believed Master Jason was lost to them. He recalled his many sleepless nights worrying about Master Bruce — not just because of his newly reckless nature, but also because of how much more violent he became with the criminals he fought.

“That’s no excuse for what he’s done,” Master Bruce said. “If you had seen the way Cordelia was looking at me, Alfred… it was like I was a monster.”

Alfred wished he could protect them both from their memories. “I’m sorry that this was the way you found out, Master Bruce. But the worst is behind us. She’s safe now, and you both can start to heal from what happened.”

“It’s not that simple,” Master Bruce denied. His voice was firm, his eyes flat. He would move forward, but he would not forget. That was always the way with Master Bruce. “Dad’s abuse has effected Cordelia’s ability to act in situations that could be dangerous to her. I noticed this before, but it’s become more clear now. There was a moment… right before she walked down to the cave. She thought I was bringing her down here to hurt her; she could have ran, or went to you for help. But she didn’t do either of those things. She just followed me down here like she didn’t have a choice.”

Perhaps she never did have a choice.

Alfred’s gaze shifted around the BatCave. Different memories surfaced from what he saw; some good memories, some bad ones. He’d stitched up Robins in the medical room, brought meals to Master Bruce when he was working late on a case. He’d seen the children prank each other and climb the giant toy dinosaur; he’d even seen Master Tim fall from the dinosaur and rushed over to put a bandage on his wound.

The BatCave was where the family did their detective work, but it was also where they lived and enjoyed each others company. 

It was… grotesque to realize that the BatCave, in another timeline, was also a place where Miss Cordelia endured abuse at the hands of her father. He wondered, and doubted, whether anyone was ever there to wrap up her wounds when she fell.

“I don’t know what to do with her,” Master Bruce said suddenly.

This startled Alfred out of his melancholic musings. “What ever do you mean, Master Bruce?”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Master Bruce frowned. “Cordelia thought I was taking her to the cave to hurt her and her reaction was to come here anyway. The same way she knew that those men in Gotham would hurt her and she got into their car anyway. She’s irresponsible with herself. I can’t let her be Batgirl.”

“Far be it from me to actually encourage any of you to patrol,” Alfred began disapprovingly, “but you already promised her that she would one day be Batgirl again. Going back on your promise will not help you heal your relationship with her.”

“Cordelia’s safety is more important than having her like me, Alfred.”

“You know being overprotective with any of your Robins always results in them doing something rebellious… like patrolling on their own.”

“Cordelia isn’t a Robin,” Master Bruce stated. “She’s a Batgirl. And she’s already shown me that she’s better at listening to my rules than any of my other children. I think if I tell her that she’s not allowed to be Batgirl, then she’ll accept that.”

Alfred refrained from pointing out that she might be too scared to defy Master Bruce in his own house. If that were the case, then Alfred would very much prefer that she broke some of the rules that the older Wayne had laid out. At least then it would prove to her that the worst thing Master Bruce would do was scold her and send her off to her room.

“I do not agree with this, Sir,” Alfred said firmly. “Taking Batgirl away from Miss Cordelia will be just as painful to her as it would be to you if I had told you never to be Batman.”

“Then we will give her other things to care about,” Master Bruce said, as determined as he would be on a case. He turned back to his BatComputer and opened up a document labelled Cordelia Wayne. “I’ve started writing her file. She’s shown some interest in things, mainly gardening. We can work with that. Distract her from Batgirl.”

Alfred thought of all the distractions he tried to give Master Bruce when he just started out his vigilante career and sighed. “Why don’t you just speak with her about your concerns, Master Bruce? Maybe Batgirl is something you both can work toward, rather than completely discard.”

“No,” Master Bruce’s voice was low, dark. Final. “I won’t be able to trust her out in the field. She’ll get herself into a dangerous situation, and I will be too far to reach her. She could end up dead. And I will not have another Jason Todd.”

The words were ominous, almost cruel. But Alfred thought of Master Jason as he used to be, a bright light within the manor, and understood Master Bruce’s fear. Losing Master Jason had hurt them all — and still hurt them, if they allowed themselves to remember.

The frayed Robin suit in the trophy case ensured that Master Bruce never forgot.

“If that is what you think is best, Sir,” Alfred finally said. He laid his hand on Master Bruce’s shoulder once again. “Will you be needing anything else from me?”

Master Bruce paused in his typing once again. For a moment, Alfred thought that he would ask him for comfort — but that wasn’t his way, and it never had been. Master Bruce simply shook his head and said, while resuming typing, “No. That will be all, Alfred.”

Chapter 30: Bruises from Bruce

Summary:

“Alfred… you said — before — that if I ever needed to talk about anything then I could talk to you, right?”

“Absolutely,” Alfred said.

“I’m ready to talk,” she said.

The next morning, Cordelia woke up with a fever.

Cordelia hated fevers. They were an all-consuming type of illness, making every muscle in her body ache and every pore of her skin sweat. Plus, it never mattered how many layers she put on or how hot of a shower she took, she was never able to be warm.

The young Wayne groaned into her sweat-soaked pillow, miserable with the feeling.

But breakfast would be ready soon, and Bruce would be there, and he’d told her to eat three meals a day with no exceptions — so Cordelia crawled out of her bed and got ready for the day.

The girl in the mirror was a much paler, more miserable version of the girl who’d stared into it just yesterday. But that girl of yesterday had been a stranger. It was this one, the one Cordelia was staring at today, who she was most familiar with.

Cordelia pulled her comb through her hair, wincing in the dim light of the bathroom. 

Her entire body shook where it stood, the fever causing goosebumps to appear on her naked flesh. Cordelia did not bother to style her hair as she left her bathroom and scavenged her wardrobe for a thick sweater and soft sweatpants. But before she could pull her head through the sweater, she paused.

Dark purple markings littered her arms right beneath her shoulders. Cordelia blinked owlishly at the bruises, at the shapes of them. Like five fingers had pressed into her skin.

She knew instantly where they’d come from. They’d come from the Cave, from her confrontation with her brother. She remembered him being so upset with her that he’d gripped her arms hard enough to bruise.

Her trembling fingers traced over each of them, counting: ten.

Her first ten bruises from Bruce.

Cordelia quickly swiped at the tears that spilled from her eyes and finished getting dressed. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. She’d made her choice when she followed Bruce down to the Cave that she wanted to be a part of his family no matter what — so she couldn’t change her mind just because he’d given her a couple of bruises.

Despite her self assurance, Cordelia spent the next five minutes puking into her toilet before she left her room.

It took her longer than normal to reach the kitchen. Cordelia had to take breaks every so often so she could close her eyes and lean against whatever wall was closest. Dread was not the only thing that had caused her to vomit; her fever was also furious with her for getting out of bed. At some points, Cordelia could have sworn that the walls were spinning around her and that the floors were tilting beneath her feet.

When she finally made it to the kitchen, she was sure that she looked just as sick as she felt. Her hair was stuck to her cheeks and neck with sweat, her teeth were chattering noisily, and her eyes could barely open against the abnormally harsh light.

“Oh my,” she heard Alfred say when she shuffled into the room.

“G’morning,” Cordelia mumbled.

She heard more than saw him approach her. “My dear, are you feeling alright?”

“No,” Cordelia said, too exhausted to lie. She blinked slowly around the kitchen, noticing that there was less food than normal at the table. “Where’s Bruce?”

“Master Bruce is eating breakfast in the BatCave today,” Alfred told her. “There is an important case that needs his undivided attention.”

“Oh,” her voice came out smaller than she intended. Then, “He doesn’t want to eat with me?”

Alfred’s hesitation was answer enough for Cordelia. Her little remaining self control crumbled.

“But I came all this way,” she said, thinking off all the spinning walls and tilting floors and countless steps. Cordelia dabbed at her tears with the sleeves of her sweater, not having the energy to hide her hurt. “Can I apologize and he’ll come back?”

“Miss Cordelia, you have nothing to apologize for,” Alfred said firmly. He gently grabbed her elbow and guided her out the kitchen door. “Let’s get you back to your room. You are in no state to be walking around the manor.”

“Bruce said I had to eat,” Cordelia protested.

“Then I will bring you some hot soup,” Alfred said. “Careful now — you’re walking up the stairs.”

Alfred guided her the rest of the way to her room, which was just as bad as walking away from it. Cordelia closed her eyes; the portraits she once loved to gaze at now felt like a bunch of jeering faces gawking down at her feverish form.

“Hmph,” Alfred said once he saw her sweaty sheets. “Stay here, Miss Cordelia, I will change your bed.”

“It’s fine,” Cordelia said.

“Wait here. I’ll just be gone a minute.”

Cordelia stared longingly at her bed, but did as she was told.

The butler’s footsteps disappeared down the long hall, and then afterward the mansion was silent. In this silence, Cordelia tried to pull herself together, knowing that she was causing nothing but trouble for Alfred and wishing she hadn’t run out into a rainstorm and gotten herself sick.

By the time Alfred came back, Cordelia was sitting against the wall with her legs tucked to her chest and her face hidden in her hands. Somehow, trying to pull herself together had only caused her to fall apart. In her mind, she kept replaying the look on Bruce’s face when he told her to leave, then the look in Jerome’s eyes when he held a gun to her nose, then Jason’s stricken expression when he learned who she was, and finally, and most hauntingly, the dismissive look her father had sent her way right after he asked Barry to fix the timeline and bring Bruce back to life.

Cordelia heard Alfred kneel beside her and felt him press his hand against her forehead.

“Oh dear,” he sighed sympathetically. “Your temperature is very high. Let me change your bedsheets and then I will get you medicine.”

She nodded into her hands, but otherwise did not move. Alfred shuffled around the room, stripping the bed of the dirty sheets and replacing them with the clean ones. Once he was done, he walked over to her and helped her out of her curled position.

“You should never have gotten out of bed, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred told her softly when they reached her bed. He pulled back the thick comforter to let her crawl beneath it. “If you ever feel sick again, it is perfectly alright to sleep in.”

Cordelia’s head sunk into the pillow, eyes lowered. “No, it isn’t,” she murmured.

“Well, of course it is,” Alfred said, tucking her in. “Your body needs to rest in order to heal.”

“Normal bodies need rest,” the young girl said. “I don’t have a normal body. I’m Batgirl.”

Alfred glanced away and pursed his lips. “You are not Batgirl right now. You are just a sick child who needs lots of sleep and medicine. Rest now, my dear, I will be right back.”

Cordelia watched him leave, unsure and weary. She did not want to become used to being treated like a child, especially since this treatment would be temporary once she became Batgirl again, but a part of her felt….

A part of her felt like it was nice to be taken care of while she was sick. Normally, being sick just meant that patrol would be tougher than usual, and that maybe a few bad guys would get sneezed on. But today it meant getting tucked into bed.

Alfred came back with a large brown bin in his arms. He set it carefully on the bedside table and then started pulling things out of it calmly. The first thing he pulled out was a foldable bed tray that he placed over her lap, then he pulled out a metal tin of soup and then dark blue medicine.

“None of the boys enjoyed this medicine,” Alfred said to her as he filled up a cap with the thick blue liquid, “but it had them right as rain within twenty-four hours.”

He handed Cordelia the filled cap. It had the sweet smell of blueberries, but when Cordelia brought it to her lips, the taste was anything but sweet. It tasted bitter like vinegar and the texture was thick enough to feel slimy. The young girl gagged at the after-taste, which was not pleasant, either.

“Here you are,” Alfred gave her a water bottle. “I also brought you a few things to keep you entertained. Master Bruce tells me that you enjoyed The Secret Garden movie, so I brought you the book. And if you do not feel up to reading, I brought this gaming device that Master Dick used to obsess over when he was around your age.”

Alfred showed her a small, hand-held device with colorful buttons and a screen that took up most of its surface. Cordelia had no idea what to do with it.

The butler must have seen how lost it made her, because he put it back in the bin and pulled out a few other things meant to entertain her: a puzzle, origami, a sketchbook, and a couple different coloring books. 

“Does any of this sound appealing to you?” Alfred asked her.

None of it did, but Alfred looked so hopeful that Cordelia’s stomach churned with guilt for feeling this way. “I’m sorry,” she said, and was horrified to feel her eyes welling with even more tears.

“It’s perfectly fine,” Alfred tutted with concern. He reached back into the bin to grab a thermometer. “Would you put this beneath your tongue, Miss Cordelia?”

She did as he said, and watched his forehead crinkle with concern at the number that appeared at the end of the thermometer.

“Your fever is higher than I thought,” he muttered sympathetically. “Perhaps just music will be entertainment enough. I doubt you are feeling well enough to move. Do you have a favorite genre?”

Cordelia shook her head.

“Do you enjoy Chopin?”

“I think so.”

“Then I will be right back with Master Dick’s old record player,” Alfred said. “You should start eating some soup.”

He gave her shoulder a few reassuring pats before he left. Cordelia peaked down at the bed tray above her lap where Alfred had placed the metal tin of soup. It was a much smaller breakfast than what she was growing used to, but Cordelia was very relieved by this. She did not think that her stomach could handle the bulky meals that Alfred and Bruce seemed determined for her to finish.

The young girl struggled to sit up, ignoring the way the room started to tilt and spin around her and the way her bruised arms protested at the movement. Once she was sitting up straight, her back against her pillows, she reached forward and undid the cap on the tin.

The strong smell of the soup hit her like a ton of bricks. Cordelia’s nose wrinkled instantly.

“Aurgh,” she closed the lid again and sunk back under her blankets to escape the scent that still lingered in the air.

Soon afterward, she heard Alfred walk back into the room. “Miss Cordelia, surely you did not finish all your soup already?”

Cordelia peaked out from her blankets at the man. He was holding a large record player with several vinyls tucked under his arm. Alfred walked over to the other side of her bed so he could set them down on her second bedside table.

“I’m not hungry,” she told him.

“You will need proper nutrients if you want to get better,” he said gently. “Just eat as much as you can.”

“I don’t want to,” Cordelia said stubbornly, then pulled her blankets back over her head.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Alfred said disapprovingly. He pushed her blankets down and opened the metal tin. The smell filled the room once again. “You won’t get any better if you avoid eating.”

“I don’t like the way it smells,” Cordelia complained.

“I will try not to be offended by that, Miss Cordelia. Now will you please eat just a few bites?”

Cordelia gripped her blankets, resisting the urge to crawl under them once again. Her head felt like someone had hit it with a hammer, and the skin of her neck was covered with goosebumps now that it was exposed to the crisp morning air. The last thing she wanted to do was sit up and chew food, but Alfred didn’t seem ready to leave this alone and Cordelia did not want to upset Bruce by breaking one of his rules.

She started to sit up once again, this time with Alfred’s help. He piled more pillows behind her so that her back was more comfortable and then handed her a spoon from the bin. Cordelia looked at the contents of the soup, trying to remind herself that she would have found it appealing yesterday and that the only real difference was her fever warping her sense of smell.

But after only three bites, the young girl’s mouth began to fill with saliva. “Alfred? I think I’m going to —“

Alfred, apparently, already anticipated that this might happen, because he was beside her in seconds with a large bowl from the bin. Cordelia gripped the metal sides of it as she threw up.

When it was over, she slumped back into her pillows, weak and exhausted.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said. He did appear very apologetic, but Cordelia did not blame him. He wasn’t the one who forced her to run into a rainstorm; she had made that decision all on her own.

“It’s not your fault,” she mumbled.

Alfred gave her shoulder another couple of pats. “Don’t worry, Miss Cordelia. The medicine should begin working soon. In the meantime, let’s keep your temperature down.”

Cordelia watched him grab more things from the bin, and wondered how many times he’d had to take care of a sick person for him to be so prepared with her. She tried to imagine Bruce sick in bed, but couldn’t. Her father rarely got sick, and when he was he didn’t let it show. While Batgirl’s movements would be slower in a fight when she had a cold; Batman was just as brutal as ever. His seemingly unstoppable nature was one of the things that made Batman so terrifying and mythic — he simply did not take days off.

The items that Alfred had plucked from the bin was a small bowl, two water bottles, and a giant yellow sponge. The butler uncapped each water bottle and began to pour the water into the bowl.

“This should help immensely,” Alfred told her as he dunked the sponge into the bowl. “All the boys felt much better afterwards.”

The butler squeezed excess water out of the sponge before gently pressing it to her forehead, and then her cheeks, and then the bridge of her nose, and then her neck, and then back to her forehead.

Cordelia closed her eyes at the feeling.

The sponge was cool and damp and soft. Cordelia’s skin felt heavenly wherever it was applied. And more than just helping to lower her temperature, it just felt good. Alfred was pressing the sponge so gently to her face, so carefully to her neck, like she was someone he didn’t want to hurt.

She never thought that anyone would ever treat her this way.

A tear slipped through Cordelia’s closed eyes, but Alfred would never know this because the sponge absorbed it quickly.

“I’m sorry I’m being so much work for you, Alfred,” she said after he dunked the sponge back into the bowl of water, squeezed out the excess, and started to dab her face again.

“Nonsense,” Alfred protested lightly. “I’m happy to take care of the Wayne family. I never would have stayed so long if I felt differently.”

He dabbed the sponge on her brow bone and kept dabbing down to her jawline. Cordelia supposed that what he said must have been true, considering how long he’d been with the family and how capable he was at everything. Any of the Gotham elite would have been lucky to have Alfred as their butler, but he’d chosen the Waynes.

And it likely was not just because he loved Bruce, but because he’d also loved his parents. It was Thomas and Martha, after all, who hired him all those years ago. And in Cordelia’s timeline, Alfred had stayed working for Thomas years after Bruce had died and Martha had left the household.

So Cordelia asked: “Did you like taking care of Father?”

The sponge stilled at her cheek for just a moment, before resuming. Cordelia’s eyes fluttered open to peer up at the butler.

Alfred eyes were fixed on the sponge, and his brows were relaxed, but around his mouth Cordelia could see a tightness there. He was displeased with her question. Cordelia knew that this was not because the memory of Thomas Wayne was too painful, since the house was full of his portraits; and it could not be because the question was offensive.

Perhaps it was just personal.

“You don’t have to answer,” she added softly, before closing her eyes again.

Alfred was silent. Cordelia believed that the subject was dropped, but he ended up answering a few minutes later, “It was a privilege to work for Thomas Wayne.”

Cordelia’s eyes opened in surprise at his words.

But Alfred was not looking at her. He was absentmindedly dabbing the sponge beneath her ear, his eyes faraway, clearly lost in a memory. 

“In this timeline,” the butler began, “Thomas and Martha Wayne were two very honorable people dedicated to charity. There were much richer couples than them at the time, but I do not believe that there was a single soul who donated as much time and effort into giving back to Gotham as they did. The newspapers would share stories about their charity galas, and make their lives seem glamorous, but I saw the behind-the-scenes. Martha would stay up all night finding solutions to problems other people ignored, and Thomas would go over all the paperwork organizations would hand him so that he knew exactly where the money was going for each charity he worked with.

“I was in charge of an entire household back then, from the maids to the cooks to the drivers, so I was not as involved with the family as I am now. But from what I did see of how Thomas and Martha interacted, they loved each other just as devotedly as they loved Gotham. And when Master Bruce came into the picture, I got to see this small family flourish right before my eyes. Martha always wanted children, and was completely prepared to offer her son all the love he would ever need.

“The house became less formal around that time. Thomas and Martha wanted Master Bruce to feel as normal as possible, and that meant not having a bunch of strangers waiting on him. So instead of letting staff go, they welcomed the staff into the family.

“Master Bruce was a charming little boy. Very shy, but very sweet. Everyone in the household loved the lad, especially the maids who liked to pinch his cheeks and tease him. I recall many times when the boy would run to me so I could hide him from all the attention.” Alfred smiled nostalgically. “The house was so full of love back then. When the tragedy struck, it struck us all.”

Alfred sighed and dipped the sponge back into the bowl to get it moist again.

“So I suppose the answer is ‘yes,’ Miss Cordelia,” he said. “I did enjoy taking care of the Thomas Wayne that I knew.”

Cordelia listened silently, trying to picture what Alfred was describing: Thomas and Martha together, happy and strong and loving. Wayne Manor as a light in Gotham, rather than another dark spot on the map. A loving Thomas Wayne; a loving Martha Wayne. A tiny Bruce running away from teasing maids and hiding behind Alfred’s coattails.

But she couldn’t.

Cordelia was not a very imaginative person. She preferred cold hard facts; things that she could predict and analyze. Things that were achievable. And none of what Alfred described seemed possible to her.

“But I know that your Thomas Wayne was different from the one that I remember,” the butler continued. The lines around his mouth were tight again. “I am sure that you have different stories to share?”

His tone rose at the end, making the statement a question. Cordelia pulled her blanket closer to her body in discomfort.

She knew that there was no point in keeping her life with her father a secret anymore. Bruce already knew after their confrontation in the Cave, and he’d likely told Alfred if she was interpreting his expressions and statements correctly. 

But there was something… humiliating about admitting that Thomas didn’t love her. Especially after hearing about how much he’d loved Bruce. It was like there was something lacking in her that made her unlovable in comparison to sweet, shy, and charming Bruce Wayne.

Cordelia knew that this was a ridiculous emotion to feel. She’d just been a child when she met her father. What could a child do to deserve all the neglect and abuse he’d put her through? This residual humiliation was just another symptom of abuse. Another thing that kept her pliant and submissive in a situation she never should have been placed in. 

Being embarrassed about abuse only ever benefitted the abuser.

She knew this. She knew that she had to overcome these things. But knowing things and feeling them were two entirely different battles, and she was always better at knowing things than controlling how she felt.

Alfred put the sponge back in the bowl. This time, he didn’t wring out excess water. Cordelia was already feeling much better than she did before (and she knew that Alfred had better things to do than dab at her face with a sponge all day), but she still felt an unreasonable pang of hurt seeing him stop.

The butler walked over to the record player he’d brought in, and placed the Chopin vinyl under the needle. Beautiful piano music started to play.

Cordelia then watched him bend down to pick up the bowl she’d thrown up in. Worry spiked beneath her skin — was he leaving? She did not want him to leave.

So she answered his question, hoping that it would keep him with her, “Alfred, I — my memories of Father aren’t as nice as yours.”

Alfred halted. Cordelia held her breath, wondering if he would leave or stay.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Cordelia,” he said sincerely. “You deserve all the loving memories that Master Bruce cherishes.”

Cordelia did not know how to respond to that, so she didn’t.

Alfred picked up the bowl and her stomach started to cramp with sadness. She swallowed the knot growing in her throat, before saying, “Alfred… you said — before — that if I ever needed to talk about anything then I could talk to you, right?”

“Absolutely,” Alfred said. 

“I’m ready to talk,” she said.

Several emotions flitted across Alfred’s face; surprise, relief, trepidation, and then sympathy before all were masked behind an expression of calm understanding. Alfred set the bowl down and approached her.

Anxiety bubbled within Cordelia at the realization that she’d actually have to voice everything she’s gone through with Father, making her wonder if she’d kept the secret this long for Bruce’s sake or for her own.

Alfred must have seen her internal panic. He took her hand in his own and stroked his thumb soothingly over her knuckles. She stared at the way her fingers trembled in his grip. 

“It is okay if you’re not ready, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said to her. “It is okay to be scared.”

Except… it wasn’t okay to be scared. She was Batgirl. Her fear had caused her to freeze up after Jerome pointed a gun at her; her fear had caused her to fight against Bruce when he brought her to the Cave; her fear had caused her to run into a rainstorm without an umbrella and got her sick. 

She couldn’t be scared anymore. 

“I’m ready,” Cordelia said. Her fingers continued to shake. “I guess… I should start at the beginning?”

“That is always a good place to begin a story,” Alfred said kindly.

So Cordelia did. In detail. She explained how her mother brought her to Thomas when she was five years-old, and how Thomas hadn’t been pleased about her existence at all. She explained how her mother and father argued about who would watch her, and how that was the last time Cordelia had seen her mother.

“My memories of that time aren’t the best,” Cordelia told Alfred. “I remember some moments vividly, but mostly I remember feelings.

“I was sad all the time. I missed Mother, and the manor was really lonely. I’d thought that having a superhero as a father would be exciting, but Father didn’t pay me any attention. He was either drinking or working or being Batman.

“It was only when I got older that he started to notice me. I thought he was impressed by how well I was doing in school, and how quickly I was taking to Chemistry and Biology. When he brought me down to the Cave, I was so… happy.” Her voice strained at the word. Alfred continued to rub her hand soothingly. “He never let me see the Cave. It was a world that he’d never invited me to, even though he spent most of his time there. And I thought — ‘wow, everything is going to change now. Everything is going to get better. Father knows that I am going to become a great doctor one day and he wants me to use my knowledge to help his mission.’

“But Father didn’t take me to the Cave’s medical section. He took me to the training mat,” Cordelia shut her eyes.

This was a vivid memory. Father had told her to take off her shoes and socks, which she did without hesitation, and to stand at the center of the mat. Cordelia could never forget that moment; how she stood there and waited in confusion, not knowing what the mat was or what was the purpose of it.

Father had walked over to the wall of weapons and inspected them quietly. Meanwhile, little Cordelia had stared innocently at her own exposed toes and tried to test the bounciness of the fabric beneath her.

She remembered feeling so disappointed that she couldn’t jump on the mat like she could jump on a trampoline.

“He handed me a staff,” Cordelia continued aloud. “He told me that he wanted to start training me to be his sidekick: Batgirl. I was… disappointed. I wanted to be a doctor. I liked the idea of healing over hurting, but I would never say that to Father. He’d chosen Batman over being a doctor, so I had to, too.

“Besides, being his sidekick meant that I would spend more time with him,” Cordelia grimaced at her naivety. Her younger self had been so hopeful, standing in front of Batman with a weapon twice her size and much too heavy. She should have looked into the red-rimmed eyes of her father, should have smelled all the hard alcohol wafting from his pores, and knew that this was the beginning of something terrible. “He told me that there were only two rules to training: you couldn’t leave the mat and the session was only done when one person couldn’t get up anymore.”

Alfred made an alarmed noise at the back of his throat. He looked pale, and was clearly making a significant effort to stay quiet throughout the story.

Cordelia frowned. “Is this too much detail?”

“No,” the butler said tightly. “Not at all, my dear. Go on.”

Cordelia hesitated, unsure. Talking about her past was hard enough, and the last thing she wanted to do was hurt Alfred by doing so.

“Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze, “Please, go on.”

“But it’s hurting you,” she said softly.

“It is like the ghastly medicine that I gave you,” Alfred replied. “It tastes awful going down, but the results are worth it.”

Cordelia shook her head. “How can hurting you be worth it?”

“It is worth it to me to know that you are no longer holding all this pain inside, trying to keep it hidden,” he answered. “This family can be very secretive, but what you must learn is that secrets can be a lonely habit. It isolates you and keeps you from truly connecting with another person. I’m sure you have been experiencing this?”

Cordelia glanced away. She had been experiencing this. Even though her and Bruce had grown closer, the secret of their father had been an invisible wall between their relationship from the very start. 

Bruce realizing the truth hadn’t improved their relationship, but…. Cordelia looked at Alfred’s hand, which was still holding her own. Alfred had never held her hand before. But he was now that she was telling him her story. 

Maybe some people handled secrets better than others.

Cordelia sighed, and continued the story where she left off, “So he told me the rules. Then he asked if I understood them. I don’t think I did — or, I understood the first one perfectly fine, but the second one was more difficult to grasp. I didn’t know why one of us would be unable to get up. But I said that I understood the rules, and Father told me to try to hit him.” She took a shaky breath. “I barely swung the staff. I just tapped his side lightly. It felt unnatural: hitting my father. Something was definitely wrong about it. I held my staff close to myself and looked up at him, waiting for a response.

“I got one.

“He ripped the staff out of my arms and swung it at me,” Cordelia subconsciously touched her cheek where the end of the staff had connected. Years ago, there had been a giant welt there. Too giant to cover with makeup. Father had forced her to stay home from school for the rest of the week. “He’d hit me before, but never like that. I still don’t know if he even restrained himself. I just remember it hurting like nothing I’d ever experienced before. He’d swung hard enough for me to fall to the mat, and I stayed there. I thought if I stayed there then training would end. But it didn’t.”

The training session had been far from over. Father had snapped at her to get up, and when she told him that she couldn’t, he’d grabbed her by the back of the shirt and forced her to. Little Cordelia had let herself get manhandled to her feet, limp with shock and pain.

“He kept hitting me with the staff,” Cordelia said. “Over and over and over again. Then I think he got bored with the staff and started using his fists, instead.

“It was… It was terrifying. Because by using his fists he had to get much closer to me, and I started to see just how hopeless it was to try to fight back or escape. Batman has always been larger than me, but back then I barely made it to his waist. I didn’t stand a chance.

“When he was done, he just left me there. I think he went back up to the manor to drink. And I was in too much pain to move.”

Cordelia looked at Alfred to make sure he was okay. He was even paler than before and his hand was gripping hers a little too tightly, but other than that he looked as carefully put together as one of his many suits.

“How old were you when this happened?” Alfred asked calmly.

“Eight years-old,” Cordelia said.

“Dear Lord,” Alfred said, his voice slightly more strained. “How often did he abuse you?”

Cordelia hesitated at the term, but answered, “He used to hit me every so often before our first training session. Usually when I was in the way or I did something wrong. But after that training session, there didn’t need to be a reason anymore. If he saw me around the house then that was reason enough. But the training sessions were the worst of it; there were times when I really thought that he would kill me.”

“Miss Cordelia, those were not ‘training sessions,’” Alfred said. “Those were — were —“

“I know,” Cordelia looked away, not wanting to see her own face reflected in Alfred’s pale stare. “They were just ways for him to let off some steam. If he failed a mission then that meant we would train together; if the Joker said something particularly hurtful then that meant we would train together; if he felt even more depressed about Bruce’s death then that meant we would train together. ‘Training’ was what he called them, and that’s what I knew them as in the beginning. If I heard him say that we would be training later, then I would try to hide around the manor. I thought that it was big enough and I was small enough to disappear, but he’s Batman and this is his house. Eventually I stopped trying to hide. There was no point; he always caught me. And having Batman hunt you down is enough to give anyone a lifetime of nightmares.”

“Miss Cordelia,” Alfred’s voice was full of sympathy. He didn’t say anything other than that: Miss Cordelia. Like he knew nothing he could say would make her feel better at this moment.

But she did feel a little relieved to finally talk about it — to have someone look at her with sympathy rather than hatred. To have proof in someone else’s eyes that what had happened to her was wrong.

“Is this why you do not want to train with Master Bruce?” Alfred asked after a moment where the only sound in the room was Chopin’s music. “Do you think that his version of training is the same as your father’s?”

“Isn’t it?” Cordelia said.

Alfred looked genuinely startled at her question. “Of course not, Miss Cordelia. Master Bruce does not want to harm you, he just wants you to be a better fighter.”

“Father said the same thing sometimes,” Cordelia said cynically. “They do that a lot: say the same things. They even make the same expressions from time to time. And the way they grieve for each other is the same, too. Who else but Bruce and Father would think that dressing as a giant bat and beating up criminals is a great way to handle their grief?”

“Miss Cordelia, I agree that they have their similarities,” Alfred said, “but the Thomas Wayne you are describing is, at his core, very different from Master Bruce. Your brother would never hurt you.”

Cordelia almost laughed, still feeling the bruises Bruce left on her arms. “Do you think that’s what people said about my father before I showed up? That he would never hurt a child? Maybe it’s me that changes them. Maybe Barry should have brought Father back, that way Bruce doesn’t have to become an abusive monster like Thomas Wayne.”

Alfred looked very disturbed by her words. Cordelia pulled her hand out from his and sunk deeper into her pillows. Alfred had been right, the medicine did make her feel better. But now she was repaying his kindness by saying things to hurt him.

Maybe she was becoming an abusive monster, too.

“None of us wish that Barry brought Thomas to this timeline,” Alfred finally said. “We are happy to have you here.”

“None of you look very happy,” Cordelia said, arms crossed. “You look sad. Bruce looked angry. And Jason looked horrified.”

“I am not feeling sad because you are here, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said gently. “I am feeling sad that you had to endure all of that on your own. And Master Bruce feels similarly.”

Cordelia thought of the way he growled at her when she said Because you’re Batman. The way he grabbed her arms. Then the way he’d shouted at her to get out of his sight. Cordelia could not see how that reaction was in any way similar to Alfred’s.

“You weren’t there, Alfred,” she told him. “In the Cave. You weren’t there. He was angry with me. He kept yelling at me. You’ve never yelled at me.”

“We don’t all express ourselves the same, my dear,” Alfred said sadly. “Some of us are more prone to anger. But that doesn’t mean that Master Bruce would have hurt you. You were perfectly safe with him.”

Cordelia shook her head furiously. “Yes, he would. He already has.”

Alfred blinked. “What on earth do you mean?”

But the girl was already taking off her hoodie so that she was wearing only her tank top. She loved Bruce, she did, he was wonderful and generous and attentive — and she understood that what happened in the Cave had been her fault — but she did not want Alfred to get her hopes up about training with Bruce just for reality to come crashing down on her like a gloved fist.

If training with Bruce was similar to training with Father, then she could handle that. But she did not want to regress back into that hopeful eight year-old, holding a staff to her chest as she gazed up at Batman with all the innocence in the world. That girl had that innocence slapped and beaten and pummeled out of her. Cordelia never wanted to be that naive again.

So Cordelia showed Alfred her arms, and the large fingerprint bruises that covered them.

Alfred’s eyes widened with shock. His hands immediately grabbed her arms and carefully turned them over, inspecting the marks. “Where on earth did you get these? Jason said that the men —“

“These aren’t from them,” Cordelia said through gritted teeth. “They’re from Bruce. He hurt me.”

Alfred blinked furiously, as if he could blink away from proof right in front of him. But there was no denying that these bruises, so large and fresh, came from a very angry and very large man. Alfred sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, facing away from her, the realization finally sinking in.

Cordelia waits for him to say something. But the Chopin record reached the end, and the room was filled with the quiet scratching noises of the needle hitting the center of the vinyl. 

Maybe some secrets were just too much for anyone.

“It doesn’t hurt that much,” she said when the room started to feel too quiet. Alfred didn’t react. “I’m okay. Mostly my feelings were just hurt.” She waited a few more beats before adding. “I shouldn’t have shown you the bruises. But I just wanted to prove that Father and Bruce aren’t that different. And… it’s okay. I still love Bruce. I just have to be more careful around him.”

That seems to shake Alfred out of his stupor. He was still turned away from her, from the sight of her arms, but suddenly he speaks, “He is different,” the butler said firmly, mostly to himself.

Cordelia watches the side of Alfred’s face, how deep the wrinkles had become, how his normally straight shoulders and back were curved in just a smidge. For all the affection he’d shown her today, it was clear that this revelation affected him more than anything else she’d said.

Alfred loved Bruce. Loved him like a son — perhaps even loved him with the same fierceness that Father loved Bruce. 

A part of her could be happy for Bruce that he’d grown up with someone who loved him that much. But there was also another part of her that was… jealous. Bruce had everything; their father’s love, Alfred’s caretaking, Barry’s friendship, and an entire family.

Cordelia had none of that.

Even the pain she was expressing to Alfred was being pushed aside in favor of Bruce. Alfred wasn’t saddened because Cordelia had bruises on her arms, he was saddened by who put them there.

“Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said, finally turned to look at her. He grabbed her hand again. “I’m sorry that Master Bruce gave you those bruises. That should have never happened. And I understand why it frightened you. But I am positive that they were accidents on his part.”

He probably meant for his words to be comforting, but all he was doing was making Cordelia feel even more alone. She shook her head in frustration. “You don’t know that, Alfred. These could have been on purpose. Maybe he wanted to hurt me for what I said. Do you really think Batman can’t make a few bruises look like an accident?”

Alfred pursed his lips. Even he could not deny Batman’s cunning nature. “I trust him,” he said eventually. “I trust that this will never happen to you again.”

Cordelia pressed her lips together. This was all really easy for Alfred to say — Batman had never hurt Alfred. It was not Alfred’s heart and body on the line.

“He will,” she said in frustration. She ripped her hand from his and swiped sharply at a traitorous tear. “This is how it starts in every situation of abuse: the first hit was an accident, the second hit was because things got out of control, then hitting becomes normalized until it is part of everyday life in the household. I’ve done this before, and I can do it again, but what I can’t do is having you — having you…” Cordelia furiously rubbed at her eyes as more tears started to blur her vision. “I just… I just want you to be Alfred again.”

She could see Alfred’s blurred form shift in front of her. When he spoke, his voice was full of concern and confusion, “Miss Cordelia, I am Alfred.”

“No,” Cordelia used her blanket to wipe her face and to hide herself from view. “I want you to be my Alfred. Mine. The one who took care of me when I was little. But you’re not. You’re Bruce’s Alfred. He’s the one you care about. Not me.”

“Ah.”

She felt Alfred’s hands push her blanket down so that she could no longer hide. His pale eyes were soft with sorrow as he gazed down at her, finally understanding something that he never could before. Cordelia had never told him that she knew Alfred in her timeline, and perhaps that made him assume that she never knew him at all.

But she did; and she’d been grieving a version of him that he couldn’t even remember being.

When he spoke, his voice echoed the sadness that she felt in her heart. “I’m sorry I can’t remember taking care of you as a child, Miss Cordelia. I wish I could. I know you were every bit as remarkable as you are right now.”

Cordelia sniffed. Alfred handed her a handkerchief from his pocket.

“It’s okay,” Cordelia said miserably. “It’s not your fault.”

“Perhaps not,” Alfred said. “But I still feel regret.”

His attention drifted toward the window and the rain outside. He suddenly looked… lost.

She didn’t like seeing him like this: so unsure. Alfred was usually so unflappable — even more than Batman or Batgirl, and he always seemed to know what to do or say next. But this conversation with Cordelia was changing all of that.

She hesitantly bent forward, mimicking Alfred’s earlier actions, and grabbed his hand. 

Alfred blinked down in surprise. Cordelia gave his fingers a squeeze. Usually, when she was holding someone’s hand, it was because she was going to break the bones in their fingers. Comforting someone was a completely different thing — instead of focusing on the weakest parts of the skeleton, comfort was about focusing on the muscles and fat.

This must have been the right thing to do, because she watched Alfred’s tense shoulders droop and his mouth curve upward into a weak smile. When he turned to look at her, he no longer seemed unsure.

Instead, his gaze was intense and full of purpose. “Miss Cordelia, I need you to listen very closely. Can you do that for me?”

Cordelia nodded sharply.

“Good,” Alfred said approvingly. “Because what I am going to say is very, very important: If you truly believe that Master Bruce will begin to hurt you, then I will pack our bags and we will leave this house together.”

Cordelia’s eyes widened. “What? But you can’t!”

“And why not? I am an old man in my 80s. I do not need to be anywhere I don’t want to be.”

“Because,” Cordelia blinked rapidly, “Because Bruce. Bruce needs you. He’s your family.”

“Bruce is an adult now,” Alfred said pragmatically. “He doesn’t need me anymore. You do.”

The selfless thing to do would be to deny this. Alfred clearly cared about Bruce a lot more than he cared about a girl he’d only known for a little over a week. But Cordelia didn’t want to be selfless at the moment. Because finally — finally — someone was choosing her.

So she did an incredibly selfish thing, and flung her arms around the butler’s middle.

“I do need you,” Cordelia told him as her tears soaked his skinny shoulder. “You have no idea how bad it got after you died, Alfred. Everything kept getting worse and worse without you there. Like the Secret Garden without Mrs. Craven.”

“Oh my,” Alfred said. His voice was thick with emotion. He hugged her back fiercely. “I’m so sorry, you poor child.”

“It’s not your fault,” she promised him, eyes closed as she enjoyed Her Alfred’s return. “I really missed you, Alfred.”

He continued to hug her fiercely, as if he were worried that she’d slip away. Cordelia did not mind; she’d never had anyone worry that she’d go missing before and she would enjoy the moment for as long as she could.

“Have you decided, then?” Alfred asked.

“Hmm?” Cordelia hummed curiously.

“Do you wish for us to leave?” Alfred clarified. “Say the word and I will start packing our bags this instant. We would be gone within the hour.”

Cordelia knows the answer without even having to think about it. She would never leave Bruce; and she certainly would never leave the entire family — especially not after meeting Jason and seeing how amazing he was. 

But despite her firmness on this, a question still niggled at the back of her skull: “Alfred? Do you really think that Bruce is different than Father?”

“Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said, and she peaked upwards to meet his gaze. Purpose had been replaced with pity and sad understanding. “Trust me.”

Cordelia searches his face for any doubt, any sign of deception. This Alfred was not Her Alfred, but he was also not Bruce’s Alfred anymore, either. He’d changed, somehow, during their conversation — morphed into an Alfred that was both her’s and her brother’s.

And Cordelia trusted him.

So she nodded to him hesitantly and said, “I want to stay.”

Chapter 31: The Hero Has Returned

Summary:

The air around her began to distort and twist. Cordelia’s eyes snapped open with a gasp, her muscles tensing as she prepared for a fight. But the person standing in front of her was not someone that she’d ever want to fight again.

“Barry?” She said in amazement.

Bruce was avoiding Cordelia.

He never showed up to breakfast, lunch, or dinner. In fact, Cordelia rarely saw him around the manor at all. And when she did, he would hurry away before she could get a word out.

“He won’t even look at me, Alfred,” Cordelia said miserably.

She’d taken to following Alfred around as he worked. His schedule was very easy to remember, which was useful for Cordelia when the loneliness was getting to be too much for her. However, it also meant that his life was exhaustingly boring to a girl more used to crime, action, and all-around chaos.

“Master Bruce is a recluse by nature,” Alfred said as he dusted off a bookshelf in the sitting room. “I would not take any of this personally, Miss Cordelia.”

Cordelia sighed and curled her legs up close to her chest. Alfred was always telling Cordelia to not take Bruce’s behavior personally, but she couldn’t help it. Bruce had been great until that day in the Cave — the day she’d broken down and ran from the house — which meant that his avoidant behavior was directly linked to her.

“Miss Cordelia, please don’t put your feet up on the furniture.”

Cordelia’s feet lowered back onto the carpet. That was another thing about spending so much time with Alfred: she learned that the man was a stickler for etiquette and did not hesitate to let Cordelia know when she was doing something wrong.

“You will be grateful for all these etiquette tips when you start attending charity galas,” he’d said to her once, after catching Cordelia grimacing in frustration. “It is better to hear these corrections from me than to have criticisms whispered behind your back.”

She didn’t think she’d ever be grateful for how often she’d been told to stop slouching, or to stop humming, or to stop curling her feet under her when she sat down. But she didn’t want to critique Alfred or ask him to stop, especially since he was the only person in the world who seemed to want to spend time with her.

“Do not worry so much, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said once he was finished dusting the bookshelf. He turned to look at her, and she tried not to look too morose. His expression softened. “Maybe a change of scenery will make you feel better. Would you like to help me plant some flowers in the garden?”

Cordelia blinked in surprise. Not only was this a divergence from his usual routine (Alfred usually watered and tended to the gardens at five in the morning), but it was also the first time Alfred had offered to let her help him. He had been strangely strict about not letting Cordelia pick up a tool or a duster.

“Really?” She asked, just to be sure.

Alfred smiled indulgently. “Of course. Gardening is a fine hobby for a young lady to have.”

“Then yes,” Cordelia said quickly, before he could change his mind. She stood up from her seat and looked over at him expectantly.

“You will need a change of clothes,” he told her. “Sweatpants and sweatshirts are hardly appropriate clothing to wear outdoors.”

Cordelia refrained from telling him that Wayne Manor was so far away from prying eyes that they could barely see their neighbors’ mansion if they squinted, then she ran off to her room. She did not know what clothing was appropriate for gardening, so she picked out a simple t-shirt and jean shorts and hoped that Alfred wouldn’t send her back to her room to change (as he often did whenever he caught her wearing pajamas in the afternoon).

When she was done getting dressed, she rushed down the stairs toward the sitting room, jumped over the last few steps, ran around the corner into the hallway, and almost barreled right into her brother.

They both froze in their tracks.

Bruce looked exhausted. Cordelia knew that he wasn’t getting that much sleep since she rarely heard him walking past her room at night to get to his. Or, if he was getting sleep, it was not in the comfort of his own bed. Her eyes traced over his face worriedly, seeing how alarmingly pale it was, seeing the dark circles underneath his eyes, and seeing that he was seemingly just as miserable as she felt.

She was about to reach for his hand, to comfort him the same way she’d comforted Alfred when she had a fever — but then his face closed off, almost as if he knew what she’d seen in his expression and what she’d been thinking of doing because of it.

Cordelia shuffled back, hurt by the nonverbal shut down.

She could see Bruce’s fist tighten around the mug of coffee he was holding. Still, neither said a word to each other.

This was the first time she’d gotten in his way since the Cave. Usually, if she saw him around the house, it would have been from a distance, where he could make his escape without having to brush by her or actually face her. These interactions had made it easier for Cordelia to believe Alfred when he told her that Bruce wasn’t avoiding her — but now she was standing right in front of him and he still wasn’t speaking.

She peered up at him, waiting. But his eyes were not on hers. His eyes were on her arms, on the fading yellow bruises he’d left there.

Cordelia held her breath, not knowing what to expect. Father never looked at the bruises he’d created; he never even acknowledged them. This action, like many things, was completely new territory for her.

But nothing happened. Bruce just looked away, over her head in the direction of his study.

Cordelia wrapped her arms around herself, her hands self-consciously hiding the bruises from view. She should have just worn long-sleeves.

Her brother, apparently sick of waiting for her to get of out his way, moved to walk by her.

Cordelia’s heart sped up in a panic. This was her chance to talk to him, and she was letting it slip by. She said the first thing that came to her mind: “Hi.”

He paused. He was close enough for Cordelia to see the corners of his mouth tighten. Close enough to see that Alfred had been wrong — Bruce had been avoiding her the entire time. And he was not happy at finally having to face her.

“Alfred is waiting for you,” he said emotionlessly.

That was all he said before walking by her completely, his focus trained on his study door. Cordelia watched him walk away, anxiety about making him angry warring with her desperation for his company.

“Bruce,” she said.

He kept walking.

Cordelia started to follow him.

“Bruce,” she said again.

He stopped in front of his study door. The only sign that he was listening to her was the slight tilt of his head as he glanced back at her. Other than that, he was as still as a stone statue.

Cordelia stopped walking a few paces behind him, just out of arm's reach as she used to do when she first met him. She could see his icy blue eyes glance down, taking note of this, before snapping back up to her face.

The young girl gulped, trying to think of the right words to say that would fix everything and make Bruce want to spend time with her again. She considered talking about Jason and how amazing he was; she considered talking to him about Alfred and how funny he was; she considered talking to him about Batgirl and how ready she was to wear the cowl again.

She thought about telling him the truth: that she missed him terribly. That she loved Alfred, but she loved Bruce, too. And that Bruce avoiding her was making Cordelia feel more lonely than she’d ever felt before.

But the pressure of the moment left her mute. Because when she opened her mouth, not a single word came out.

Bruce sighed tiredly.

Cordelia winced at the sound, feeling stupid and annoying.

Bruce looked away from her quickly, face hard. “I have work to do,” he said stonily. 

“Ok,” Cordelia said sadly, her voice in a whisper. This was her chance to fix everything, and she’d failed.

The failure stung. She’d once been very good at always saying the right thing to the right person — it was a talent she’d developed since she grew up around a man so easy to anger and a talent that her father had utilized whenever he sent her into a mission as a spy. But now that she needed to use it on Bruce, she found that this talent had left her.

She did not know what Bruce wanted her to say. Did he want her to apologize? To beg? Or to offer forgiveness?

Bruce was not offering her much when it came to guidance. She watched him put his hand on the study doorknob, and she waited for him to leave.

But he did not twist it to open. He just stood there, frozen.

He stood there for so long that Cordelia itched to see his face and to try to read his labyrinth of a mind. What was he thinking? What was he feeling? What did he want from her?

When he did speak, his voice was sad.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce murmured. His head was bowed. “For what I did to your arms. For hurting you. I’m sorry.”

Cordelia started. He sounded so broken. It felt impossible for her mind to connect what he was saying with what he did. How could anyone feel so badly about leaving a couple of bruises on her? It was nothing that she wasn’t used to. It was something that she’d expected in life as both Cordelia and Batgirl. Both girls would face pain, no matter how hard they tried to avoid it, and no one who caused her pain would lose sleep over it.

Her father had never apologized. Not even once. When he hurt her, there was never a period of remorse. He’d simply pretended like whatever pain he’d caused had been a result of her bad behavior.

In Bruce’s case, it had been her fault. She remembered how she acted in the Cave, how she fought against him and even started to scratch at him. She remembered how carelessly she’d told him about what kind of man their father was — how insensitive she’d been in sharing that information.

Bruce’s knuckles slowly whitened as his grip on the doorknob tightened.

“I promise you, Cordelia,” he said. This time, he spoke clearly, his voice strong with purpose. “I will never hurt you again. No one will ever hurt you again. I’ll make sure of it.”

He did not wait for her to respond this time. Bruce threw open his study door and disappeared into the room. All the while, Cordelia continued to stare from her place in the hallway, hardly believing what had just happened.

It was some time later that Cordelia found her way to the garden, as quiet as a ghost. In the distance, she could see Alfred kneeling on a blanket in front of an empty flower bed with gardening tools neatly organized around him.

Once he heard her approach, he glanced up with a smile that instantly dropped.

“Miss Cordelia, you look pale,” he said.

Cordelia knelt on the blanket beside him. “I just talked to Bruce.”

To anyone else, Alfred might have been hard to read. His expressions were subtle, and almost always masked with wryness and sarcasm. But Cordelia had been spending so much time with him that she could now guess whatever mood he was feeling within seconds of him feeling it. Which is why she knew, even as he settled into a more comfortable sitting position, that he was feeling anxious.

“What did you discuss?” He asked.

Cordelia picked at the hem of her jean shorts. “He apologized for the bruises.”

Alfred seemed to wait for more. When she didn’t continue, he asked, “And how did you respond?”

“I didn’t,” Cordelia admitted.

She looked at him for a reaction. Alfred quickly schooled his features, but he was too late. She saw his disappointment. 

There was an awkward silence before the butler spoke again. “Have you forgiven him, Miss Cordelia?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t need the apology to forgive him.”

“Then may I ask why you look so sad?” Alfred said hesitantly.

Cordelia continued to pick at her shorts. She’d told Alfred everything already. There was no point in keeping how she grew up a secret. Still, it always felt uncomfortable to talk about it. Like every time was the first time.

“Bruce apologizing was… nice,” She said, trying to understand her own emotions as she spoke them. “But it made me realize that my father never felt sorry for what he did. Not for a single thing.”

Alfred grabbed her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I am glad you are away from a man like that. And I assure you, Miss Cordelia, that one day the memory of him won’t hurt you as much as it does today.”

“I don’t want to remember him at all,” Cordelia said shamefully. “Every time I think of him, I feel relieved that I never have to see him again. But then I feel guilty for feeling that way, because he shouldn’t have died the way that he did. He helped so many people in my timeline. How is it fair that he had to endure the world falling apart around him?”

Alfred looked sympathetic. “Humans and emotions are complex, no matter how desperately we want to simplify them. You are not a terrible person for feeling relieved that he’s gone, the same way he is not a good person for saving lives. All our actions matter, and how we treat the people who love and depend on us are at the top of the list.”

He gave her hands a few more pats and then turned to grab some of the tools he’d organized beside him.

“Now, I believe you promised to help me tend the garden,” he said. “The first thing you will need are your gardening gloves.”

He handed her a pair of thick, beige gloves that were two sizes too large.

“If you enjoy gardening, we can get you your own,” he told her, before showing her each tool and explaining what they were for. Cordelia listened attentively, repeating each tool name when it was said to her and asking to see how they were used. Alfred looked vaguely amused by the time he set the last tool aside. “Good. These are the flowers that we will add to the garden.”

Alfred gestured to a line of flower pots, each holding beautifully bloomed light pink peonies.

“Do you know what types of flowers these are?” He asked.

Cordelia nodded once with a hum.

Alfred raised a pointed eyebrow.

“They’re peonies,” Cordelia said. The butler was determined to get her to stop humming as a way of answering questions.

“Very good,” the butler said approvingly. “Now, the first few steps to gardening have already been done. First, you have to know what tools to use. Next, you have to loosen the soil. I can show you how to do this in the future if you’d like. Right now, we have to choose where we want our flowers to go and dig holes for them.”

Cordelia picked up a spade and Alfred nodded encouragingly. “Does it matter where we plant them?” She asked.

“For appearances, yes.”

Cordelia looked up and down the bare flower bed, then pointed. Alfred nodded again, and then they both started gardening.

Alfred was a silent man, but not in the same way that Bruce was silent. While Bruce’s silence usually meant that his mind was working a mile a minute, Alfred's silence felt more peaceful. Cordelia got the impression that his mind was entirely focused on the act of gardening, of digging a hole so that a flower would grow comfortably within it.

Cordelia tried to do the same. At first, she could not. Her mind was crowded with worries of the future and sadness of the past. She wanted to turn back the clock so she could redo her conversation with Bruce and tell him that he had no reason to be sorry. She wondered if not doing that meant he would continue to avoid her.

But, after a while of thinking all these thoughts and digging hole after hole, Cordelia’s mind started to slow down. Gardening was simple work, almost monotonous, but there was enjoyment in it as well. Being Batgirl usually meant Cordelia had to push herself to her absolute limit, both in body and in mind. But being a gardener didn’t require any of that. All she had to do was repeat the same action over and over until she saw the result that she wanted, then move on to the next task.

When they were done digging holes, Cordelia and Alfred sat back and admired their work.

Cordelia could not find herself to be impressed by a bunch of holes in the ground, but Alfred appeared very happy with the results.

“This will be a very impressive flower bed,” he told her. “Shall we begin planting the flowers?”

Alfred handed her a flower pot and started to direct her on how to remove the peonies. At first, she’d thought that she could just grab the stem and yank it out, but Alfred was quick was stop her before she could cause any damage.

“You have to be very gentle with flowers, Miss Cordelia,” he said. “Their roots are hidden, but they are no less important than their stems or their leaves. Take care not to damage them.”

Cordelia hesitated. No one had ever asked her to be gentle with anything before.

The young girl was suddenly very aware of how many bones she’d broken and how many lives she’d taken over the years. The hands holding the flower pot were not hands that belonged to a person capable of gentleness.

“Can you take them out, instead?” Cordelia asked Alfred.

Alfred frowned. “This is a very important step to gardening, Miss Cordelia. I think it’s important for you to learn.”

Cordelia wanted to argue, to tell him the truth. But then she remembered how horrified he’d been at seeing the bruises on her arm, how readily he’d told her that he would take her away from Bruce.

Would he change his mind if he knew who she actually was? Would he look at her with the same horror he’d looked at her bruises?

Cordelia peered down at the flower pot again and carefully tried to get it out of the pot. She winced when she felt a few roots snap like tiny, delicate bones under her fingers, but Alfred did not seem too concerned about it. 

“You did very well for your first time, Miss Cordelia,” he said. “Let’s plant this one and you can try again.”

So that’s what they did. Cordelia chose to put her first peony at the very back of the flower bed, and the next peony beside that one. They kept doing this until every peony was planted, and the flower bed was no longer bare.

When they were done, Alfred smiled over at her and said, “I’m so proud of you, Miss Cordelia. Look what you’ve made.”

Cordelia blinked over at the flower bed, at all of the light pink flowers swaying gently in the wind. They were such innocent colors, and the flower bed was a lot simpler than the ones Alfred had created around them, but… Cordelia felt proud of herself, too.

She’d created something. She’d helped give these flowers a place to grow strong.

“How do you feel?” Alfred asked.

Cordelia searched for her emotions. They were easy to find. “Proud. Peaceful.”

Alfred smiled at her. “Do you like gardening?”

“I think so,” she answered. “Yes. Can we do it again?”

“Of course,” Alfred said warmly. “I think a toast of celebration is in order. I will be right back with some lemonade for the both of us.”

Cordelia watched him leave, blinking slowly as if waking up from a dream.

Has she ever felt this relaxed before?

She leaned backward so that the sun warmed her cheeks rather than her neck and shoulders. It was a bright day today. It felt fitting.

Perhaps not everything in her life was so bad.

And just as she thought this, the air around her began to distort and twist. Cordelia’s eyes snapped open with a gasp, her muscles tensing as she prepared for a fight. But the person standing in front of her was not someone that she’d ever want to fight again.

“Barry?” She said in amazement.

Barry Allen was grinning down at her with his hands on his narrow hips and his chest poked out proudly. He pulled his mask off as he said, “Hey, Cordie.”

And that was all it took: that little nickname that she only wanted him to use. Cordelia leapt away from her flower bed and ran over to him.

Barry’s lips split into a wider smile at seeing her excitement.

In no time at all, Cordelia had thrown herself into his arms. The hero grunted in surprise, but didn’t hesitate to laugh and hug her back.

“You came back!” was all she could say.

“Of course I came back,” Barry said brightly. “I promised, didn’t I?”

Cordelia hummed happily and tucked her head underneath his chin.

This made Barry laugh again. “I have to be honest, this is a warmer welcome than I was expecting. You’re a lot cuddlier than I remember.”

He set her back on the ground a lot sooner than she would have liked. But she couldn’t be too sad about it since it allowed her to see his brilliant smile as he looked down at her. Cordelia gazed at it, strangely breathless at the sight.

She couldn’t believe that she’d ever considered him to be an ordinary looking man. Because the Barry Allen that she saw right now was incredibly handsome under the bright blue of the sky. His smile was wide and easy (no one else Cordelia knew could smile so freely); his eyes were a twinkling, dark blue full of mirth and honesty; and the skin of his face was tanned and charmingly wrinkled around the eyes in a way that told the entire world that he was a man who smiled — and who smiled a lot.

But best of all: he was not looking at her with pity.

When Barry Allen looked at Cordelia, he looked at her with open pride and affection.

She was the girl he’d managed to save from an apocalypse and he was her hero.

The sun bounced off the blonde strands of his hair like it was made of gold. Cordelia watched the cool breeze ruffle it some more and fought down a sudden and overwhelming feeling of longing.

He was still looking at her, waiting for her to say something. But Cordelia didn’t have the words to describe how much she’d missed him and how happy she was that he was here. The last few days had been so hard — but Barry was like a physical reminder that life could get better. That Gotham gray could become Central City gold if you were patient enough to wait for it.

Cordelia hugged him again.

Barry made an amused sound as he returned the gesture. “Should I be worried? Did I accidentally run to an alternate timeline again? You are Cordelia Wayne, right?”

How could she explain what she was feeling to him? She could barely understand it herself. It was like whatever she’d felt when she last saw him had grown drastically in his absence — without her knowledge or permission. 

“I missed you,” she concluded. That’s what she was feeling. There had been a sense of absence in her life ever since Barry had left, and now that he was back she did not feel it anymore.

Naturally, that would be overwhelming.

“I missed you, too, kid,” Barry said, causing a flurry of butterflies to appear in Cordelia’s stomach. “I would’ve visited sooner, but you wouldn’t believe the amount of paperwork that comes with messing up the timeline.”

“I would have helped, but Bruce said I couldn’t,” Cordelia told him.

“Trust me, you wouldn’t have wanted to,” Barry said. He took a step back from her and she let her arms drop. “The report was over a hundred pages long by the time I was done. It was basically a punishment.”

“I like filling out reports.”

Barry looked exasperated. “Right. I forgot — you’re a Bat.”

Cordelia was pleased. No one had acknowledged her as Batgirl since the day in the Cave. She was just about to ask Barry questions about the report and the Justice League when she heard the Wayne Manor door open in the distance. Both Cordelia and Barry turned to see Alfred pause in the entryway with two glasses of lemonade.

Barry waved. “Hi, Alfred!”

Alfred’s expression turned wry at the shout, but it was enough to get him walking toward the small group. “Mister Allen, if I’d known you were visiting then I would have brought more beverages.”

“It was a spur of the moment decision,” Barry said.

“He can have my lemonade,” Cordelia offered. “I’m not thirsty.”

Alfred lifted one eyebrow at her. “A generous offer. But I think we have enough lemonade in the house for a third glass. Would you like to come in, Mister Allen?”

“Sure!” Barry said eagerly. Alfred led the way back to the manor. As they walked, Barry leaned down to whisper conspiratorially to Cordelia: “I love when Alfred invites me into the kitchen. It’s the best part of coming here unannounced.”

A giggle bubbled its way past Cordelia’s lips, but she felt inclined to say something on Alfred’s behalf. “Alfred is smart. He’s going to figure out that you do this on purpose and will start serving you your least favorite snacks.”

“That will never work on me,” Barry whispered. “I don’t have a least favorite snack.”

Cordelia giggled again and brushed her hair behind her ear.

“Ahem,” Alfred said.

He was at the door already and was watching Cordelia critically. The young girl quickly took stock of the situation, trying to figure out what she could have done wrong, before she realized that her fingers were still fiddling with the hair behind her ear and dropped it back to her side.

Alfred was still frowning at her as he opened the door for them. Barry strolled through the entryway, completely oblivious.

“Should we head right to the kitchen?” He asked cheerfully.

“Not this time, Mister Allen,” Alfred said calmly. “I think Master Bruce would like to be informed about your presence. If you would be so kind as to follow me to the sitting room, then I can retrieve him and prepare a tea tray.”

“Oh,” Barry wilted in disappointment. “Can’t we wait in the kitchen?”

“I anticipate yours and Master Bruce’s conversation will be more appropriately suited for the sitting room,” was Alfred’s answer. Then he turned to Cordelia. “Miss Cordelia, would you like to head up to your room?”

Cordelia was surprised by the question. “No, I want to stay with Barry.”

Alfred’s frown became more prominent. “I believe Master Bruce would prefer it if you headed up to your room.”

The young girl’s jaw set stubbornly. She was sure that Bruce would prefer if she spent her entire life in her room, completely out of his way. But right now she would prefer to spend some time with her friend.

Cordelia shuffled closer to Barry. “Then he can tell me that himself.”

Barry looked between the two curiously, but the moment didn’t last long. Alfred held her gaze for around two seconds before sighing and nodding. “Follow me,” he said.

Alfred brought them to the sitting room and left them there, but not without giving Cordelia a very pointed and knowing stare that left her face feeling flushed.

She could not understand why Alfred and Bruce were so critical of her feelings for Barry — they behaved as if she were going to seduce him the minute they turned their backs. But she was fully aware of the ring on his finger and the fact that he was about to be a father. She would not try to break up his family and she did not think Barry was the sort of man to betray the woman he loved.

He was good.

Barry sat down on the couch, slumping disappointedly. Cordelia sat down next to him.

“Alfred figured it out quicker than we thought he would,” Barry said mournfully. “You think he heard us?”

Cordelia did not tell him that Alfred banishing Barry from the kitchen had more to do with Cordelia’s feelings than Barry’s habit of not calling before dropping by. Instead, she said, “Probably.”

“I don’t even like tea,” Barry complained.

“He’ll bring cookies and biscuits, too,” Cordelia said helpfully.

Barry brightened and Cordelia’s insides warmed. “You’re right. I love Alfred’s baking.”

He did seem to really enjoy junk food, which was strange considering his athletic physique. Barry had a runner’s build: thin, but muscular — especially in the legs.

Cordelia quickly looked away once she realized she was staring.

The Flash uniform was a lot more revealing than the Bat uniforms. The Bats needed thick padding and armor to keep them safe from bullets; but Barry could outrun a bullet, and so his uniform could be thinner and more flexible. As a result, Cordelia could see every impressive muscle in his arms, legs, and stomach.

And Cordelia once again questioned how she could ever have found this man ordinary.

“Is something wrong?” Barry asked her.

“No, nothing’s wrong,” she said quickly.

“Are you sure?” He asked. “What was that between you and Alfred? Why does Bruce want you in your room?”

“It’s nothing,” Cordelia said. “Really.”

Barry raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, you don’t have to tell me. I just want to make sure that everything is okay with you.”

He was perfect.

Cordelia did not care what Bruce said: if Barry and his wife ever split up, then Cordelia would let him know how she felt.

“Is everything okay with you?” Barry asked. “You seem happier. And healthier. But I know it’s a huge adjustment going from one timeline to the next.”

“I…” Cordelia trailed off, remembering everything that happened since Barry first left her on Bruce’s doorstep. “Some days are good. Some days are bad. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Barry frowned at her words. “I want more for you than to just handle things. I want your new life to be a really good one, Cordie.”

She scanned his face, how serious and genuine he was. Cordelia wished that she could tell him that her new life has been a really good one, but that would be lying to him. This new life was confusing and emotionally stressful, and the past few days were distressingly lonely.

So, instead, she said, “I’ll try.”

Barry’s new smile was gentle. “That’s all any of us can ask for, I guess.”

She smiled back at him, at his understanding nature and his positive attitude. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what life would be like if she lived with Barry instead of Bruce. She would probably feel this giddy all the time; she would be smiled at and welcomed instead of analyzed and criticized. She would not be Batgirl, because Batgirl could not exist outside of Gotham — but she could be a different vigilante, one that worked well beside a speedster. One that would protect him just as fiercely as she once protected her father.

Then, before she could think any more about it, the sitting room door opened again.

And Bruce stood on the other side of it, pale face carefully blank in stark contrast to Barry’s tan, open one.

His large form cast a dark shadow into the room, stretching across the length of the carpet and almost reaching where Barry and Cordelia were sitting. Ominous silence filled the room as he stood there, still as a gargoyle. Icy blue eyes inspected the two on the couch, lingering on how close Cordelia chose to sit next to Barry and then settling heavily on Barry’s innocently expectant face. 

Cordelia could barely move as Bruce said, with a voice cool enough to drop the temperature ten degrees: “What are you doing here?”

Chapter 32: An Expression of Love

Summary:

“This is not a joke, Barry,” Bruce’s voice was harsh. “She’s struggling. And not just with her past, but right now. She doesn’t trust me at all.”

“Eventually —“

“Eventually, maybe. But it’s not a guarantee. Children have a difficult time trusting authority figures after experiencing abuse from a parent or the people who were supposed to protect them. This situation needed to be handled delicately from the beginning. But it wasn’t.”

There was an accusatory note in Bruce’s voice that Cordelia caught instantly. She was sure that Barry heard it, too, since the sentence was followed with a long pause.

“….Are you accusing me of something, Bruce?”

Barry’s face stilled at Bruce’s words and the cool tone that accompanied them.

“Um — I thought I’d visit Cordie,” Barry said. Then he laid a hand on Cordelia’s stiff shoulder, as if Bruce needed a reminder on who Cordie was. “I just finished the report on her timeline, so she was on my mind…. Is something wrong?”

He asked the question quickly, anxiously.

Meanwhile, Cordelia marveled at Batman’s ability to frighten a man who could easily outrun his punches.

Bruce looked (very briefly) at his sister, before stalking into the room. His movements were slow and deliberate. It was as if he were thinking of every step he took before actually taking it — which was odd, since Cordelia knew that he was a man that was much too graceful for his size.

It took him longer than usual to reach the sitting area; but when he did, he chose the armchair furthest from Cordelia.

The young girl watched him, curious despite herself. This was not normal Bruce behavior — it was not even normal Batman behavior. In fact, the way he behaved was more similar to the way Cordelia behaved when she first arrived in this new timeline: unsure of Bruce, unsure of how he would react to her.

“You should have called before you came here, Barry,” Bruce said stiffly.

“It was a spur of the moment thing,” Barry said. He was noticeably trying to keep his voice light. His hand was still on Cordelia’s shoulder. 

She was grateful for the heaviness of that hand. It was a reminder that she was not facing Bruce’s displeasure alone. And he was definitely displeased — Cordelia could almost feel it, despite how hard the man seemed to try to hide that particular emotion.

Bruce’s focus migrated from Barry’s face to the hand resting on his sister’s shoulder.

“Cordelia,” Bruce said abruptly. The girl’s back straightened. “I need to speak to Barry alone.”

Alarm bells sounded in Cordelia’s mind. A vivid memory surfaced with the bells: Barry being slammed repeatedly against the Cave walls, her father’s hand wrapped around his neck, and the bats that lived in the caves screeching at the disturbance.

“You’re angry with him,” Cordelia’s mouth moved before her brain could stop it. “Why?”

It did not make sense for Bruce to be angry with Barry. After all, it wasn’t Barry’s fault that Cordelia had developed feelings for him. It was not as if he’d encouraged the feelings to grow, or even knew that they existed. They had simply appeared out of nowhere within the girl, then grew and grew until she could barely hide them.

So if the feelings were anyone’s fault, then the fault was on Cordelia.

“It’s none of your concern,” Bruce told her.

Every fiber of Cordelia’s being wanted to listen to Bruce and leave the room. But her mind kept seeing Batman’s fist beat down on Barry until blood smeared the Cave’s stone ground.

“Isn’t it about me?” She forced herself to ask.

The corners of Bruce’s mouth twitched downwards. A small crack in the expressionless mask. “Not all of it.”

Barry was watching the two talk with growing bewilderment.

“But most of it?” What Cordelia had meant as a statement came out as a timid question. She tried to look confident to make up for her faltering tone, but she knew that both men saw right through her.

Bruce was looking directly at her now. His eyes bore right into her own until all she could focus on were the ink black pupils that lived in the center of the clear, pure blue.

She wasn’t sure what he would have said next if Alfred didn’t enter the room at that exact moment.

The aging butler was silent as he walked across the sitting room. However, his presence had an instant impact on the young girl. It was as if he’d brought in an invisible blanket and carefully shrouded Cordelia with it’s warmth. 

Alfred laid a tea tray on the coffee table between the three, then turned to Bruce formally.

“Will this be all, Master Bruce?” He questioned.

Bruce finally broke eye contact with his sister to address Alfred. “Cordelia will take her tea in the kitchen. Or the library. Wherever she likes.”

“Very well, Sir,” Alfred said, unsurprised. He picked up a section of the tea tray and turned to Cordelia expectantly. “Follow me, Miss Cordelia.”

Barry’s hand dropped from her shoulder. The missing weight left her feeling ungrounded and purposeless. She crossed her arms in an attempt to block out these unwanted emotions.

“I want to stay,” she said.

There was a beat of silence. Then Bruce said: “Fine. Cordelia, stay here. Barry, follow me.”

Cordelia watched Barry and her brother get up to leave in disbelief.

“That isn’t what I meant,” she protested.

Everyone in the room stopped moving. Barry was no longer smiling as he looked down at her, taking in her panicked expression and her clenched fists. Alfred was looking at Bruce, trying to communicate with him in that silent way that they always did.

The first person to move was Bruce. It was just a slight movement of his shoulders as he sighed. “Cordelia, stop being stubborn.”

Her stomach was beginning to cramp. “I just want to be in the room. I promise I won’t say anything.”

Barry grimaced and turned to Bruce. “Okay, you need to tell me what’s going on. What is this about?”

“Not now, Barry,” Bruce snapped. More of his mask was cracking.

“Perhaps I should show Mister Allen to the study,” Alfred cut in smoothly, “and you, Master Bruce, can speak with Miss Cordelia first.”

All the air left Cordelia’s lungs. The men looked between themselves, then — one-by-one — nodded. Cordelia had never felt more betrayed in her life as she watched both Alfred and Barry leave her with Batman.

The door clicked shut.

Bruce turned to look down at her.

Cordelia sunk into the couch.

The tense silence that followed Alfred’s and Barry’s departure felt like it was a living, slithering thing. It snaked around Cordelia’s limbs, trapping her in place, and wrapped tightly around her neck as she waited for Bruce to do something.

“What are you afraid of?”

Those words were said so calmly. As if he were asking her if she preferred to have her sandwiches toasted.

Cordelia didn’t respond at first. She waited, hoping that he would change the question. Hoping, even, that he’d forget he asked her it. But Bruce continued to wait.

So she responded: “Are you going to hurt him?”

“No,” Bruce said. He said it readily. It was as if he’d expected it.

She searched his face. “Can — can I have your word on that?”

Cordelia could hardly believe her own gall. She’d been chasing Bruce around for nearly a week, trying to get him to speak with her. And now that he was, she was demanding something from him. 

She was demanding something from Batman.

Bruce responded before the doubt could overwhelm her. “You have my word.”

Cordelia could breathe again. The memory of Barry’s pained screams faded into the background.

“You also have my word that I won’t hurt you ,” Bruce continued. He was still standing at the other end of the room, his arms dangling awkwardly at his sides. “You don’t have to be scared of me, Cordelia.”

“I’m not,” she said immediately.

But Cordelia was suddenly very aware of her body language. She was pressed flat against the back of the couch, with her arms crossed protectively over her chest and her shoulders pulled inward.

There was no way to subtly unfurl herself.

“I’m not,” she said again once she straightened her back and laid her hands gently on her lap.

Bruce sighed again and looked away.

The sun leaked through the windows, breaking up the shadow that Bruce had casted when he entered the room. Cordelia thought of the peonies that she’d just planted, and how warm their peddles must feel underneath the bright sky.

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?” Cordelia asked. “You think I’m scared of you?”

“I’m not avoiding you,” Bruce said.

Something inside her tickled at that — at the similarities of their answers. But the amusement didn’t last long as she realized, soon afterward, that they were both lying.

“I don’t want you to avoid me,” she said softly.

“I’m…” the protest died from his lips.

Cordelia looked up at him sadly.

“I’m sorry,” he finished.

A heavy silence fell upon the room.

Behind Bruce, just on the wall above the fireplace, Cordelia could see a portrait of him and his father and his mother. It was the largest portrait in the entire Manor, capturing the beautiful family with almost lifelike accuracy. Thomas Wayne was not smiling in that portrait; his lips were perfectly straight underneath his dark mustache and his eyes were too sharp to appear warm. 

But Cordelia knew that there was love there. She could see it in the way Thomas laid his hand protectively on his son’s shoulder, and in the way his free arm wrapped supportingly around his wife’s back.

That must be how the Waynes showed their love. Through protection. Through action.

Rarely through words.

Bruce followed her line of sight and stared at the portrait, too. She could not tell what he was thinking as he looked at the family he’d lost. But when he turned back to her, he asked, “Do you want me to take it down?”

Her bottom lip trembled.

Is that your way of protecting me, Bruce? She wondered. Out loud, she said: “no.”

“Okay,” he said.

Her brother watched her as she tried to pull herself together. She’d spent so long trying to get his attention, and this is what she showed him when she finally had it: a pathetic, broken girl.

Cordelia would kick herself later for this. But, at the moment, all she wanted was Alfred.

“I need to speak with Barry,” Bruce said, then began to leave her with her crumbling emotions.

“Are —“ He turned to her too quickly. Her brittle voice cracked under his stare. “Are you going to tell him about… about how you think I feel?”

Bruce blinked slowly. “Yes. He needs to know why he can’t visit you anymore.”

Her expression crumbled. Bruce looked stricken. “Please, Bruce. Don’t. ”

“I have to,” he said.

Tears pooled in her eyes. Alfred would have offered her a handkerchief, but Bruce glanced toward the exit.

“Please, don’t,” Cordelia repeated. Tears began to spill. She pressed her palms against her cheeks in an attempt to cover them. “I don’t want you to.”

“Cordelia.” He’d probably meant to sound admonishing, but her name came out short and panicked. She sniffled loudly. “I can’t allow this to continue. You’ll get hurt in the long run.”

What he was saying was probably true. Even if Barry one day divorced his wife, there was no guarantee that he would like Cordelia back. There were so many women in the world; and they were likely much more beautiful and likable than Cordelia could ever hope to be.

But the thought of Barry knowing how Cordelia felt and leaving because of that caused her so much pain that she didn’t want to ever experience the real thing.

“You’re hurting me now,” she said. It was her last attempt to convince her brother.

Bruce’s expression was not visible through her tears. But even if it was, she doubted that she would be able to read it.

Everything about Bruce was an enigma. She would never be able to know his true intentions, what he was thinking, or the motive behind his actions. Being in the same room as him was like being in the same room as one of the paintings; all she could do was guess at the emotion the artist was trying to portray with the knowledge that the art would never be able to tell her itself.

This feeling of hopelessness only increased when she saw his blurred figure turn and leave the room.

The door shut with a slam.

Tears wet the palms of her hands. Cordelia wiped at them, furious of her own crumbling self-control. Her openness might have softened Alfred, but it only chased Bruce away.

He had been more inclined to be around her when she kept her emotions close to her chest.

Perhaps it was the detective in him. Perhaps he was drawn to her company when her life had been a mystery to solve, rather than an easy book to read.

Cordelia reached for the tea tray and grabbed some napkins.

She used to always be alone in her timeline. Loneliness was as much a part of her life as Batgirl and bruises. But something had changed within her over the past two weeks; she noticed the feeling of loneliness now.

It was no longer silent. It rang in her ears and gnawed at her heart. She could feel it slip into the room at the same moment Bruce left it.

Cordelia covered her face with the napkin, half to dry the last of her tears and half to hide from the empty room around her.

She needed Alfred. She could not sit here with three tea cups and have no one to drink the tea with.

The young Wayne scrubbed the tear tracks from her face so viciously that her skin felt raw afterward, then threw the napkin back on the tea tray and left the sitting room.

In her own timeline, there was no cure for loneliness. If she ever noticed it, then she would have to endure it. But things were different now. She had Alfred. He did not mind that she followed him everywhere. He did not mind her company.

Cordelia walked in the direction of the kitchen, knowing that he was preparing snacks for Bruce and Barry. She walked through the entrance hall, passed the main staircase, crept through one of the East hallways, and then saw the kitchen door up ahead.

But then she heard voices.

“…What was that about, Bruce? You were scaring her.”

That was Barry’s voice.

Cordelia slowed down outside of Bruce’s study door.

“We’re not here to talk about me, Barry,” Bruce replied. His voice was tight. Angry.

“Well, I am,” Barry said. “I thought she would have been more comfortable around you by now. But she looks even more terrified than when I left her here half a month ago.”

“She’s having a natural reaction to trauma,” Bruce spoke as if he were reading a psychologists’ file on her. “It’s a trigger response to things that remind her of her abuse. This house. Gotham. Batman… Me. I remind her of Dad. I always will. She will never feel comfortable with me.”

Cordelia bristled. Whatever she expected them to talk about, it certainly wasn’t her psychological state. After a quick glance around, Cordelia pressed her ear to the door so she could listen more clearly.

“She was doing well to cover up her fear until I brought her to the BatCave,” Bruce continued. “Just seeing the stairway into it caused her to have a mental breakdown. She was inconsolable. I could barely get a coherent sentence out of her.”

“That doesn’t sound like her,” Barry said.

“The girl you knew lived in a completely different environment than this one. She’s on edge. She doesn’t know what to expect here.”

“Why not? Tell her she’s safe and she’ll —“

“I have, Barry.” Bruce sounded irritable. “She doesn’t believe me.”

“Then you should probably stop looming over her and casting dark shadows into rooms.”

“I was not looming. And I don’t have control over shadows.”

“Are you sure about that?”

There was a tense silence. Cordelia could imagine Bruce glaring at Barry.

“This is not a joke, Barry,” Bruce’s voice was harsh. “She’s struggling. And not just with her past, but right now. She doesn’t trust me at all.”

“Eventually —“

“Eventually, maybe. But it’s not a guarantee. Children have a difficult time trusting authority figures after experiencing abuse from a parent or the people who were supposed to protect them. This situation needed to be handled delicately from the beginning. But it wasn’t.”

There was an accusatory note in Bruce’s voice that Cordelia caught instantly. She was sure that Barry heard it, too, since the sentence was followed with a long pause.

“….Are you accusing me of something, Bruce?”

Bruce’s response was instant and angry: “Why didn’t you tell me what my father did to her, Barry?”

“What your — Bruce!” Barry stuttered. Cordelia could easily picture the indignant look on his face.

“That should have been the first thing out of your mouth after telling me about her,” Bruce snapped. Cordelia had never heard him so angry before. “Instead, you gave me a letter from him and lied to me about what a hero he was.”

“He was a hero,” Barry said. “Just… he was also….”

“A child abuser.” The words were said through gritted teeth.

“Bruce,” Barry said slowly, “I didn’t tell you about what he did to Cordelia because… I thought it was obvious. I mean, look at the way she acts. Look at the bruises that were still visible on her face when you first met.”

“Bruises are common in our line of work.”

“Is flinching? Is cowering?”

Bruce was silent for a moment, then: “So that’s your excuse for not telling me what a monster my father was? That I should have known?”

“No,” Barry said firmly. “I should have told you. It slipped my mind —“

“Slipped your mind,” Bruce repeated.

“Bruce, I’m trying to apologize.”

“I don’t want your apology.”

“Then what do you want—?”

“Miss Cordelia.”

Cordelia gasped and whipped around.

Alfred was standing down the hallway, outside the kitchen door, with a tray of biscuits and beverages in his arms.

“What on earth are you doing?” He asked, the picture of disapproval.

Cordelia shuffled away from the study door, face red with shame. “I’m — I was looking for you.”

Alfred’s expression became even more disapproving. “Were you?”

She ran through her options before deciding that honesty was the best path forward with Alfred. “I was… at first. And then I heard Barry and Bruce talking, so I… decided to listen.”

“To a private conversation.”

“They were talking about me,” Cordelia said.

“Privately.”

Cordelia had nothing else to say to that. Alfred walked toward her with the tray, still looking at her with that face that said I expected more from you.

She hardly knew how to react to that. Alfred was constantly telling her what to do, but he’d never looked at her in that way before — like she was a puppy caught chewing on shoes. Cordelia lowered her head.

“It is not appropriate to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said.

“But I’m a detective,” she protested.

“Not when you are within this Manor.”

Again, she had nothing else to say. The butler was speaking so matter-of-factly, as if these rules were etched in stone and sworn upon by every household member. And perhaps they were. Maybe Cordelia just hadn’t sworn in yet.

“I’m sorry,” she ended up saying.

Alfred’s expression eased. “You are forgiven. But you must promise not to do it again. Master Bruce deserves his privacy.”

She did not like the way he phrased that: as if she’d taken something from Bruce by listening to his conversation. It was enough to replace her shame with a heavy load of guilt.

“I won’t do it again,” Cordelia promised.

“Very good,” Alfred said. “Then I won’t tell him about what I’ve seen. This time. I cannot keep that promise if I see you eavesdropping in the future.”

Cordelia nodded. When it was clear that Alfred wanted a response, she quickly added, “Thank you. I promise I won’t do it again.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Cordelia. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

The young girl moved out of his way. Alfred knocked three times on the study door before walking inside.

Cordelia waited until he was out of sight before rushing out of the hallway and back outside to her garden, the last place where she felt at peace before all the chaos began. She felt weird. She’d been scolded before by her father, but his scoldings never made her feel so wrought with guilt.

Usually, she’d just felt fear.

A slap to the face and a promise for more pain in the near future was enough to get her to stop doing whatever had displeased him in the first place. 

But Alfred had made her feel guilty.

Cordelia sat in front of the new peony garden bed and laid back on the blanket. The sun was lowering in the sky, but some of its heat still lingered in the soft fabric of the blanket Alfred had placed on the ground for them.

The young girl pressed her face against it and closed her eyes, trying to rid herself of all the emotions that had terrorized her for the past few hours. She tried to forget the fear, the anxiety, the hope, and even the love. This garden had given her tranquility before, and she wanted that back.

A few birds sang to her from above. Cordelia was not well-versed in bird species, but she thought that they sounded beautiful singing together with their different tones and rhythms. She tried to focus on them instead of her own memory, which was replaying the conversation she’d overheard between Bruce and Barry over and over again.

You were scaring her.

She was inconsolable. I could barely get a coherent sentence out of her.

I thought it was obvious. I mean, look at the way she acts.

She grimaced into the blanket.

A bee buzzed somewhere close by. A cricket chirped and whistled a few feet away. The gentle wind made the flower peddles brush against each other.

Cordelia focused determinedly on these things. It was better — much better — than focusing on the words her brother had shared with her friend. She felt like if she thought about it for too long, the humiliation would consume her.

The way they’d spoken about her. Like she was a civilian. Like she was a victim that was having trouble coping.

But she wasn’t. Cordelia was just fine.

The breakdown in the Cave was a fluke, a misunderstanding.

It did not define her.

Except Bruce seemed sure that how she behaved in the Cave was solid proof that she was broken beyond repair. So sure, in fact, that he was also trying to convince Barry of the same thing.

A small flap of wings broke her out of her reverie. Cordelia’s eyelids fluttered open.

A slender red and grey bird was standing five inches from her nose, staring curiously down at her with a tilted head and tiny black eyes. When she didn’t move, the bird’s beak opened to give a small peep.

Cordelia blinked back at it.

The bird grew disinterested in her. It ruffled it’s feathers and started to pick at its wing.

“You’re a robin,” she realized.

The bird looked at her again.

She didn’t know for sure, exactly. But the bird looked almost identical to the one she saw in The Secret Garden movie that she watched with Bruce.

It gave a little hop closer to her. Cordelia held her breath, not wanting to scare it away.

A door opened and closed at the Manor. The bird startled.

“No, wait —“

It flew away in a blur of grey and red. Cordelia sat up, trying to get one last glimpse of it, but it was gone.

Footsteps sounded behind her, and Cordelia turned to see who had scared her tiny new friend away. Bright red invaded her vision; Barry.

Her shoulders relaxed, instantly forgiving.

“Hi, Cordie,” Barry said with a small smile. He plopped down beside her. “I was worried when I couldn’t find you in the house.”

Cordelia sat up. Goosebumps covered her arms and legs from the slightly chilled air. “You don’t have to worry about me, Barry,” she said as she rubbed warmth into her arms.

Barry’s form twitched slightly, as if he were security footage that had been tampered with. One moment he was empty-handed, the next he was holding up one of her jackets. He leaned forward to wrap it around her shoulders. Cordelia tried not to stare at his lips as they drew closer to hers.

“I know,” Barry said. His smile widened. “You’re Batgirl.”

Did he hear how loudly her heart was beating?

“Yeah,” Cordelia said, slightly breathless. “I’m Batgirl.”

Barry sat back after securing her jacket around her and looked curiously at the pink peonies behind them. “Although I never expected Batgirl to appreciate gardens. I checked the darkest corners of the house before coming here.”

Cordelia huffed out a laugh. “Did you really?”

“Of course,” Barry said. “I was positive that I’d find you hiding in a closet or hanging from the rafters in the attic.”

“I’m Batgirl, not Girlbat.”

“Is there even a Girlbat?” Barry asked. “Seems unlikely, but I learned to expect the unexpected when it comes to Gotham rogues.”

“If there is, then I haven’t met her yet,” Cordelia said.

Barry stretched out his legs in front of him and leaned back on his elbows as if he were sunbathing on a beach. Cordelia watched him try to get comfortable in amusement. This was what they should have done instead of following Alfred into the Manor: sit in front of her garden bed and enjoy one of the few sunny days in Gotham.

If they had done this, then Cordelia would have been able to avoid that uncomfortable conversation with Bruce. And Barry would have never known about her breakdown in the Cave.

She wondered if he was thinking about it. She wondered if he was trying to find a way to bring it up.

Barry leaned his head back and peered up at the sky. She could see one of the white fluffy clouds reflected in the blue of his eyes.

Cordelia tore her gaze away. She liked looking at him, she realized. 

She liked looking at him a lot.

“Do you garden?”

Cordelia blinked. Barry tilted his head to stare at her. “What?” She asked.

“Do you garden?” He repeated. His red-gloved hand gestured to her clothes. “You’re covered in dirt. So I figured you were gardening.”

“Oh,” Cordelia self-consciously rubbed at a spot of dirt on her jean shorts. “No. Or — yes. I just started today.”

Maybe Alfred was right about dressing appropriately. If she’d taken more care of her appearance, she wouldn’t have felt so grubby in front of Barry.

“Huh,” Barry looked surprised, but smiled. “I’ve never gardened before. Is it fun?”

Cordelia hummed. “No. It’s peaceful. And messy. Alfred and I just planted this one.”

She pointed to the pink peonies and began to explain all the steps in creating a garden bed. Some of it Alfred did for her, but he’d promised to let her do all of it once they were sure she could. Barry listened to her talk about her garden bed, and the importance of loosening the soil and being gentle with the roots.

Her entire chest ached at the genuine interest that he was showing. And her heart skipped a beat every time he’d ask her a question.

Occasionally, he’d stare at her as she spoke and it took everything within her not to turn as red as a robin’s chest.

Bruce was wrong. There was nothing inappropriate about her feelings for Barry. In fact, everything about this moment felt right.

She wanted to spend the rest of her life sitting in a garden bed with Barry, talking about rich soil and seeing the way the wind ruffled his perfect blond hair as he listened.

“I’m glad Alfred thought of gardening,” Barry finally said. “I’m sure Bruce would have chosen martial arts as a hobby for you.”

“Gardening wasn’t a planned hobby,” Cordelia said with a hum. “It was more spontaneous.”

“Right,” Barry said lightly.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why did you use that tone?”

Barry’s eyes widened. “What tone?”

“The one that sounded like you didn’t believe me.”

“Of course I believe you,” Barry frowned. “I forget how suspicious you Bats are.”

Cordelia chewed her lip. Maybe she was being too suspicious.

She’s on edge, Bruce had said. She doesn’t know what to expect here.

She sighed and relaxed her shoulders. If she could trust anyone to be honest, it was Barry. He’d never lied to her before.

“Sorry,” Cordelia said.

“It’s no problem,” Barry said. He looked back up at the sky. “I should go. Iris shouldn’t be on her own for long.”

Cordelia ignored the pang in her heart. “Okay. When will you be back?”

An odd look passed Barry’s expression. “I’m… not sure.”

“What do you mean you’re not sure?”

“Bruce said….”

Panic flashed through Cordelia as Barry trailed off. Had Bruce told Barry about how she felt? He said he would, but Barry wasn’t behaving any differently than before. “Bruce said what?”

“Bruce told me about what happened in the BatCave,” Barry continued. “He’s worried about you and how you’re adjusting.”

Cordelia looked away. She’d heard this part. “I’m adjusting just fine, Barry. Really. What happened in the Cave… it won’t happen again. And even if it did, I promise I won’t do it in front of you.”

“I’m not staying away because I’m uncomfortable around you, Cordie,” Barry said. “I’m staying away because Bruce said that you might need space to adjust to this new life. We figured that I could be reminding you of your world crumbling.”

“That isn’t true,” Cordelia said. “I don’t think about that at all when I’m with you.”

“Good,” Barry said. It looked like a heavy load had been lifted off his shoulders. “Good.”

Cordelia waited for him to continue speaking, but he just closed his eyes with a look of pure relief. She ached to reach out to him, to grab his hand or to wrap her arms around him in a hug.

Instead, she said, “So you won’t stay away then?”

Barry blinked his eyes open. “Bruce is your guardian. If he doesn’t want me to visit you, then I won’t. But….”

She leaned forward at his hesitation. “But…?”

“But if you’re really scared of him, Cordie,” Barry said, “then I can make sure that I get guardianship, instead. If you really feel unsafe here, then I don’t think you should stay.”

Cordelia stared at him. He was offering to take her away from Bruce; to take her away from the Manor and Alfred and Gotham.

To take her with him.

He was focused entirely on her face, on her expression, gauging her reaction. Meanwhile, Cordelia was staring past him at the Manor. A figure was standing in one of the windows, watching them, broad-shouldered and tall.

If she wanted, this could be the last time she looked at Bruce and was reminded of her father. If she wanted, she could spend days and days talking to Barry about peonies and joking about dorky costumes under a bright blue sky.

But Bruce hadn’t told Barry about her feelings. He’d listened to her. He’d… cared not to hurt her.

“I don’t want to leave,” she decided. “But I don’t want you to give me space, either. Can’t you just sneak in like you did today?”

Barry huffed out a sound that might have been a laugh. “Sneak into Gotham? I’d need more than super speed to not be noticed by Batman.”

“You’d have Batgirl’s expertise on your side,” Cordelia said.

Barry actually smiled at that. “That’s true. We would be unstoppable together.”

Her limbs felt like jelly. “We’d be amazing.”

Barry’s smile widened. He reached over to her and pulled her into a tight hug. Cordelia rested her head against his chest and told herself to remember the sound of his heartbeat. 

“I don’t know why Bruce is so worried about you,” he said with a hint of pride. “You’re going to be just fine. You’re brilliant.”

Cordelia wasn’t brilliant. She was in love.

There could be no other word for what she was experiencing at that very moment in Barry’s arms. ‘Infatuation’ did not cover it; neither did a ‘crush.’ Those were silly words for silly civilians, not for Batgirl and her Barry.

“I’m going to miss you, Cordie,” Barry said, affectively ruining the moment.

“What? No,” Cordelia leaned back to glare at him. “You just said that you would sneak into Gotham to see me.”

“I didn’t — well,” Barry considered this, “I can see where you got that impression. But no, that isn’t what I meant.”

“It’s what you said.”

“Okay. Um.”

“Bruce won’t find out,” Cordelia continued, “I know how to hack into cameras. It’s easy.”

“Cordie,” Barry pulled out of the hug. “I’m not going against Bruce’s wishes. He’s my teammate, your older brother, and your guardian.”

“But you’re my friend,” Cordelia said.

“You’ll make other friends,” Barry said.

“But…” Cordelia peered up at him earnestly, admiringly, “no one else can compare to you, Barry.”

Barry opened his mouth to say something back, but then froze. Cordelia watched his eyes widen slowly as he stared at her, eyes flitting over her expression and then the way she’d angled herself to lean into him.

His mouth closed with a click of his teeth.

“Oh,” he said dumbly.

Cordelia’s hand moved toward him in concern. Barry cringed out of her reach.

“Oh,” he said again.

The young Wayne furrowed her eyebrows. “Barry, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Um. I’m just realizing why Bruce didn’t want me around.”

Cordelia frowned at him, but Barry glanced backward at the Manor and likely saw the figure in the window still watching them. The skin of his face paled drastically.

“Oh,” he said once again.

Cordelia, confused and alarmed, quietly took stock of the situation before realizing: Barry knew.

Barry had figured out how she felt somehow and… was freaking out about it.

More than freaking out, she thought as she glanced at the way Barry was leaning away from her. He was withdrawing. He wanted nothing to do with her or her feelings.

She shuffled to the other edge of the blanket. The feeling of loneliness was suddenly so powerful that all she could do was curl up so that her legs were pressed tightly against her chest.

Bruce had been right.

This did hurt.

“You should go,” Cordelia said softly. “Iris shouldn’t be alone for long.”

Barry looked pained. “Cordelia….”

She flinched. “Don’t call me that,” she pleaded. “Just go.”

He almost laid a hand on her shoulder, but hesitated and then dropped it. Cordelia curled into an even tighter ball, trying to protect her heart from Barry and his pitying expression (an expression that he was never supposed to have) and his painful words.

But nothing was working. He might as well be prodding at her chest with a sharpened knife.

“Listen, Cordel — Cordie,” Barry corrected himself quickly. She looked away. “I’m… flattered. But… you’re just a kid. I see you as a sister —“

“Why?” Cordelia asked before she could stop herself. “You’re not my brother.”

“Because I care about you like I would a sibling,” Barry said. His fingers fidgeted with his gloves. “You know, like the way Bruce cares about you.”

“But I don’t care about you like I care about Bruce,” Cordelia said petulantly. “I like you, Barry.”

A sad silence followed. Barry did not say it back.

Barry didn’t say anything back. Cordelia half-expected him to get up and leave her there, to let her deal with her stupid and silly emotions all on her own like she’d asked.

Cordelia didn’t know what she’d do if he actually did leave in that moment. She’d probably dig a hole for herself right next to the peonies. 

Cordelia peaked over at him, at his stiff shoulders and the way his eyes kept darting up to the Manor.

Everything inside her felt brittle.

“Do you hate me?” She asked, voice small.

Barry instantly softened. “I could never hate you.”

“But you’re going to stop visiting,” she guessed, “because of me. And how I feel.”

He looked sad as he said, “I don’t want to confuse you. I’ll never feel the same way about you, Cordelia.”

She didn’t think anything her father had ever said to her was as painful as those words. Never. Like Barry had seen into her future and knew what a mess she would always be.

Like he’d met all the other women out there and knew that she’d never compare.

Cordelia’s bottom lip began to tremble.

Barry looked horrified. “Cordelia —“

“ Go,” she snapped before her voice had a chance to break.

Hurt flashed across his features and reflected in her bruised heart. Barry nodded silently then got to his feet, not bothering to dust any of the garden soil off his bright red uniform.

Cordelia watched him walk away toward the gates, his shoulders slumped.

This could be the last time she’d ever see him.

That was the only thought she had before jumping up impulsively and running over to him.

“Barry,” she called. He turned just in time to catch her as she launched herself into his arms.

“Cordelia,” he began with a protest. He grabbed her arms, unknowingly putting pressure on the still-healing bruises. “We shouldn’t —“

“I just want one last hug,” Cordelia said. “Please.”

Barry relaxed with a sigh and let her tuck her head under his chin.

One last time.

Chapter 33: Brothers Shouldn't Date

Summary:

Bruce carefully folded his hands in his lap. “Come downstairs, Cordelia.”

“No.”

Bruce blinked. Then blinked again.

He turned to stare at her, ice blue meeting ice blue.

Cordelia held onto Barry for as long as he would allow. The birds above them tweeted and squawked; and Cordelia burrowed beneath Barry’s chin like it was possible to hide there forever.

But he was tense in her arms. And when he pulled away from her, his hands on her shoulders were firm.

“You’re going to be okay, Cordelia,” Barry said. “I know it.”

Then he let her go.

He let her go to pull his mask over his face, and to hide the brilliant Summer blue of his eyes behind an expressionless white lens. His uniform no longer looked dorky; with the frown on his face and the direct stare, he looked every bit the serious hero that she knew he could be.

And she stood in front of him in a thin jacket and jean shorts. Small.

“I’ll come back one day,” Barry said. “Once you’ve — adjusted.”

Once she adjusted. Once she got over her feelings for him.

But Cordelia knew that day would never come.

How could she ever get over someone like Barry? He’d done the impossible for her: he’d brought her brother back to life, he’d rescued her from her father, he’d pulled her from a dying world and brought her to this new one, which was mostly confusing but other times wonderful.

Barry had altered time just to give her a chance at living. He’d chosen to save her… even over his own mother.

No. It was not possible for Cordelia to get over Barry. She would love him forever.

“What if…” she said. “What if you change your mind? Time changes so much. We’ve both seen how much it can change. What if one day you look at me and no longer see me as a sister?”

The look Barry gave her was so pitying that she had to force herself not to flinch away from it. Barry had once been the only person who hadn’t looked at her like that. Now her one friend, the one person in this world who saw her in action as Batgirl… thought she was pathetic.

“I’m really sorry, Cordelia.”

He sounded sorry. But Cordelia could no longer look at him.

“If I’d known, I would have…” he sighed. “I would have handled this more delicately from the beginning. I hate that Bruce is always right.”

Bruce. It was always about Bruce. Even Barry rejecting her was linked to Bruce. It was like her brother was an inescapable force, somehow influencing every part of her life whether he was directly responsible or not.

The broad-shouldered silhouette in the Manor window was still visible, still watching, still not moving. Did he suspect what had just happened? Did he know that Cordelia’s feelings had been discovered and shoved away in disgust? Was Bruce also thinking that he was right?

“Cordelia,” Barry said. She reluctantly gave him her attention. He was looking at her like she was moments away from crumbling. “What do you need? Do you need me to walk you to the house?”

He was so solemn, so unlike the Barry that she knew. There was none of the warmth or pride or open affection that she usually associated with him. But he was offering her a few more minutes by his side, so she nodded.

The walk was not what she wanted it to be. Barry was silent and distant the entire time they approached the large wooden doors of Wayne Manor. And when they reached the steps, the ones right beside Alfred’s beautiful yellow tulips, Cordelia had a realization so sudden and so painful that her movements stuttered to a halt.

“Cordelia?”

Barry was on the top stair. His head turned from Cordelia to the tulips and back again before he, too, remembered and realized. 

The tulips. Her mother. Five year-old Cordelia, sitting on the front stair beside the garden bed and watching her mother leave, neither knowing that it would be the last time they saw each other ever again.

Barry was in front of her, grabbing her hands in his and pulling her from that memory. “This isn’t like that. I’m not leaving you with an abusive asshole. Bruce cares about you.”

Cordelia shook her head. “You’re abandoning me. Just like she did.”

“I’m not abandoning you,” Barry said firmly. “We’re going to meet again. And when that day comes, this will just be a funny memory. You’ll look back at this moment and laugh.”

Cordelia bristled. “Laugh? Is that what you’re going to do?”

Barry hurriedly backtracked. “No! Of course not, Cordelia. I would never laugh at you.”

But she got the horrible feeling that he would. She could almost picture it: Barry racing home to his beautiful wife and telling her all about the silly, broken girl who thought he could ever like her back.

Cordelia tore her hands from his and brushed by him to the front door.

“Cordelia!” Barry protested.

She turned to glare resentfully down at him; at this man who knew her story and made her relive it, at this man who saw how she felt and was leaving her for it, at this man who promised he’d come back and had taken half a month to do so.

At this man who saved her, defended her, and cared for her.

At this man who did not deserve her anger or her resentment.

At this man she’d forgive instantly if he’d just give her another hug.

Barry stared at the way she stared at him and then, strangely, his hurt melted away. White lens met stormy blue as he said, “It’s okay. If you need to be angry with me, I understand.”

Her resolve wavered.

“Tell Bruce I said good-bye, okay?” Barry said.

Cordelia's anger came back full-force. Her brother again. 

“No,” she snapped at Barry. She went into the house and slammed the door before the speedster could say anything else that would soften or break her.

The slam echoed disturbingly around the entrance hall, causing a vase nearby to shake on its stand. 

Cordelia reached forward and stilled the vase so that it would not shatter on the floor. And then she waited. It was absolutely ridiculous, but even in her anger, Cordelia hoped that Barry would not actually leave. 

But there was no knock on the door nor an apologetic hero appearing a few feet in front of her.

Cordelia shuffled over to the window and peaked outside.

The front door steps were empty. The sun was lowering. Barry was gone.

And Cordelia was abandoned once again.

Light, almost silent footsteps sounded behind her as she stood there and tried to shove down the painful memory that empty doorstep reminded her of. Cordelia did not have to turn around to know who was approaching her, but when they got close enough, self-preservation won over everything else.

“What happened out there?” Bruce asked. 

Cordelia did not want to share. Especially not with Bruce, who she blamed the most. But he asked, so she said, “Barry said good-bye.”

She expected him to leave, satisfied with the answer and content to begin ignoring her again. But Bruce continued to block her way to the stairs. “Why were you crying?”

Because you chased my friend away, she thought meanly.

“I did not want him to go,” she said instead.

Bruce eyed her. Cordelia mimicked his masked expression.

“May I go to my room?” She asked.

He did not react negatively to her clipped, borderline rude answers. But at her question, his lips thinned unpleasantly. “Yes,” he said.

So she went. Cordelia slipped by his broad form, walked briskly toward the staircase, and then raced up to her bedroom where she could hide away from that empty doorstep, Bruce’s watchful gaze, and Alfred’s disapproval.

All she wanted to do was crawl into her bed and never think about Barry Allen ever again.

But that was not possible. Cordelia could not stop thinking about him and the way he’d looked at her before she closed the door in his face. Her emotions kept switching from furious, to sad, to guilty, to regretful, and then back to furious with such intensity and speed that Cordelia could barely process any of them.

How could he leave her like that? How could he know the story of her mother and still walk away? How could he see how scared she was of Bruce and still tell her to pass a message along to him? How could he see how much she loved him and still say that one day her feelings would be nothing but a joke?

How could he?

Cordelia burrowed underneath her blankets and latched onto that thought: how could he, how could he, how could he?

Every time she asked herself this, she felt her anger build.

And it felt nice.

Her father had been angry for her entire life. There were very few times in Cordelia’s life where she ever saw her father being anything but angry. It had been like living with a monster that only fed off of misery and pain and fury.

It had torn their entire home apart and shrouded her childhood in darkness.

Cordelia had not liked living with all that anger. It had been unstable, terrifying, suffocating — and her child mind could not understand why someone like Thomas Wayne, someone with so much power and intelligence, would allow himself to live like that.

But now… she understood him.

Because beneath her own anger, she could feel something far more unpleasant brewing: a deep, helpless loneliness. A loneliness that was growing more powerful each day, eating away at her appetite and making a home in the hollowness of her heart.

Cordelia would rather feel the anger than that loneliness.

Maybe that was how Thomas Wayne had felt, too.

Maybe she was her father’s daughter after all.

Cordelia spent the rest of the day in her room, nurturing that anger and hiding from her own isolation. When dinnertime came, Alfred attempted to coax her out with promises that her favorite dishes were waiting downstairs, but Cordelia did not even lift her head from her pillows. More than just not wanting to eat, she was worried that Alfred’s gentle concern would strip her of her anger — and she was not ready to see what was underneath that.

But Cordelia was given a rule: she had to eat three meals a day, no exceptions.

She had hoped that Alfred would not tell Bruce about her wanting to skip dinner. But, sure enough, she heard the familiar sound of Bruce’s bizarrely light footsteps and the sound of a heavy fist knocking on her door.

Cordelia quickly pulled her blankets over her head and pretended to sleep.

“Cordelia?” Bruce’s deep tone filtered through the cracks of the door.

She did not answer.

Bruce sighed. “Cordelia, we had a rule.”

She stayed perfectly still, hoping that the silence would drive him away.

“I’m coming in,” he said.

The doorknob rattled as he twisted it open, and the floorboards creaked as he walked across the room to her bed.

Cordelia closed her eyes.

“If you are feeling… unwell,” she heard her brother adjust his stance, “then I can have Alfred bring up your dinner.”

When she still did not respond, Bruce sighed again in irritation. Part of the mattress dipped as he sat next to where she was curled up.

“I know you’re awake, Cordelia,” he said.

But how could he? She was breathing deeply and making sure her body was relaxed. So unless he could hear how quickly her heart was beating inside her chest, then he could not know that she was awake.

Therefore, Cordelia did not give up on her charade.

Not until Bruce reached over and tugged the blanket out of her face. Cordelia’s eyes flew open, startled by the movement — especially since Bruce had been so distant and untouchable lately.

She looked up at him, caught. He quirked his eyebrow back.

“I have five children,” Bruce explained calmly. “By now, I can spot a fake sleeper from three rooms away.”

Cordelia pressed her lips together. Was that a joke?

She was not in the mood for jokes.

So she continued to stare at him, waiting for whatever scolding or punishment he had in mind as a consequence for her failed deception.

Bruce carefully folded his hands in his lap. “Come downstairs, Cordelia.”

“No.”

Bruce blinked. Then blinked again.

He turned to stare at her, ice blue meeting ice blue.

Cordelia did not break his gaze. All she did was wait. And wait, and wait. Because if something terrible was going to happen, then it could be no more terrible than Barry leaving her.

Bruce blinked again. “You can’t skip meals. Come downstairs. That’s an order.”

“No.”

Her brother looked genuinely surprised at her response. It was almost satisfying to catch Batman so off-guard by disobeying a direct order. But Cordelia would not do something as foolish as gloat to his face.

Instead, she continued to stare and wait.

Bruce frowned. “You’re being immature. Skipping meals is an unhealthy habit that Alfred and I are trying to break you out of. Pushing back is only going to hurt you.”

Cordelia was barely listening to him. She was too focused on his hands, which were still loosely folded in his lap, and his eyebrows, which were furrowed but not with anger.

He was not going to hit her.

Which gave her the bravery she needed to say, “I’m okay with that.”

If she’d said something like that to her father, he probably would have strangled her to death. It was not just her words, but the clipped tone that she coated them with. But Bruce just blinked again, as if he were half-convinced that he was in a dream he needed to wake up from.

“I will tell Alfred to bring you your food,” Bruce decided. He nodded once to himself and then stood up.

Cordelia felt another flash of anger. “I said no.”

Bruce was already leaving her room. “I’m just trying to do what’s best for you, Cordelia.”

She sat up and glared at his retreating back. “By ignoring what I want?”

Her brother stopped at her door. When he turned to look at her, his blank mask was back in place. It all made sense now: why he started to wear that mask around her. He was hiding his true emotions, trying not to scare her.

But Cordelia hated that mask.

She preferred the Bruce that laughed at BatCow’s antics, the one that softened when he was talking about his kids, the one that held her face in his comforting hands as she cried.

He’d taken that Bruce away from her. Just like he’d chased Barry away.

“You, Alfred, and Barry all think you know what’s best for me,” Cordelia said angrily. “But, if you did, then I wouldn’t feel as miserable as I do right now. So, please, stop giving me orders. All you do is make things worse.”

Bruce did not respond. At least, he did not respond verbally.

But something shifted in the way that he looked at her. Whereas before, he was all caution — now, it appeared as if he knew exactly what to expect from her, and it was not something that he liked seeing.

That was all Cordelia could glean from that look before Bruce closed off once again, nodded, and left her room.

The door shut quietly behind him.

Cordelia did not see Bruce again for the next few days. Although, it was not as if she were looking for him.

The young girl spent most of her time in her bedroom, either reading or crying or glaring furiously out her window at the untouchable horizon. She used to be familiar with the darkness of the Cave and the screeching of the bats — but now she was more familiar with the white decor of her bedroom and the occasional creaks that old homes made in the silence.

Bruce did not bother her again about eating. And Cordelia rarely ever ventured off to the kitchen when Alfred called her.

The old butler had gotten into the habit of bringing a plate of food to her room three times a day. He refused to listen to her when she told him she wasn’t hungry, and would not take the plate back even if she asked him to.

“I know you are unhappy with the Mr. Allen situation,” he said one day, “but that is no excuse to neglect yourself. You will not begin to feel better if you insist on not eating and staying in this room all day.”

Cordelia knew that he was right. Knew, even, that Bruce had been right about Barry.

But she also knew that she needed her anger. So, whenever Alfred would lecture her like this, she would turn away from him and scowl until he left.

It took almost five days for the last of her anger to fizzle out. By then, Cordelia did not do much other than lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. There was not much else she could do; Bruce had all but disappeared from the Manor and she felt too guilty about her treatment of Alfred to seek him out.

She wondered if her father ever felt this way. Had he stared up at the ceiling and felt guilty about how he treated her? How he treated his employees or even the Gotham police?

Did he feel this empty when the anger left his body?

She would never know.

All she did know was that her anger had only been a temporary solution to her loneliness. It was like having an infection, and deciding to take sleeping pills instead of antibiotics. It might give her temporary relief, but the problem was still there.

And the problem was: she had no one.

No one other than Alfred.

Cordelia slid out of her bed and walked over to her wardrobe. Inside was a line of clothes that the shopping center saleswoman had chosen for her — all except one.

Her Flash hoodie.

Cordelia took it off its hanger and put it on. The fabric was just as soft as it had been the day she got it. The yellow lightning bolt symbol at the center of its chest was stark against the red. She wondered if she’d ever be able to tell Barry that she’d purchased his merch.

She doubted it. 

Cordelia sighed. And then left her room in search of Alfred.

He was right. She would not begin to feel better if she stayed in her room all day. And a part of her was worried that if she stayed away from Alfred for too long, then she would lose him just like she lost everyone else.

Cordelia walked silently through the hallways. If Alfred hadn’t changed his schedule within the last few days, then it was likely that he was tidying up in the kitchen. And if that was the case, then Cordelia had to prepare herself to being confronted about her poor eating habits.

She sighed and stuck her hands in the hoodie pockets.

Crinkled papers met her fingertips.

Cordelia’s eyebrows furrowed. She pulled out the slips of paper and stared at them in confusion, uncomprehending. The torn pieces of paper all had names and numbers sloppily scribbled on them. 

Her friends. From the shopping center. (Or, more accurately, the boys she’d assumed wanted to be her friend before Bruce told her otherwise.) They’d given her their numbers so she could call them when she got a phone.

Except, she still did not have a phone and Bruce did not seem to have any house phones around the Manor for her to use, either. So Cordelia stuffed the papers back in her pocket and tried to forget about how excited she’d been to get them.

Bruce would likely disapprove of them being her friends, anyway.

When she finally made it to the kitchen, Cordelia was surprised to see that Alfred hadn’t been tidying up at all. He’d been baking.

“Hello, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said. He was holding a pan of freshly baked cookies. “How are you feeling today?”

Cordelia shrugged. At his responding look, she said, “Better. Or worse. I don’t know.”

She sat on the chair closest to him. He rewarded her with a soft smile and a shoulder squeeze.

“I missed you,” she said honestly.

Alfred rewarded her for that by setting the pan down on the kitchen table and wrapping her in a hug. Cordelia instantly melted into it and hummed when Alfred smoothed down her slightly tangled hair.

“Well, I am glad you have finally left your room,” he said. “I don’t think it’s healthy to stare at blank walls all day.”

“There’s nothing else to do,” Cordelia said.

“Of course there is,” Alfred said. “Master Bruce has filled this home with things to do. There is the movie theatre, the indoor pool, the art room, the music room, the library, and the garden. And you are always welcome to spend time with me.”

Cordelia pulled away from the hug. “I know, Alfred. It’s just…. It’s not enough.”

Alfred did not respond. He was silent for so long that Cordelia worried that she’d hurt his feelings or earned his disgust. After all, he’d listed a whole bunch of things that any other teenage girl would have been happy to have. 

But when she turned to apologize to him, all he did was hold his hand up to silence her. “I know, Miss Cordelia.”

She wondered if he did know, or if he was just trying to stop her from complaining further.

Alfred started to busy himself with removing the baked cookies from the pan and piling them onto a plate. She watched him remove each of them with great care, not breaking a single one. And then, once the pan was clear of them, he brought it over to the sink and began to wash them.

That was the difference between her and Alfred. If he saw that something needed to be done, or needed to be fixed, then he got to work immediately. Cordelia, on the other hand, wallowed.

“Every single child who has been brought to this house has found it difficult to consider it home,” Alfred said to her from the sink. “Even Master Bruce. And a lot of the children, I find, blame the house itself. They say that it is too large and too empty. But the truth is that the house isn’t to blame at all.”

Alfred grabbed a washcloth and began to dry the pan.

“And contrary to what Master Bruce thinks,” Alfred continued, “it is not entirely his fault, either. The truth is that you all have been brought here because you’ve gone through something terrible in your original homes. And that is difficult for anyone to deal with, no matter where they live or how big and empty their house is.”

The old butler put the pan away and walked briskly over to Cordelia. Then, to her utter astonishment, he sat down next to her.

She never saw Alfred sit down at the kitchen table.

The butler ignored her surprised expression and handed her a cookie. She stared at it, a dozen memories of her Alfred sneaking cookies into her chubby little hands rising to the surface.

Her eyes grew misty as her older, thinner fingers closed around the warm snack. “Are you saying that there is nothing I can do about how I feel? That because of what I went through I’m… I’m broken?”

Alfred gently tilted her chin up so that she could look at him. It broke her heart to see that Alfred’s eyes were misty, too. “No, my dear. I’m saying that all your stories begin the same in this house, and because of that, I know that you have much to look forward to. Take Master Dick, for example. He has been through much tragedy, and will go through more as we all will, but he has so much joy in his life that he knows how to bring joy to other people, as well.”

Cordelia looked between Alfred’s pale eyes, trying with all her heart to trust him. But a ball was forming in the back of her throat.

“I don’t think I can be that, Alfred,” she confessed. “I have this horrible feeling that I’m always going to be sad. That it’s never going to go away.”

Alfred’s face fell just a fraction.

Dick might have the power to spread joy, but Cordelia discovered that she had the power to do the opposite.

“You are not broken,” he said. He reached over to smooth down her hair again. Cordelia leaned into the touch. “Trust me, Miss Cordelia. I have seen my fair share of broken people, and you are not one of them. You are more than capable of happiness. You just have not been dealt the best cards yet.”

Desperation. That’s what she was feeling now. Desperation to believe what he was telling her.

That one day the feeling of loneliness wouldn’t be the first thing she felt when she woke up and the last thing she felt before going to sleep.

It sounded impossible.

But Alfred was older and wiser and she really wanted to trust him.

Cordelia sunk back into the hug that she knew was waiting for her. Alfred rubbed her back comfortingly.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Always, Miss Cordelia.”

After Cordelia pulled herself together (and Alfred secretly wiped away a few tears, as well), they both sat and ate the cookies together. Cordelia found that she loved eating with Alfred much more than following him around as he worked. Not only was it nice to have his full attention, but it was also nice to not feel like he was serving her.

When they sat and ate together, Alfred felt more like family.

More like… like a father.

But that thought meant too much to Cordelia, and she did not want to burden Alfred with that much pressure, so she quickly shoved it aside.

She was much too old to need a father, anyway.

“You used to make cookies for me all the time in my timeline,” Cordelia told him. “You would sneak them to me before bed.”

Alfred was bemused. “That does not sound like something I would do. I used to scold Master Bruce for trying to take sugary snacks into his room when he was a child.”

Cordelia shrugged. A smile tugged at her lips. “Maybe you like me more than Bruce.”

“Maybe so,” Alfred said.

Cordelia’s smile widened, despite her efforts to appear aloof.

“Don’t tell Master Bruce, however,” the old butler continued, “he doesn’t look it, but he is a terribly jealous man.”

“I won’t.” Cordelia did not want to look as pleased as she felt. The young girl turned and grabbed the last of the cookies. “Should we save this for him?”

“If you’d like,” Alfred said. “I made them for you.”

It was a mystery to Cordelia how she was ever able to be as angry at Alfred as she had been for the past five days. She put the cookie back on the plate. “We should save it for him. To make up for all the times you didn’t let him have his bedtime cookies.”

“Indeed,” Alfred said, amused. “He is away at the moment, but I will let him know once he returns.”

The butler began to clean their mess and put away the single cookie for Bruce.

“In the meantime, I wanted to ask if you’d like to join me on a trip to the shopping center,” Alfred said. “I think it is about time we started to personalize your room.”

Cordelia shifted in her seat. “I don’t know anything about decorating.”

She also did not care about the blankness of her room as much as Alfred seemed to.

“That is quite alright,” Alfred said. “I just want to make sure I don’t pick anything too against your comfort. I am not as used to purchasing decor for young ladies as I am for young boys.”

Cordelia did not know why it mattered. As long as everything in her room remained functional, she did not care if it was decorated with a football theme or a unicorn theme. But if it mattered to Alfred, then she would join him.

“Wonderful,” Alfred said. “We can also get you your own gardening tools and an umbrella.”

The mention of the umbrella reminded Cordelia of something that she actually wanted: “Can we also get me platform shoes? So that I can ride Jason’s motorcycle?”

“An excellent idea,” Alfred praised.

Then he sent her off to get ready to leave.

Cordelia brushed the tangles out of her hair, pulled on a pair of jeans and sneakers, and then went back downstairs to meet Alfred at the door.

During their last trip to the shopping center, Cordelia had been instructed to pick out an entirely new wardrobe. This included Summer clothes, Winter clothes, school clothes, and even clothes for galas or casual parties. The trip had been slightly stressful for this reason, and even more stressful because she’d been testing to see if Bruce would get mad at her for spending a lot of his money.

This time, she was determined to enjoy her trip with Alfred.

The old butler did not let her sit in the front seat, but Cordelia still spoke with him from the back. She did not have much to share, as she was not well-versed in this timeline’s news nor did she have a personal life to gossip about, but she liked to ask Alfred questions about himself.

“You were an actor?” She said in disbelief. “As in… you wore costumes?”

Alfred sent her a bland look in the rearview mirror. “Might I remind you which one of us would regularly dress as a bat?”

Cordelia had no retort for that. So she said, “Right. Of course…. How did you go from acting to being a butler?”

She really did not mean to say acting in such a way. But Cordelia simply could not imagine the old butler who had such small, subtle expressions being an actor on a stage.

She tried to picture him shouting his lines in front of a painted background to a giant audience, but her mind came up blank.

“It was my father’s dying wish that I become the Waynes’ butler,” Alfred said. “I always intended to return to acting, but Master Bruce needed me. So I stayed.”

Cordelia’s amusement washed away. “Do you think you will return now? You said not too long ago that Bruce doesn’t need you anymore.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Alfred said. He turned into the shopping center’s parking lot. “But you do. So I will stay for you now.”

Alfred and Cordelia went into the shopping center, which was just as crowded as last time. He brought her to a home goods store, and showed her different bedclothes and curtains and other similar things. But once it became clear to him that Cordelia was saying that she liked everything, he began to choose things himself.

She watched him gravitate toward a garden theme and did not protest to any of the items that he showed her.

“You are officially the easiest of the children to shop for, Miss Cordelia,” he said plainly.

“Thanks?” She said, although it did not sound like a compliment.

As Alfred shopped, Cordelia noticed everyone else around them. They were surrounded by small, happy families and loving couples. One couple actually began kissing near the nursery section, the woman sporting a huge belly, glowing skin, and a giant smile. 

Cordelia thought that she would see less of them when they left the home decoration store, but they were everywhere around the shopping center. Couples were holding hands as they walked through the stores, giggling as they window shopped, and bickering playfully as cashiers rung up their things.

It was inescapable.

A part of Cordelia felt like it must have been a cosmic joke played on her. She thought leaving Wayne Manor would make her think of Barry less, but now she saw Barry in every couple.

Is that what he looked like when he was with his wife: grinning ear-to-ear and laughing at every word she said?

“And here is where we can get your platform shoes,” Alfred said, breaking her out of her reverie.

There were not many options for platform shoes, but Cordelia did not care. She picked the first ones she saw and let Alfred pay for them with one of Bruce’s cards. It was a relief to finally get back in the car and away from all the happy people.

“I feel that this trip was a success,” Alfred said.

Cordelia hummed. “Yes.”

They were silent for the rest of the drive back to Wayne Manor. Alfred seemed to realize that something was bothering Cordelia and was giving her the space to process.

Cordelia appreciated this. Not only was it nice that she didn’t have to dodge questions, but it was also nice to see solid proof that Alfred was getting to know her just as she was getting to know him. And what he had learned was that sometimes Cordelia needed to wallow.

When they got to the house, Alfred readily grabbed her bags and began to bring them up to her room.

“I had hoped that we would return sooner,” he said. “But it has gotten terribly late. I won’t be able to set up your new things until tomorrow.”

“That’s okay,” Cordelia said hurriedly. “There’s no rush.”

Alfred did not look like he agreed, but he also did not protest. “I prepared dinner before we left. Once I am done putting your things away, I will serve you a plate. That is, unless you are not hungry.”

“Actually, I am a bit hungry.”

“It seems miracles do occur,” he said wryly before he left up the stairs with her bags.

Cordelia thought that this was a very dramatic thing to say, and then she thought that maybe Alfred being an actor made a lot of sense. Either way, she would never dare to tell him so.

Instead, she stood in the entrance hall and waited for him to come back. 

That is when she began to hear the voices.

These voices were unfamiliar, teasing, and light. And they held the same giggling note as all the couples Cordelia had seen in the shopping center. She almost did not want to investigate the voices based on that alone — but she knew that it was her duty to protect the Manor, so she started to follow the sound until it led her to one of the large rooms on the lower floor.

Cordelia pushed the door open and peaked inside.

A giggling couple was sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, both holding glasses of wine as they whispered into each other’s ears.

The woman was absolutely beautiful. She had rich brown hair that spilled over her exposed shoulders, sharp facial features that charmingly resembled a fox, and a tight-fitting dress that caressed the perfect curve of her hips and breasts as she leaned into the man sitting across from her.

And that man… was Bruce.

Except that Bruce was smiling, and his eyes were no longer sharp, and his body was relaxed into a lounging position, and he looked positively dopey.

Cordelia had never seen him look like that before. Her eyes darted to the wine glass in his hand and suspected, with mounting panic, that he was drugged.

“Bruce?” She asked.

She’d called for her brother, but the woman turned, too.

Her beautiful features instantly twisted into a scowl. “Who are you?” The woman snapped.

Cordelia frowned. “I’m Cordelia Wayne. Who are you?”

The woman only seemed more upset by this. She turned her scowl to Bruce, who actually cringed backward.

Cordelia was growing more alarmed by the minute. Who was this woman? Why was Bruce intimidated by her?

“Why haven’t you told me you adopted a girl?” The woman asked.

“Cordelia isn’t adopted,” Bruce answered. “She’s my ward.”

“Oh,” the woman still did not look pleased, “but she’s so old.”

Bruce blinked stupidly. “She’s fifteen.”

“That is the worst age for girls,”  the woman decided. She’d taken on a patronizing tone that made Cordelia’s skin itch knowing that it was directed at her brother. “You wouldn’t know this, Brucie, because you’ve only adopted boys so far. But us girls are evil little creatures when we’re teenagers. She will cause you nothing but trouble.”

It was Bruce’s turn to frown. Cordelia was relieved to see a bit of her brother return. The drug must not be that strong. “I adopted a girl not so long ago. And Cordelia has been no trouble at all. They are both much easier than all my boys combined.” His dopey smile came back. “In fact, I blame my boys for my gray hair.”

The woman was looking more and more displeased. Cordelia took her silence as an opportunity to catch her brother’s eye.

She furrowed her eyebrows, trying to express her concern.

Bruce’s eyes sharpened.

Cordelia never thought she’d be relieved to see that again. But she was, because it told her all she needed to know: that Bruce was not drugged, just… acting weird of his own accord. For whatever reason.

But then the sharp look was gone, and the weird, dopey one came back full force. Bruce playfully smacked his own forehead. “Where are my manners? Cordelia, this is Miss Everlott: a close friend. Miss Everlott, this is Cordelia: my long-lost cousin.”

Miss Everlott gave Cordelia a disdainful look. “A long-lost cousin? That’s convenient. Brucie, you know that you have to do one of those DNA tests in times like these, right? There are many girls out there trying to take advantage of you.” She sent Bruce a slanted, mischievous smile as  her manicured nails slid over his muscular thigh. “And not in the fun way that I have planned, either.”

Oh.

Cordelia had to leave. 

Before she threw up.

And ruined Bruce’s… date.

Bruce grabbed the hand boldly making its way up his thigh and smiled stiffly at Miss Everlott. “I think we should cut this night short.”

The woman simpered. “But, Brucie, I’m having so much fun. I didn’t mean to offend you or your ward. You know how much I admire your big heart.”

Cordelia could not take anymore of this. She left abruptly without saying good-bye, and then headed straight toward the kitchen where she hoped she would not see either of them again.

She could not believe what she’d walked in on.

Bruce. Her brother. Dating.

Her father never dated. Or did he?

Cordelia never caught him dating.

This situation felt strangely traumatizing. Which was ridiculous, because it shouldn’t. Bruce was an adult man, he should be able to date and —

Nope. She would not think any further into that.

Cordelia buried her face in her hands and tried to rid herself of the image of Miss Everlott draping herself over Bruce and pawing at his thigh.

She was definitely going to throw up.

Was this how Bruce felt when he’d seen Cordelia fawn over Barry? If it was, then she was suddenly very forgiving of all the tense expressions that were sent her way.

Alfred found her like that, in the midst of despair.

“Bruce has a woman over,” Cordelia told him.

Alfred’s lips twitched as he warmed her prepped meal. “Oh?”

“I saw them.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Can you kick her out?”

Alfred looked amused by this question. “I’m afraid I do not have that power.”

“Do I?” Cordelia asked. “I mean, Bruce kicked Barry out, so I should have a say in who he’s friends with, too.”

“I do not believe that Bruce will see those two situations as comparable.”

Alfred laid her plate in front of her, but all Cordelia could do was stare at it. The old butler gave her shoulder another squeeze. It would have been comforting, if Cordelia didn’t see how openly amused he was at her predicament.

“Try not to think too much about it, Miss Cordelia,” he said. “That is the advice I’ve given all the boys.”

Alfred left soon after. And Cordelia tried to take his advice. She did not think about the innuendos Miss Everlott shared so proudly, nor about what Bruce and the woman might have been laughing about when Cordelia interrupted, nor about what they might be doing at this very moment.

Cordelia threw her food away. She would not be eating tonight.

She walked back to her room and slowed down when she made it near the entrance hall, nervous about hearing more giggles, but the house was silent. Cordelia cautiously turned the corner to head up the stairs and toward her bedroom, when she was met with the scowling face of Miss Everlott once again.

The woman was wearing a thin jacket now, and was typing furiously at her phone before she noticed Cordelia approaching.

Once she did, Miss Everlott shoved her phone into her jacket pocket and peered down at the young girl like she was the gum at the bottom of her shoe.

“Well, if it isn’t the brat who spoiled my night,” Miss Everlott said bitterly.

Cordelia pressed her lips together and went to walk by her. Whatever happened after she left Bruce and his date was none of her business.

Miss Everlott scoffed and stepped in front of her. “Oh, you are such a rude little girl. Aren’t you even going to apologize?”

Cordelia furrowed her brow at the woman in front of her. She was taller than Cordelia and most likely weighed more, too; but her muscles were soft and her stance was too open. 

Miss Everlott was not a fighter. She was a civilian.

Cordelia had to remind herself of that. “I have nothing to apologize for.”

“Of course you do,” Miss Everlott said, adopting the patronizing tone she’d used on Bruce. “Ruining a date is an awful thing to do.”

“I didn’t ruin a date,” Cordelia said. “I barely said a word. If the date was ruined, then it was something that you did.”

Miss Everlott’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me —"

“Is everything alright?”

Bruce’s oddly cheery voice interrupted whatever Miss Everlott was going to say next. Both woman and girl looked up to see Bruce lazily making his way down the staircase, his smile wide and charming and so not Bruce.

“I hope you two are getting along now,” Bruce said once he reached them.

Miss Everlott forced a returning smile. “Of course, Brucie. She’s just wonderful. An absolute doll.”

Cordelia was the one scowling now. “Don’t lie to my b — cousin. You don’t like me at all. And I don’t like you, either.”

Miss Everlott glared daggers at her, but Cordelia could not be intimidated by a civilian.

“I was not lying,” Miss Everlott said stiffly. “I was being polite. It’s called having manners, you insolent little girl.”

“Lacey,” Bruce chided.

Miss Everlott’s expression transformed into an impressive pout. “I’m sorry, Brucie. But we shouldn’t let her ruin our night. Just because she has nothing to do on a Friday night, doesn’t mean she can ruin it for the rest of us.”

That hurt more than Cordelia would have liked it to.

“Lacey, enough,” Bruce said firmly.

Miss Everlott pouted even more.

“I’ll drive you home,” Bruce said. “Cordelia, it’s getting late. You should go up to your room.”

“Fine,” Miss Everlott said. “But I’m still expecting a good-night kiss, Brucie.”

Cordelia waited for both of them to walk by her before letting her face twist in disgust.

Brothers should not be allowed to date people.

The front door opened and closed. Cordelia waited a beat for them to truly be gone. And then she pulled Miss Everlott’s phone out of her hoodie pocket.

The phone was sleek; a new model. But Cordelia found cell phones to be the easiest things to hack into. So, if she was lucky, then she would be long gone by the time Miss Everlott even noticed that her phone was missing.

The young Wayne hurried up to her room and then got to work. Once she was passed the password, she dialed a phone number and waited for the person on the other end to pick up.

“Hello?” A male voice said.

Cordelia lifted up one of the crumpled pieces of paper she’d stored in her hoodie pocket and squinted at the name. “James? This is Cordelia. From the shopping center.”

The boy on the other end made a startled noise. But when he spoke, he’d regained his careless tone. “Oh. Hey. Finally got a new phone?”

“You can say that,” Cordelia said easily. “You’re the one with the car, right?”

James huffed out a startled laugh. “Ugh, yeah. Why?”

Cordelia bit her lip as nerves began to creep up inside her. Did she actually dare to sneak out? Bruce had promised not to hurt her, but did she actually dare to test that?

She was just about to hang up and pretend like this sudden act of rebellion never happened, when Miss Everlott’s mean words started ringing in her ear: She has nothing to do on a Friday night.

Miss Everlott was rude, but she was right.

Everyone at the shopping center had looked so happy with their partners. And even Bruce, who rarely smiled, had been grinning from ear-to-ear with Miss Everlott before Cordelia walked in and ruined everything.

Maybe what Cordelia needed to feel less lonely was her own partner.

And James had offered to give her company.

“Can you pick me up?” Cordelia asked him. She recalled the words that James had said before. “I wanted to… have a good time?”

There was more muffled sounds on the other end. Cordelia thought that it sounded like James running across a room and grabbing a few things. “Hell yeah! There’s a nightclub in the city. They let anyone in there. My brother told me all about it. You wanna go?”

A nightclub. Cordelia had been to nightclubs before. But only ever as Batgirl as she watched a criminal from the ceilings.

She’d never gone as a civilian.

Nervous energy slowly turned into… excitement? Maybe that was too strong of a word, but it did not feel as negative as it did before.

“Yes,” Cordelia said. “I want to go.”

Notes:

Cordelia starting her wild child era? Hm. Send your prayers to Bruce Wayne.

Chapter 34: Batgirl on a Date

Summary:

This is what people did when they were on… dates.

The term echoed weirdly around Cordelia’s mind. They were on a date right now — Batgirl was dating. It was difficult for her to wrap her head around.

But Batman dated in this timeline, so Batgirl could, too.

Notes:

TRIGGER WARNINGS: underaged drinking, violence, mentions of rape, and mentions of death.

Cordelia had a lot of experience watching civilian nightlife. She knew what civilians liked to do for fun and what they liked to wear when they were doing those things.

So when James mentioned nightclubs, Cordelia knew exactly which uniform to wear.

Cordelia dug through her wardrobe until she found the tight-fitting black top with thin straps and the matching mini skirt. Both the pieces had a curious sparkling effect, like they were made from the midnight sky and all of its stars.

This outfit is perfect for when you want to have some fun, the saleswoman who chose the outfit winked.

Cordelia had watched the saleswoman tuck it into the rest of the pile, slyly hinting that Alfred wouldn’t approve if he saw it, and thought: this outfit will be perfect for undercover work.

Little did she know that she would use it the way it was intended.

Cordelia quickly tugged it on and then looked between her shoes to see which would be best. The boots would be the most practical; she’d seen enough women trip and fall when running away from disasters to know how tricky heels could be. However, her outfit left her nowhere to hide a weapon, and the thin heels could be useful as makeshift knives.

Eventually, she decided on the heels, since those would make her fit into the civilian crowd more.

It was after she finished putting a few pins in her hair that the stolen phone began to vibrate on her desk.

Cordelia rushed over, full of nervous energy, and picked it up.

“James?” She asked.

“Hey,” he said. “I parked up the street like you asked.”

“Great,” Cordelia said. “I’ll be right down.”

“Hurry,” he said. “I feel like a getaway car.”

Cordelia tilted her head. “You are a getaway car.”

“Then I’ve gotta be honest with you, babe: my breaks are bad. So if we end up in a speed chase, I think we’re going to crash and die.”

“Noted. We shouldn’t get into any speed chases tonight.”

Cordelia hung up and poked her head out into the hallways, straining her ears to listen. She knew that Alfred slept at this time, but she’d seen him break his own schedule before. And she really wanted to avoid getting caught so that she could avoid any consequences.

The young Wayne took her first step into the hallway, and winced at the sharp clack her heels made against the wooden floors. She quickly ducked down and took them off her feet. The next step she took into the hallway was silent.

Cordelia crept through the halls with her heels dangling from one hand and Miss Everlott’s phone clutched in the other. She stopped, briefly, to leave the phone in the room Bruce had his date in — just in case Miss Everett came back to look for it — and then left the Manor entirely.

The clouds were low in the sky like a blanket that Cordelia could hide under as she ran across the green of Wayne grounds. Her eyes automatically scanned the area, taking note of the obvious cameras and knowing that there were even more hidden and capturing her movements. But, at the moment, there was nothing to be done about that. If she had planned this escapade, then she would have been able to disable them all — but she didn’t.

Cordelia punched in the gate code and then ran up the street to where she told James to park his car.

The headlights were off, making the vehicle difficult to see for anyone who wasn’t looking. Cordelia wasn’t exactly sure what the consequences of her sneaking out would be, but she was sure that James would not suffer for helping her.

Cordelia opened the passenger seat door.

“Hi,” she said as she sat down. “Thank you for this.”

James was giving her an odd look.

She stared back. “What?”

“Is this really where you live?” He asked.

Cordelia looked back at the Manor, which towered forebodingly above them. “Of course this is where I live.”

“Damn,” James said, a hint of admiration in his words. “If I had known you were rich, then I would have cleaned out my car a bit.”

His car was a bit dusty, but Cordelia had grown up in a Manor that was falling apart and full of broken furniture. “There’s no need to feel insecure, James. It’s just a house.”

James snorted. “Thanks for the permission, princess.”

“You’re welcome.”

He gave her a slanted, assessing look as she put on her seat belt. “…y’know, I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

Cordelia hummed and held back an amused smile.

James narrowed his eyes. A smirk played at the corners of his lips. “Mysterious. Okay. I can roll with that,” he looked her up and down. “You look hot, by the way.”

Hot. Attractive. Bruce had been right once again. The boys at the shopping center had not been interested in her friendship at all.

But that was okay. Cordelia was lonely. She would take what she could get. So she said, “thank you.”

There was a brief silence after, in which Cordelia wondered whether she should give James a compliment back.

He did look handsome, she thought objectively as she eyed his thick brown hair and deep brown eyes. Not in the way that Barry was handsome — like sunshine breaking through the bleak Gotham clouds — but a different sort of handsome: physical, more material.

Cordelia began to fidget with the hem of her mini skirt. Thinking of Barry hurt.

“You should start driving before my guardian comes back,” she said softly. “He doesn’t approve of you.”

James raised his eyebrows beside her. She wondered if he ever stopped smirking. “Really? You were talking to him about me?”

His tone reminded Cordelia that, out of all the boys at the shopping center, James had been the cockiest one. The only one who hadn’t been cowed by Alfred’s imperious comments or pointed looks.

This knowledge gave her a bizarre urge to knock him down a peg. At the very least, in Alfred’s honor.

“He asked me about how my trip to the shopping center went,” Cordelia said. “I told him a bunch of overeager boys were tripping over their feet just to give me their numbers. He wasn’t happy about it.”

James scoffed. “Tripping over my feet? Yeah, right.”

But he started to drive his car. The vehicle squealed loudly as it drove — so loudly that Cordelia worried it would wake poor Alfred from his well-deserved sleep. She didn’t fully relax until they were two miles away from Wayne Manor. Once they were, she gave a soft sigh and leaned back into the fake leather cushions of the seats.

The road James was driving was a very familiar one to Cordelia. She used to ride her motorcycle down it back in her own timeline. But ever since she’d been brought to the new one, she recognized this road more as the one she’d met Jerome in.

Cordelia watched the sidewalk whiz by as James drove. She could almost picture the heavy rain, the jacket-less girl, and all the fear that oozed out of her in waves.

That girl had jumped into a stranger’s car in order to escape that rain.

Just like this girl jumped into a stranger’s car to escape her loneliness.

Cordelia glanced at James out of the corner of her eyes. He was relaxed in the driver’s seat, his lips still pulled into a satisfied smirk. But she was more interested in his physique: skinny, lean muscles, tall.

He had a silver chain around his throat. It would be easy to use that against him — easy to twist and pull until he choked under her grip.

But it hadn’t been Jerome’s strength that got the best of her.

Cordelia popped open his glove compartment.

“Hey,” James protested.

Cordelia ignored him as she ruffled through the contents. It was mostly crinkled papers and napkins, but she also found marijuana and a random pencil.

She ducked so that she could check beneath her seat.

“Um, hello?” James said, startled. “You’re supposed to ask before you look through people’s things. Or, y’know, wait until they don’t know you’re doing it.”

“I’m just checking to see if you have any weapons.”

“Oh…. There might be something underneath the back seats.”

Cordelia looked at him suspiciously, but leaned between the gap in their seats to see. There was nothing but dust and an old BatBurger bag.

“There’s no weapon there,” she said to James.

He was smirking again. “Oops. My bad.”

She narrowed her eyes at them. “Why did you say there might be?”

“It seemed like a good place to hide a weapon,” he said, amused. “Did I mention how hot you are yet? Even if you are a little crazy.”

Cordelia flushed and sat back down. “I’m just being safe.”

“I respect it.”

She was still red in the face as she adjusted her skirt, which had ridden up during her search. James didn’t have weapons and she could physically overpower him — she would be okay. This wasn’t another Jerome situation.

“Which nightclub are we going to?” Cordelia asked, half to distract him and half to distract herself.

“It’s one in the Bowery,” James said. “It’s called Club Effie.”

She knew that nightclub. It was in one of the worst areas in Gotham. Batman (her Batman) despised the place. Mostly because women constantly turned up dead in the dumpster behind the building — often enough for it to turn into a joke amongst the most morbid of Gothamites.

Thomas Wayne himself tried to get the place shut down, but he didn’t have enough influence.

Her silence caused James to glance at her. “You know the place?”

“Yes,” Cordelia said. “It’s infamous.”

“It’s a rough location,” James admitted. “I’ll hold your hand when we get there.”

She narrowed her eyes at his teasing tone. “Good. That will make it easier for me to protect you.”

James let out a surprised laugh. Her irritation eased at the sound. 

He was so… unserious. It was nice.

“Good to see that a few weeks in Gotham didn’t rip your confidence to shreds,” he said. “Henry wouldn’t stop worrying about you because of what you said.”

“What did I say?”

“That you can take care of yourself,” James said with a grin.

Cordelia hummed, remembering her own words. “I can.”

“Y’know what? I actually believe you,” James said as they entered the Bowery. “You’ve got that upper class accent, but you’re tough as nails, aren’t you?”

Cordelia searched his tone for anymore teasing, but could not find any. So she dipped her head in a nod and said, “What about you? Are you tough as nails?”

He straightened up in a show of pride. “Born and raised in Gotham City. Us Gothamites are more resilient than the rest. No offense.”

Cordelia refrained from correcting him and blowing the cover Bruce created for her. She would always mourn her status as a girl raised in Gotham, but she’d lost worse things in her life. And would likely lose much more.

“So,” James said. He turned a corner into a crowded street. Civilians milled about, not caring if they blocked cars in their eagerness to get to their destinations. “Where have you been so far? Have you gotten to see the world-famous Gotham sights yet?”

“No,” Cordelia said, “I’ve mostly been stuck in my house. I did take a trip to the city, but that didn’t go well.”

“What’s it like to be stuck in that mansion?” James asked. “Is it like a haunted house or an amusement park?”

Cordelia tilted her head. All the portraits of long-dead parents and ancestors did create a haunted effect at Wayne Manor, but the rooms Bruce built for his kids were obviously made with great love. “That depends on the room you walk into.”

James’s eyes lit with interest. “Cool.”

Cool. Cordelia found herself smiling. “What’s your home life like?”

“It’s fine,” James shrugged. “Crowded. My brother always has people over.”

“Your parents don’t mind?”

“My parents are dead,” James said bluntly.

The way he said it: like he didn’t care. But Cordelia could see a different story within the subtle movements of his body. The way his shoulders tilted inward, and the way his eyes flickered down and darkened. He was sad; he missed them.

Cordelia had grown up around someone who was sad all the time. She never managed to comfort her father. But she knew how to be comforted — knew it once Barry trespassed into the Cave and became her very first friend.

Barry always said the right thing. Every time darkness reached toward her, he chased it away with nothing but his words and his comforting touch.

Cordelia would like to know how to do that for her new friend. But what could she say?

She never bothered to read into psychology. But from her experience, the worst thing about being sad was how lonely it made her feel — like no one else could understand her sadness or would want to be around her because she was sad.

Maybe the right approach was to relate to him.

“My parents are dead, too,” she said.

James’s shoulders relaxed. He glanced over, and something in the way that he looked at her changed. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

Cordelia recalled the training mat stained with her blood, cold nights sitting next to Gotham gargoyles, and lonely breakfasts with stale cereal. Her time with her father was not something she would ever want to return to — no matter how lonely she’d been in Bruce’s manor.

But losing her mother was more complicated than that.

It was an old wound that never fully healed, and Cordelia did not like to prod at it.

Her mother had been a complicated woman; sometimes loving, but sometimes neglectful. Cordelia had so many memories of being left with strangers so that her mother could network at some fabulous party. She even had memories of her mother complaining loudly once she realized that she would not be able to go to a fabulous party because there was no one to look after her daughter.

On her worse days, Cordelia’s mother would say, “if only your father was useful for something other than just his child support checks. Just because he spends all his life underground doesn’t mean the rest of us want to miss out on all the parties and fun.”

But on her best days… Cordelia’s mother would smile down at her daughter, so bright and beaming and joyous. It had been like seeing a shooting star every time; fleeting, but full of magic and hope for the future.

These happy moments usually came after her mother’s writing was accepted by a high end magazine. Her mother would read the acceptance letter over breakfast, hop up from the table, lift little Cordelia into the air, and twirl her around in an energetic dance around the kitchen. 

“I’m going to be a star one day, my little heart,” Cordelia’s mother had said one day.

She gave her daughter two quick kisses on each fat cheek, not caring that Cordelia’s face was sticky with syrup. Little Cordelia squirmed in her arms, giggling and glowing from the affection. 

“Everyone all over the world is going to know your mommy!” Her mother kept twirling them around the kitchen island. Her long blonde hair smelled like strawberries. Little Cordelia tucked her head under her mother’s chin and breathed in that beautiful scent. “Doesn’t that make you happy, Cordie?”

Little Cordelia wrinkled her tiny nose. “I don’t like it, Mommy.”

Her mother laughed. The sound filled the kitchen with warmth. “You don’t like that your mommy is going to be famous? Or you don’t like that I called you Cordie?”

Cordelia giggled at the teasing tone. Her mother kissed the top of her head. “Not Cordie, please, Mommy. It’s ugly.”

Her mother nodded seriously. “And my little heart is not ugly, is she?”

“No,” Cordelia wiggled happily again.

“She’s the most beautiful girl in the world, isn’t she?”

“No,” Cordelia said again. She snuggled deep into her mother’s chest. Happy, happy, happy every time her mother was. “You are, Mommy.”

Her mother stopped twirling, but didn’t let her daughter go. They swayed in the kitchen for a moment, her hand resting on the side of Cordelia’s head as her thumb rubbed circles into her cheekbone. “My sweet little heart…. How about we have milkshakes for breakfast? We deserve it, don’t we?”

“Yes, Mommy,” little Cordelia hummed.

Cordelia blinked the memory out of her eyes. Her throat felt tight, like there was a fist clenched around her windpipe.

She hadn’t thought about that moment in years.

“Yeah,” Cordelia said to James. “It sucks.”

Maybe James was fighting away similar memories, because neither of them spoke until they could see Club Effie up ahead. Cordelia watched the civilians from the window, most of them foolishly intoxicated and stumbling around one of the most dangerous streets in the world.

She noted those who might need her protection, and eyed the ones who were acting suspicious.

There would be a lot of thievery tonight. Cordelia just hoped that there wouldn’t be a death. 

A hand was placed on her knee. James said, “Don’t be nervous. My brother comes here all the time and he always comes back fine.”

Cordelia squinted at the hand on her knee and then at the boy touching her. She wanted to tell him that she was fine, that a bunch of drunken civilians could never frighten her. But then she thought about Miss Everlott, and how she laid her hand on Bruce’s thigh.

Maybe James was just trying to find an excuse to touch her. 

This is what people did when they were on… dates.

The term echoed weirdly around Cordelia’s mind. They were on a date right now — Batgirl was dating. It was difficult for her to wrap her head around.

But Batman dated in this timeline, so Batgirl could, too. 

Besides, what was dating other than companionship? That’s what she’d been searching for when she called James.

Cordelia mimicked Bruce’s earlier actions by reaching down and taking James’s hand in her own. Her thin fingers carefully intertwined in his.

The tense muscles in his hands loosened, signaling that she made the correct move.

James drove the rest of the way with one hand on the steering wheel. The entire time, Cordelia wondered how long they were supposed to hold hands. She could feel his pulse through his palm, could feel every twitch of muscle.

He felt vulnerable to her.

Most people who held her hands ended up with broken fingers. But this night was not one of those nights — it was for having fun, making friends, dating. 

He only let go of her when he needed to park. Once the car was safely tucked between two others, he turned to her to smirk.

“Ready, princess?” He asked.

“You’re not going to call me that all night, are you?”

“Why not? It suits you,” his smirk widened to a mischievous grin. “You live in a castle. And you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

Cordelia fought the blush creeping up her neck, but knew he saw it anyway.

“Plus, sometimes you talk like you’ve come from an old book.”

Cordelia scowled.

James laughed at her. “Come on. Let’s go before the line gets too long.”

The night air was colder in the Bowery than it was in Bristol. The skin on Cordelia’s arms and legs became prickled with goosebumps, and she thought that if Alfred was here, he’d scold her for not wearing a jacket.

Actually, Alfred would probably scold her for much more than that. 

She felt a stab of guilt. She really hoped Alfred wouldn’t notice that she wasn’t in the manor. He would probably panic. Or worse: feel disappointed in her.

James walked around the car to stand beside her, still laughing. But when he got close enough ,he grabbed her hand again. “Don’t look so sulky. I didn’t mean it.”

“Don’t tell me how to look,” Cordelia said.

He laughed again, then tugged her across the street. “You got it, princess.”

Cordelia grumbled, but followed her new friend (date?) toward the entry line to Club Effie. The nightclub’s line was never that long, even on weekends and Fridays. Its terrible reputation was enough to keep most people away — which meant that the people who did go to the nightclub usually fell into three prominent categories: the criminals, the careless, and the underaged idiots who knew they wouldn’t be able to get into any other nightclub.

Cordelia was very aware of which category she and James belonged to.

She pulled James closer to her, not wanting him to be separate from her and risk getting himself hurt. James made it easier to keep track of him by wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

The line was strangely crowded. Even though they could use the entire street as space for the line, people were eager to press into each other. Cordelia found this very unhelpful; it was difficult to see who was behaving suspiciously when most of the people around her were at least a head taller and much too close to her to look around.

The vulnerability of their position made Cordelia feel antsy and on edge. If she was Batgirl, then she would have the advantage of watching this line from on top of a building. She’d be able to see any strange movement made — but she was just Cordelia Wayne. And that meant that she was part of the civilians, part of the blind.

The group in front of her was a couple of teenagers just a few years older than she was. Their nervous expressions made her yearn for her protective armor and belt of weapons.

James rubbed her arm slowly. “Relax. Nothing is going to happen. We’re going to have fun.”

Fun. She was supposed to have fun. To leave her troubles at the Manor just for one night. But Cordelia could not flush out years of training that easily. Especially when James was standing beside her, looking so thin and young.

People searched for victims like him. She needed to protect him.

His voice, or perhaps his words, got the attention of the teenagers in front of them. It was a group of four: two boys and two girls. One of the girls’ eyes widened when she saw Cordelia.

“Whoa! You’re gorgeous,” she said.

The other teenagers looked at Cordelia with interest.

It had been so long since Cordelia spoke to another girl her age. Most of her life, she’d been surrounded by men.

Cordelia smiled and hoped it looked friendly. “Thank you. You’re gorgeous, too.”

The girl was objectively pretty with green eyes, freckled skin, and red hair. Unlike Cordelia, she wore jeans and a top that covered her breasts and nothing else.

“Nice, man,” one of the guys said to James.

James shrugged, smug.

“I’ve never seen you before,” the red-haired girl said to Cordelia, completely ignoring the boys. She leaned forward, her smile sly like a fox. “I definitely would have noticed.”

“She’s new to Gotham. I’m showing her around,” James said cockily.

“I can show you much better places than this dump,” the girl said, still not taking her eyes off Cordelia. “What’s your name?”

“Cordelia,” she answered. “What’s yours?”

“Elizabeth.” They both shook hands. Elizabeth had long nails that were painted green like her eyes. “If you’re nervous then you and your boyfriend can hang out with us.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“We’re keeping it casual,” James said in amusement.

They all collectively moved up in line as more civilians were let into the nightclub. In their movement, James and Cordelia found themselves more a part of the four-person group. 

“This is our first time spending time together,” Cordelia clarified. 

One of the boys narrowed his eyes at her. “You have one of those Bristol accents. Are you rich?”

Cordelia fought back a grimace. Civilians, despite their vulnerability, always seemed to make themselves easier targets with the things they say and do. “I don’t have any money.”

“But you’re like one of those rich kids that say ‘no, my parents are rich, not me.’ Right?”

The young Wayne’s skin prickled as more people turned in their direction, attracted to the word ‘rich’ like moths to a flame. 

“No,” Cordelia said. This was the truth: she’d never said those specific words in her life.

Elizabeth pouted. “Ah, well. I was looking forward to having a rich friend.”

Cordelia blinked.

How could it be that easy? All her life she’d been lonely, yet the few times she’d left Wayne Manor, she was able to make multiple friends. Sure, James and the other boys had more of a romantic interest in her. But Elizabeth didn’t.

Maybe she should sneak out more often.

The group moved further up in line. James used this distraction to lean down and whisper in her ear, “you’re a decent liar, rich girl.”

Cordelia sent him a look. “Don’t you start with that, too. Talking openly about money in Gotham is a sure way to get mugged.”

He snickered despite her scolding. “I knew you were nervous. You couldn’t lie to me about that.”

James drew her closer to him until she was tucked into his side. Cordelia marveled at James’s ability to be both irritating and grounding at the same time. Maybe that was why she found him so irritating: he pulled her from her mind, which was where she usually was, overthinking and analyzing and worrying.

She leaned into his body heat, letting him chase the chill of the night away.

They were close enough to the entrance to hear the music blaring from inside the building. It was not a song that Cordelia recognized, but their new friends were mouthing the words and dramatically dancing with each other.

Cordelia found herself smiling as she watched. These were things she didn’t pay much attention to as Batgirl, sitting on top of buildings and watching from above. But maybe she should have. There was something beautiful about civilians enjoying the life that the Bats protected so fiercely.

Cordelia let her focus travel to other groups, and saw that they were doing similar things: either dancing and laughing together or snuggling into each other like Cordelia was doing with James.

It felt… nice. To be a part of something.

Her eyes flickered upward toward the tops of the buildings, half expecting to see the red eyes of Batgirl glaring down at her from above. But there were no shadows moving; no Bat was watching.

When they made it to the front of the line, the bouncer began to ask for IDs. 

Elizabeth and her group gave him a few cards, which the bouncer rolled his eyes at before letting them inside.

“ID’s?” He demanded once James and Cordelia stood in front of him.

James took out his wallet and handed him a few bills.

The bouncer stuffed them in his pockets and gestured for them to enter impatiently. “Get in.”

They hurried past him and into the nightclub. Despite the short line, the nightclub itself was super crowded. There was barely anywhere for the two to move without having to push through a clutter of bodies.

Cordelia kept a tight hold of James’s hand as they struggled through the crowd. James was leading them to the back, where Cordelia could see a long bar lit up red and neon green, making it stand out against the dark blue lights that lit up the rest of the room.

People were dancing all around them, wiggling their bodies to the music that blared so loudly Cordelia’s teeth were vibrating.

James turned to shout something at her.

She squinted up at him. “WHAT?” She shouted.

He shouted something again. Cordelia had to read his lips to understand. Do you want me to get drinks for us?

Cordelia pressed her lips together and nodded. He continued to pull her through the crowd until they made it to the bar. The entire way there, Cordelia was asking herself: am I really going to drink?

She read the books. Alcohol was very unhealthy, especially for bodies and brains that were still developing like hers was. And not just that: alcohol was addictive. She’d watched her father drink every single day of his life, watched how irritable he got once he began to sober up.

He was an alcoholic.

Which meant that it was likely that she’d be an alcoholic, too.

But… she was curious. What did it feel like to drink? Did it make him happier? Did it chase all the regrets and loneliness out of his life?

Would it do the same for her?

She just wanted to know, to get a peek into her father’s mysterious mind.

She promised herself that it was just for tonight.

One of the bartenders finally noticed them. James quickly ordered two shots of vodka before someone else could distract him, and then paid for them. The bartender poured their glasses and then pushed them over.

James gave her one tiny glass and held his up. “CHEERS!”

Cordelia awkwardly tapped her glass against his and brought it to her lips. The smell was horrendous — it was not something that Cordelia would ever think was safe to drink. But James downed his quickly, so she did the same.

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting. Maybe that the drink would taste good since it had always been her father’s favorite. But drinking vodka felt like swallowing a million tiny shards of glass and then washing it down with cleaning solution.

It burned its way down her throat, and then got stuck halfway as she began to cough it up.

Cordelia could feel James’s arm shaking as he laughed at her, but she paid him no mind as she tried to get herself to stop coughing.

Was this what her father felt like when he was drinking? Like his throat was on fire?

Why would anyone drink alcohol?

Once her coughing calmed down, James leaned down to shout into her ear: “Was that your first drink?”

There was no point in lying. She nodded.

James gave her an enthusiastic shake. Cordelia blinked up at him, startled, but the boy was grinning down at her. “Hey! Congratulations!”

He held up his hand. Cordelia stared at it.

“It’s a high five, princess!”

She blushed, and hoped the ineffective lighting of the nightclub hid this from him. She knew what a high five was, just… no one ever offered one to her before.

Cordelia gave him a high five.

“Let’s celebrate your first shot with a second shot!” He said.

Cordelia barely survived the first one, but James signaled the bartender back over and the next thing she knew, another tiny glass was being shoved in her hand.

She went to drink this one, too, but James placed his hand on her wrist and bent down to her ear again. His soft brown hair brushed against her temple as he said, “Don’t let the drink sit in your mouth! Just swallow it instantly.”

Those instructions were simple. She could do that. They clinked their glasses together and then drank them. The alcohol still tasted awful, but at least Cordelia didn’t cough afterward.

“Nice!” James said approvingly.

She wondered when other people’s approval would stop meaning so much to her.

“Do you want to dance?” He asked.

Cordelia could see that everyone else was either dancing or drinking or slobbering all over each other’s faces. She supposed that dancing was the best option of the three.

Still. “I don’t know how to dance.”

James grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the bar. He kept looking back at her, eyes wide and smile almost giddy. She hadn’t seen him so excited before. In fact, everyone was excited. There was so much happiness in this nightclub, so many carefree people who behaved as if they had no problems at home. Or, if they did, then they’d left the problems at the door.

She wanted to be like them. To be happy and carefree.

James could show her how.

He didn’t stop pulling her until they reached a little opening of their own. He turned to her and tugged her close so that her chest pressed against his.

Cordelia’s eyes widened just a fraction.

“Wrap your arms around my neck,” he said into her ear.

She hesitated. He didn’t wait for her to make up her mind. Instead, he just took her arms and guided them around his neck himself.

It was strangely intimate, how close they were. Cordelia barely knew James — and had only just come to terms with what he wanted from her. But he was so different from Barry. Barry had pushed her away, had looked at her with horror once he realized her feelings for him.

James was pulling her closer.

James was looking at her like she was someone special.

Cordelia drank in that look.

His eyes traveled over her face. She could feel his hands rest on her hips. He was swaying them, even though everyone else was dancing much more energetically.

“Should we copy them?” Cordelia asked in his ear. She jerked her chin over to the rest of the room.

He shrugged. “Do you want to?”

Everyone looked like they were having fun, but Cordelia was very aware that she had no clue how to move in the way the other girls were moving. “No.”

“Then we shouldn’t.” He drew her even closer and smirked down at her. One of his fingers were tracing a lazy circle into her hip. “I only care about what you want, princess.”

And what you want, Cordelia thought. She was hyper-focused on how his tracing finger was slowly drawing closer to her backside, subtly testing her boundaries and limitations.

The problem was: Cordelia didn’t know her limitations.

Was that what she wanted from James? No. She wanted friendship. Companionship. Happiness like Barry had with Iris and Bruce had with Miss Everlott. She didn’t want to be alone.

There was no surer way to be alone than to push her only friend away.

So Cordelia laid her head on his shoulder and let him trace circles into her skin.

She felt James's chest move as he huffed out a laugh.

“This is crazy,” James said into her ear. “One minute I’m listening to my brother rant about his dead end job, and the next: the most beautiful girl in Gotham is calling me for company.”

Cordelia closed her eyes and smiled.

You’re the most beautiful girl in the world, my little heart, her mother used to say.

No, you are, Mommy, Cordelia would say back.

“You’re a dream, princess,” James said a while later. “An actual fucking dream.”

She blinked her eyes open to stare up at the ceiling. It wasn’t so long ago that she was Batgirl, hiding in the corners of places like this, and being referred to as a nightmare.

Batgirl was the nightmare and Cordelia Wayne was the dream.

Cordelia giggled at the thought. It was bizarrely funny to her.

In fact, she was starting to feel very light. Maybe it was working — maybe it was possible for her to leave her problems at the door.

“What’s so funny?” James asked.

“My lips are tingling,” She said, because she could not tell him about what she was truly thinking. “Is that supposed to happen?”

“Let me see,” he said.

Cordelia leaned her head back and closed her eyes so that he could see them better and give her a proper diagnosis.

Then — he kissed her.

Cordelia jerked back, surprised. She would have left his arms completely if he hadn’t been holding her close.

James grinned mischievously down at her, eyebrows raised as if questioning her reaction.

“Your lips felt fine to me,” he said with a shrug.

She looked down at his lips as he spoke. Despite herself, she compared them to Barry’s. They did not have faint laugh lines around them, from constant smiling and telling jokes. Nor did they make her feel as if her entire body was flushing just from having them close.

But James’s lips looked nice. And they felt warm against her own.

“Kiss me again,” she told him.

This time he looked surprised, before the expression smoothed out to its usual smugness. “Yes, Ma’am.”

This time, when he kissed her, it was not a quick peck. It was a lingering press that caressed her own. When he drew back, his cheeks were flushed charmingly.

Cordelia tilted her head at him, at his expressions that were so bare and open. This was how civilians lived their lives: sharing these moments, sharing these emotions. They did not hide in the dark like a Bat would.

Maybe the secret to being happy was not hiding when you were.

Hesitantly, Cordelia smiled up at James. Her new friend. Not her first, but hopefully not her last.

The song changed again. Cordelia glanced upward at the ceiling, for some reason expecting Batgirl to be watching and judging her. But Batgirl didn’t exist right now; only Cordelia.

“Let’s get another drink!” James shouted.

They struggled their way back to the bar. Cordelia learned very quickly that she could not move her head too quickly or else the floor would tilt under her. Alcohol made walking straight difficult. But that did not stop her from keeping track of her surroundings. 

In the distance, she could see Elizabeth recording the nightclub around her on her cellphone. When the red-haired girl saw Cordelia, she waved enthusiastically and pointed the camera at her. 

Cordelia, satisfied with her new friend’s safety, kept letting her eyes travel the crowd.

And that’s when she saw him.

Jerome.

The creep was standing a little way down the bar with a bandaged hand and a taped nose. He was glowering into the crowd as he drank from a clear plastic cup filled with red liquor. Cordelia recalled all his easy smiles when she first met him, and then his instant rage once she broke his nose.

The man was dangerous. Too dangerous to be kept alive.

It was almost as if he’d heard her think that. His angry blue eyes snapped over to her.

Cordelia glared.

Jerome sneered.

“Here!” James appeared in front of her with her shot glass.

She downed it without a second thought and then said, “I have to use the bathroom, James. Will you be okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Should I walk you —“

“No, thank you.”

She brushed by him and walked toward the back of the nightclub. It was easier to slip through the crowd on her own than it was when she was keeping track of James. The civilians barely noticed the thin, short girl squeezing through the gaps in their groups, and making a beeline toward the bathrooms.

But she made sure that Jerome noticed. 

Every time she lost track of him, she’d find an opening and glance his way. He was always looking back at her. The music of the nightclub was being drowned out by an angry buzzing in her ear. Everything felt still — even the floors which had been tilting so much before.

When Cordelia made it to the bathroom, she kept walking past them until she reached the backdoor of Club Effie. It was the same backdoor that she’d used to sneak in as Batgirl in her own timeline.

She didn’t bother to check if Jerome was following her. She knew he was. Men like him… when they felt slighted, they needed revenge.

So did she.

The door creaked as she opened it. The chilled night air no longer effected her. There was a burning, angry heat beneath her skin as she stepped into the alley way.

There was a dumpster to her right.

That was where women were dumped almost every month, beaten and murdered and discarded.

By men like Jerome.

The door behind her opened again. There was a scraping sound of shoes on pavement.

The door closed with a sharp slam.

“So,” Jerome said. “No red hooded Bat freak here this time.”

Cordelia turned around. Jerome looked back. He clearly had not fully recovered from everything that Cordelia and Jason had done to him. And he likely didn’t have the means to take care of the wounds, judging by the reddish brown stains on her bandages.

Cordelia could not find it within her to feel sorry for him. In fact, she felt satisfied.

If she had to live with the memory of feeling that vulnerable, then he could suffer a few infections.

“No,” Cordelia said shortly. “What about you? Do you have a gun this time?”

“Nah,” he strolled over to her, lazy — as if the battle was already won. She eyed his clothes, looking for signs of weapons. “You took my gun. You gonna give it back, Sweet Thing?”

His gun was safely tucked into her desk as Wayne Manor. A reminder of her failure. “You won’t need it after tonight.”

Jerome scoffed. He was close enough for her to reach now. She saw his muscles tighten before she saw him surge forward, intent on pushing her into the brick wall next to the dumpster.

Cordelia sidestepped him, then used his momentum to slam his face into the brick. She heard the bones inside his nose crumble as a result.

Jerome grunted in pain.

“What you tried to do to me was sick,” Cordelia snapped.

The creep took a swing at her. She caught his wrist and yanked until his shoulder popped out of his socket.

Jerome shouted a few curses. If the nightclub music wasn’t so loud, someone might have actually heard him. But no one would be brave enough to help.

Cordelia punched his broken nose and relished the following scream.

She kicked his knee caps and let him fall to the dirtied ground.

“Tell me you’re sorry for what you did to me,” she said, looming above him.

His tells were so transparent. His entire hip moved as he prepped himself to kick her. Cordelia stepped out of the way, then sent her own kick into his ribs.

Jerome coughed blood onto the ground.

Cordelia used this opportunity to crouch over him and start punching his face.

“Say sorry!” She growled.

His cheekbones were getting red under her assault. More blood splattered on the ground and on his shirt and on her fists.

He just kept grunting under her.

Cordelia pinned his arm and prepared to dislocate his other shoulder.

Jerome started screaming like a stuck pig. “Stop! Stop! FUCK! I’m sorry, bitch!”

Cordelia snarled. She ripped her heel off her foot and stabbed it through his shoulder. There was no way that people did not hear the scream that ripped from his throat that time. 

Still, Cordelia was not worried. Gotham didn’t have any heroes. “A proper apology, Jerome. Make me believe it.”

“I’m sorry,” Jerome was crying. “I’m sorry, I’m fucking sorry!”

“For what?” Cordelia stabbed him with her heel again.

“For — for holding a gun to you.”

“And what else?” She demanded.

Jerome was weeping beneath her, his tears mixing unpleasantly with the blood as they both slid down his pale skin and smeared onto the ground. She raised her heel to stab him again.

“No, no, wait!” He whined. “I’m sorry — I’m sorry for what I was going to do. For trapping you in the car. For telling you to take your shirt off. For wanting to rape you. Okay? I’m sorry, Cordelia.”

The young girl’s anger had built throughout his entire apology. She’d been prepared to slam her heel into his eye and end his life. But the sound of her name startled her enough to make her pause.

Cordelia did not expect him to remember her name. It didn’t mean anything; he likely remembered it so that he could get his revenge one day. But it felt like he’d woken her out of an angry, alcohol-fueled rage.

She’d never killed because she wanted to. That was always Batman’s thing. Batgirl only killed on command.

Cordelia stared down at Jerome blankly. The man was whimpering beneath her, covered in his own blood and whispering for someone to come and save him. He did not deserve to be saved. He deserved death.

Cordelia pressed her hands to his throat and began to squeeze. He choked and wiggled beneath her, but she quickly pinned him.

That had once been her: beaten, bloodied, pinned, begging for help, but receiving none.

Her father had been the one hurting her.

Had she looked this pathetic? Did Thomas Wayne see his daughter crying beneath him and feel the same sort of disgust that Cordelia felt for Jerome?

It was difficult to keep a grip on his throat. The blood on her hands made his skin slippery. This resulted in him being able to take a few needy breaths of air before his wind pipe was closed once again.

This was a horrible way to die.

“I’m… sorry…” Jerome wheezed.

Something fell onto his face. A tear. 

Cordelia was crying.

But she shouldn’t be. She’d killed before. She’d killed people all the time. It didn’t matter that Batman wasn’t here, directing her actions. She’d still done them herself.

It was fine, it was fine, it was fine.

“…help…” Jerome whispered.

She sobbed. Her fingers slipped again. His pulse was quick under her palms. “No one cares, Jerome. No one is going to save you.”

His eyes rolled to the back of his head.

“You deserve this,” she told him.

“…sorry….”

“You’re not,” Cordelia said. “You didn’t care if you hurt me. You only cared about yourself.”

He didn’t argue with that. He couldn’t. He was dying.

Because he was in the hands of a killer.

The music of the nightclub was still blaring. Somewhere inside, James was waiting for her. He was probably planning on holding her again, kissing her again. He had no clue that he had held and kissed a monster.

She let go of Jerome’s throat.

He gasped wetly beneath her.

She tore her heel from his shoulder and scooted away as he coughed and cried.

Cordelia watched him try to crawl away from her, but his body was too weak. He only ended up moving a couple of inches. 

“Why did you do it?” Cordelia asked him quietly. She was no longer crying. She was just tired. “You saw that I needed help, but you wanted to hurt me instead. Why?”

Jerome kept coughing. “…sorry… please….”

Cordelia continued to watch him. He just kept muttering the same phrases over and over. She would not get an answer out of him tonight. 

She knew that she never would.

Men like Jerome… like her father… were just evil.

They didn’t see a young girl needing help and want to provide her with it. They wanted to use her vulnerability to their advantage.

And Cordelia would not be like them. She would be better. One day… she might even be a hero like Barry.

Notes:

I know this is an OC-centric chapter so I just wanted to leave a reminder that the only OC main character is Cordelia! All the others are super minor characters. 😊 This chapter is just an exception.

Chapter 35: All Aboard

Summary:

A car door opened and slammed closed. James grimaced.

“I hate meeting parents,” he said, but seemed resigned to his fate as he finally sat up.

The backdoor of his car was torn open. James didn’t even have a chance to turn around to see Bruce before the older man yanked him out by the scruff of his neck.

“Get off her,” Bruce growled. “Now.”

Cordelia dunked her bloodied shoe into the bathroom sink and watched the water slowly turn pink.

Her skin was already scrubbed of all the dirt, grime, and blood that came with almost beating a man to death in a Gotham alley. She’d left Jerome there, bleeding out and sobbing. And now Cordelia was locked in the girls’ bathroom trying to make herself presentable for James.

She cautiously took a sniff of her shirt. Did she smell like blood?

Maybe she could get someone to spill their drink on her. Alcohol had a much stronger scent.

Or maybe she could use the soap from the dispenser.

Cordelia slammed her palm against the button repeatedly until her other hand was full of foamy white soap and started to rub it into her arms. It felt sticky and not at all like the soap Alfred stocked her bathroom with.

Her musings were interrupted by loud banging on the bathroom door. A few women started cursing at her, calling her all types of insulting names as if that would make her open the door quicker for them.

“What the hell! We have to pee!” One of them cried.

Cordelia sighed and closed her eyes, trying to block them out.

She really needed a glass of water. The vodka was really starting to effect her.

Someone kicked the door. “Come on! Open the door!”

More women began to join in. This was a problem. Club Effie didn’t have any windows in their bathroom. And beyond that being a fire hazard, it also meant that Cordelia would have to eventually leave the bathroom and come face-to-face with a bunch of angry Gotham women.

She really didn’t want to get into another fight. It had taken so long to get Jerome’s blood out of her hair.

Even more banging on the door. Cordelia opened her eyes and found her reflection staring back at her in the mirror.

It looked like she’d just taken a stroll in the rain. Her black hair was slick back and water droplets clung to her eyelashes. At least this was much better than the blood-speckled face and red-soaked heels she’d had before.

James would probably question why she was so wet. There really was no explanation.

It didn’t matter. Just because he asked a question didn’t mean she had to answer.

With this plan in place, Cordelia reached forward and turned off the faucet. Then — she frowned.

Why had she let it run for so long? Her carelessness caused the water to overflow the sink and spill all over the bathroom floor. The young Wayne shook her head at herself before getting to work cleaning the mess with paper towels.

Her knees met the tile as she covered everything with water on it with the cheap brown paper Club Effie provided its nightclub goers. Once she was done, she leaned back and looked down at her work proudly.

The floor was dry — all except the tall pile of wet, wadded up paper towels next to her.

Cordelia grabbed the stack in her arms and forced most of them into the trash bin. The rest had to lay beside it, because she had no clue where else to put them.

Alfred would tell her it was a job well done. He’d probably be proud.

A giggle burst from her lips at the thought. Or not. Alfred didn’t like it when Cordelia tried to clean.

The next few minutes blurred together. She remembered using the last of the paper towels in the dispenser to dry her hands, knees, and face. And then plunging her hand into the sink water to take out her shoe, and then struggling to put her wet heel back on her foot with cold fingers.

After that, she stumbled over to the bathroom door and finally unlocked it.

A dozen angry faces glared back at her. She almost laughed — she felt like Batgirl on patrol.

Her obvious amusement did nothing to calm the angry crowd. Cordelia was yanked out of the bathroom by her top and clawed at by what seemed like an endless amount of manicured nails.

Out of instinct, Cordelia grabbed a wrist and squeezed. The woman the wrist belonged to started to yelp like a kicked dog.

“Let go!” The woman begged.

So Cordelia did. But the clawing kept coming and she was beginning to get annoyed by that.

“Enough,” she snapped, in the cold voice she only ever used when she was Batgirl.

Some women flinched backward, but others were not intimidated by a tipsy, skinny teenager who had yet to throw a punch back at her attackers. Which was why Cordelia had to ball her hand into a fist and strike out at the tallest woman in the group.

The woman screamed. Her nose was broken. 

The others flew into a frenzy trying to comfort the bleeding woman or stepping away once they realized that the cat fight was going to turn into a brawl. Cordelia used this distraction to duck under their arms and race back to the dance area of the nightclub.

It was strange to witness how normal everyone was behaving in the dance area. A man had almost died fifteen feet away from them, but the civilians continued to drink and laugh and dance, not noticing a thing.

What must it be like to live with your eyes closed? To not care to analyze every facial expression of a person talking or to watch every stranger who was behaving suspiciously?

Cordelia scanned the crowd, looking for James, and found him still at the bar watching everyone dance. When she approached him, he lit up.

“I thought you ditched me!” He shouted into her ear.

“There was a long wait for the bathroom,” Cordelia lied.

James nodded understandingly. “Yeah, I heard a couple girls complaining that some weirdo locked everyone else out of the bathroom.”

Years of experience as Batgirl came in handy as she successfully kept a straight face.

“Do you want another drink?” James asked.

Cordelia shook her head. “I’m getting dizzy.”

“That’s when everything starts getting fun, princess.”

He ended up ordering them both another drink. It wasn’t a shot of vodka like the first three, but a tall blue drink that reminded Cordelia of Barry’s eyes. She sipped it with a straw and thought it tasted a lot better than vodka.

The next few hours blurred together.

One moment her and James were talking at the bar about what school in Gotham was like. Then Cordelia started to laugh uncontrollably as James told a story about a prank his brother had pulled on him — stopping the story every so often to inform Cordelia that this story was a complaint and that she was not supposed to be laughing at his misery. And then Cordelia was excitedly pulling James onto the dance floor.

They still did not copy the way that other people were dancing, but their movements were less restrained than before.

James picked her up and spun them around, much to the annoyance of the people around them. But the alcohol must have been having an effect on him, too, because he ignored everyone else except for Cordelia.

Meanwhile, Cordelia was finding everything funny — from the glares other people sent their way to the way James’s mouth tasted like the blue drink when he kissed her.

“What’s so funny, princess?” James finally asked after the third time she broke away from his kiss to giggle.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I like when you kiss me.”

Something in his gaze darkened at that. The next time he kissed her, it wasn’t the chaste pecks from before. It was longer, deeper. Cordelia had no idea what to do with it.

“Do you want to get out of here?” He asked, voice low.

“No, I’m having fun,” Cordelia laughed. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Spin me again.”

He did spin her again. And she must have asked for another drink, because an hour later they were back at the bar and drinking another blue drink.

The lights of the nightclub were starting to dance above them. Cordelia watched them with interest as the colors mixed together and turned into blends of other colors. As Batgirl, she used to find them distracting. But as a civilian in disguise, she could see why they were so appealing. It was like the room itself was joining in on all the fun.

“I want to dance again,” Cordelia told James.

He huffed. “You have a lot of energy.”

“You promised me a good time,” she reminded him.

“Fine, fine.”

Everyone around them was getting rowdier and rowdier. It was more difficult to find an empty space to dance in, but they did their best. In the end, all they could do was hold onto each other and sway, or else they would have bumped the other couples around them.

“Let’s get out of here,” James said. “Seriously. I don’t like the looks of these people.”

Cordelia agreed. The younger crowd had left an hour before, and were replaced by older groups who had that same leery look that Jerome had given her.

The two fought through the crowd to leave, both determined not to separate from each other — James thinking that Cordelia needed protection and Cordelia knowing that James needed protection.

The night outside was freezing. Goosebumps appeared all over Cordelia’s arms and legs as she walked with James to his car.

“I’d give you my jacket but I don’t have one,” James said.

Cordelia snorted — then tripped over a pothole in the street.

“Shit,” James exclaimed. He bent down to help her up, and winced at the blood coming out of her knees. “You okay?”

But Cordelia found his concern funny, too. If only he knew what she’d seen, what she’d survived. She survived an apocalypse with just a few fading bruises; a few scrapes from a fall was nothing.

“That second drink was a mistake,” James muttered.

Cordelia kissed him on the nose when his face got close to hers. It was the first time she’d initiated a kiss, and it had James blinking down at her in bemusement.

“Y’know,” he said, “I thought that you were just some tough chick, but you’re actually kind of cute. Why on earth did you decide to call me?”

“You were the only one who mentioned having a car.”

“Wow. You really know how to stroke a man’s ego, princess.”

She grabbed his hand and let him help her up. But he did not let go when she regained her balance. James wrapped his arms around her middle and started guiding her to the car as if he was worried she’d fall again.

“I’m coordinated,” Cordelia told him.

“You’re wasted,” James corrected.

He opened the backdoor of his car and started to nudge her inside.

Cordelia squinted at the seats. “Why do you want me to get in the back?”

If James claimed it was proper etiquette like Alfred then she would scream.

But, instead, James said: “Don’t you want to have some more fun?”

Any confusion she had disappeared when James started to kiss her neck. He leaned toward her, gently guiding her into the seats until she was lying down and he was flat on top of her, still leaving wet kisses all along her neck and jawline.

She squirmed and giggled when he kissed a spot beneath her ear. “That tickles,” she complained.

James’s chest rumbled as he chuckled and kissed the spot again. Cordelia laughed and brought his lips back up to hers. His hands were everywhere, sliding across her body and squeezing whatever curve he could find. And the more she allowed this, the deeper his breathing became.

“I have a condom,” he said huskily. “Do you wanna…?”

“Sure.”

It was James’s turn to snort. “Can you say yes with a little more enthusiasm? My ego is nonexistent at this point.”

Cordelia hummed in fake sympathy, and laughed at the look he gave her as a result.

James sat up just enough to start eagerly tugging her shirt up her body. The young Wayne grimaced when she felt the fabric pass her belly button.

“Stop,” she said.

He paused. “What? What’s wrong?”

Cordelia pushed his hands away from her top. “Don’t grab my shirt. It reminds me of the time I was held at gunpoint.”

In fact, a lot of things were starting to remind her of Jerome: the fake leather seats, the lingering smell of cigarettes, the way James’s eyes were entirely focused on her chest.

She tried to let it go. Tried to get back to enjoying the moment. But then she thought… this was probably what Jerome had wanted to do with her. Be on top of her, feel her body, take her shirt off —

“Whoa,” James said, leaning back in a sitting position between her legs. “That’s…. Do you want to talk about it?”

Cordelia’s movements were jerky and clumsy as she tried to fix her shirt. “No.”

He looked relieved about her answer, which shouldn’t have disappointed Cordelia. Except… she was absolutely sure that Barry would have at least tried to comfort her.

She really missed Barry. And home. And Alfred. And Bruce.

She wanted out of this car.

James leaned back down to kiss her again.

“Hey, don’t think about it,” he said softly. His hands found her legs and hooked them around his hips. “You’re safe here, remember? No weapons. Just you and me.” 

He began to whisper compliments to her as he held her, carefully avoiding her top and eventually realizing that she liked it when he cupped her face.

“You still want to do this?” James asked.

Why did she have to remember Jerome? It ruined everything. Nothing was funny anymore. 

“I want to go home,” she told James.

He gave her a wet kiss on the mouth before feverishly pulling her skirt up. “I can take you home afterward. Okay?”

The question was asked like a plea. As if she had everything he wanted and the only thing stopping him from getting it was herself.

Cordelia hesitated. The night was dark around them. No one would see them. And this had been what she wanted — not exactly this, but something similar. Someone to laugh with; someone who could be her Iris, her Miss Everlott.

James had made her laugh more than anyone else that she knew. And now he was just asking for one thing in return.

“Okay,” Cordelia said.

Her approval made him groan above her. “Fuck,” he said, mostly to himself. “The guys are gonna be so jealous.”

He pushed her skirt all the way up. Cordelia shivered when the cold air met her.

“Can you turn on the heater?” She asked.

“Fuck,” he said again. “Hold on. I’ll turn it on after.”

He was frantically undoing his belt. The buckle fell onto her naked hip. She winced at how cold the metal was.

“James,” she said. “I’m freezing.”

The way he looked at her — with such distress, as if she’d asked him to pick up the weight of the world. But her fingers were stiff from the cold and he wasn’t the one lying half naked on cool leather seats, so she did not withdraw her request.

The young boy scrambled into the driver seat to turn on the car.

She wondered at how he was able to move so quickly when all her movements felt slow and awkward.

“James,” Cordelia said. She sat up so she could see him, and groaned at the way the entire car tilted underneath her. “I think I drank too much.”

James was fumbling with the heater. “Yeah, a bit. It’ll be fine. Just take a pain reliever in the morning.”

She blinked blearily out the window. They were far enough away from Club Effie that no one would see two teenagers fumbling in the car, but she could hear the civilians that were still in line to enter the nightclub laughing and singing with each other.

In the street up ahead, she could see a car turn the corner. The car looked like —

“That’s my guardian’s car,” Cordelia realized.

James started. “What?”

The car was speeding down the street in their direction. It was an expensive car — one that stood out amongst the rest in the Bowery.

“That’s definitely his car,” Cordelia said flatly. “I think he’s here for me.”

James looked between her, the car tearing down the street toward them, and then their rumpled clothing. “Shit. Duck down. Fix your skirt.”

Cordelia’s stiff fingers awkwardly started to tug her skirt back down. James swore again, jumped into the backseat, and pushed her until he was lying flat on top of her again.

“What are you doing?” She said, startled. “We can’t —“

“I know,” James snapped. He was frantically fixing his belt and pulling her skirt back into place. “You’re just too slow. Don’t speak. Maybe he didn’t see us.”

“He’s smart —“

“Shhh,” the boy hissed.

Cordelia glared at him in annoyance. If her guardian was anyone other than Batman, then maybe this would have worked. But her guardian was Batman, which was why she was not at all surprised to hear the car screech to a halt just a few feet away from where James had parked.

She squirmed underneath James and finished fixing her clothes. All of James’s frantic movements had caused the straps of her top to fall off her shoulders.

A car door opened and slammed closed. James grimaced.

“I hate meeting parents,” he said, but seemed resigned to his fate as he finally sat up.

The backdoor of his car was torn open. James didn’t even have a chance to turn around to see Bruce before the older man yanked him out by the scruff of his neck.

“Get off her,” Bruce growled. “Now.”

“I am!” James yelped. His hands were in the air in a sign of peace. “Dude, let go.”

Cordelia watched her brother loom over her date threateningly. She half expected him to punch the younger boy, but he didn’t. James was able to take hurried steps backward, scared but unharmed.

Bruce turned his glare to Cordelia.

“Bruce —“

“Out.”

She wished she could have exited the car with more dignity, but her limbs were not listening to her as well as they used to. Cordelia took one step out of the car before her ankle wobbled dangerously in the heel.

Bruce grunted in surprise and caught her before she could fall. “You’re drunk.”

There was no point in denying that. She tried to pull her arm out of his grip, but he held fast — almost like he thought she would try to run away again, which… considering her track record, she could understand.

“You should not be drinking,” Bruce was saying angrily. “Especially in the Bowery with a total stranger.”

Her response was automatic: “I’m sorry.”

“Get in the car,” Bruce snapped.

Her eyebrows crinkled, confused. “But you just told me to get out of it.”

“My car,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Oh,” Cordelia said.

It was a very serious situation, which is why no one expected the giggle that burst from her lips. Bruce’s following glare could have lit an entire forest on fire.

“How many drinks did you two have?” He asked.

“Just a few,” James said.

“Three shots of vodka and two tall blue ones,” Cordelia answered at the same time.

James sent her a look of pure exasperation.

Her brother, on the other hand, clearly needed to take a step back from the conversation. He let go of Cordelia’s arm to pinch the bridge of his nose and take a few deep, calming breaths. Both the teenagers stared up at him as he did this, awaiting their inevitable punishment.

It took an entire minute for Bruce to finally raise his head. And by then, both James and Cordelia were shivering in the cold.

“Both of you in the car,” Bruce said firmly. “You shouldn’t drive under the influence.”

“Ugh…” James began. “No. This is the Bowery. I can’t just leave my brother’s car here. He will actually kill me.”

“You should have thought of that before you started drinking,” Bruce snapped. “Get in. Or it’ll be the GCPD that picks you up instead.”

James gave Cordelia an imploring look, as if she had any control over what her brother did. All she could do was give him an apologetic shrug.

“Fine,” he said.

They both went to get in Bruce’s car, but Bruce stepped in front of Cordelia before she could follow James into the backseat.

Her brain short-circuited.

Here? Was he going to hit her here? In front of James? In front of the line of people outside the nightclub that she could feel watching them?

With all the questions circling around them, all she could say was, “Bruce?”

His name sounded weirdly slurred as it left her lips; or was her hearing just impaired? The ground felt unsteady beneath her feet as she watched him shrug off his jacket and —

Wrap it around her shoulders. 

His steady hands were a stark contrast to her shaking arms as he zipped the jacket up and trapped them underneath a thick layer of warm fabric.

“You’re sitting in the front,” Bruce said firmly.

She must have looked as wobbly as she felt, because Bruce pressed his palm between her shoulder blades and guided her around the car to the passenger side door. They were about halfway there when a bright flash of light lit up the street.

“Bruce Wayne!” Someone shouted. “Bruce Wayne! Who’s the girl? Do you party in the Bowery now?”

“Oh my God! That is Bruce Wayne!”

“Wooo! We’re partying with a billionaire!”

Cordelia squinted past more flashes of light. The nightclub goers had left the entry line to gawk at the expensive car that Bruce had brought with him, and were now pointing their cell phone cameras at the two like they were celebrities.

“What’s going on?” She asked quietly.

“Put your head down,” Bruce said, not answering.

Cordelia figured that she was already in enough trouble, and obeyed. He finished guiding her to the passenger door, opened it, and helped her sit. A few moments later, he got in the driver’s seat.

“What’s with all the cameras?” James asked. He went to pull down the window, but Bruce stopped him with a simple push of the button. “The Hell? I’m not allowed to use windows?”

Bruce’s response was short: “No.”

He put the car into drive and took off down the street, leaving all the curious civilians and their flashing cameras behind. Cordelia pulled her hands through the sleeves of Bruce’s jacket and pushed them up so her fingers peaked through the hems.

“Hold on, hold on,” James was still speaking. She wished he’d keep quiet. Bruce already didn’t like him. “You’re Bruce Wayne. Dude! You’re like my idol.”

Her brother’s jaw clenched. She didn’t miss the quick glance he sent in her direction.

“Why is he your idol?” Cordelia asked.

“Are you kidding?” James scoffed. He was so excited that he unbuckled his seat belt just to sit closer to the front. “He’s every guy’s idol. Do you have any idea how many women —“

“Enough,” Bruce snapped. “Put on your seatbelt.”

“Of course, Sir,” James said, and hurried to do just that. “Can you teach me your secrets?”

“No.”

If James assumed that being suddenly respectful would gain him Bruce’s favor, then he couldn’t be anymore wrong. Batman expected respect and nothing else — even from criminals. It did nothing to soften him.

But James did not know this. Which is why he continued to speak.

“You two sort of look alike,” he said.

“He’s my cousin,” Cordelia said.

“Well, that explains the protectiveness,” he said. “You don’t have to worry, Sir. Nothing inappropriate happened. Right, Cordelia?”

“James, please stop.”

“I’m just saying that what he think was happening wasn’t actually happening —“

“James,” Cordelia said, more forcefully.

There was no doubt in her mind that Bruce knew exactly what was happening in the back of James’s car. Not only was he Batman, but he was also a person with eyes. And it was embarrassing enough to get caught in that sort of position; the last thing Cordelia wanted to do was talk about it.

Her sharp tone must have sobered James up just a tad, because he was silent for the rest of the ride.

Cordelia wished that something would sober her up. Everything around her looked like she was staring at it through curved glass. Some things were hyper focused and others were blurred. And it only got worse with every sharp turn her brother took as he drove.

She was relieved when the car finally began to slow down in front of a tall apartment building.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” Bruce said, voice gruff.

“Wait,” James frowned. “How did you know where I live? I didn’t give you an address.”

He got no answer. Bruce simply left the car and opened James’s door to get him out of the car, too.

Cordelia used the sudden stillness of the world to lay her head on the window and try to relax. Her life used to be chaotic with all the patrolling, but this day was turning out to be too much for even her.

She blinked tiredly out the window. Bruce had his hand on James’s shoulder as he guided him to the door. They both looked tense, as if they were talking about something particularly serious. And when Bruce turned to walk back to the car, she could have sworn she saw James shaking as he scurried into his apartment.

Bruce didn’t say a word to her as he shut the driver’s side door behind him and put the car back in drive.

She was happy about this. If she was going to get a lecture, then she would prefer to receive it with a sober mind. Being intoxicated was fun when she was dancing and getting kissed, but it was not fun now.

Especially when Bruce kept taking sharp corners.

“Bruce?” She said faintly.

“What?”

His tone did not sound welcoming at all. She hesitated. “Can you drive slower? I’m getting nauseous.”

Maybe it was his love for his car or maybe it was genuine concern for his little sister, but Bruce slowed down.

Cordelia sighed in relief and closed her eyes. The slow driving was much better. She no longer felt nauseous, even though the curved glass effect on her vision was still enough to make her want to go straight to bed.

She almost got emotional just thinking about her bed. It was so soft and warm there, like a cloud brought down from the sky.

And by tomorrow, Alfred would have dressed the bed in different bedclothes. She hadn’t appreciated that before — his need to make her feel more at home.

She needed to tell Alfred how grateful she was for him. 

The car slowed to a stop sooner than she was expecting it to. And through her eyelids, she could see a bright light beaming down on them.

Cordelia squinted through the light to see its source: a drive-thru display menu.

“Welcome to BatBurger,” a nasally voice droned through the intercom. “How can I help you?”

“What are we doing here?” Cordelia asked Bruce.

“You need to get sober,” he said shortly.

As he ordered a few burgers and a coffee, Cordelia looked past his broad shoulders to gaze at the menu. When Jason had brought her here, she’d been entirely uninterested in what was being served. All she cared about was that her nephew was standing right next to her and that she really wanted to get to know him.

Now? Now she was hungry.

And the chocolate milkshake on the menu had animated stars dancing around it.

“Can I try the chocolate milkshake?” Cordelia asked.

Bruce looked as if he couldn’t believe that she’d actually ask that, but ordered the drink anyway.

The wait for the food was not long at all. The worker looked completely bored with them as he handed over their order, which Bruce promptly dropped in Cordelia’s lap before driving off to the Manor.

Cordelia tried to keep her sips on the milkshake as quiet as possible. Especially since every time it made a slurping sound, she could see Bruce’s eye twitch in annoyance.

“It’s not my fault,” she murmured.

“Quiet,” was his sharp reply.

Cordelia turned away from him so she could scowl out the window.

This was not at all what she had planned for the night. She’d always expected to get caught, but she thought Alfred and Bruce would only find out after the fact — not interrupt her mid-action.

If nothing else, she’d hoped that it would be James driving her home and not her very-angry brother.

But it was Bruce driving her home. And he was upset with her, like always. 

Resentment boiled in her belly at the thought; at all the unfairness she’d suffered throughout her life. All she’d ever done was follow orders, yet that was never good enough for Batman. A part of her wanted to tell Bruce that this time she was mad at him and disapproving of him, but even intoxicated Cordelia was not brave enough to have that conversation.

A few minutes passed of this: of Cordelia raging at her brother inside her mind, of the silence being interrupted with slurping sounds, and of Bruce glowering as he drove. But, eventually, they both saw Wayne Manor peek out from the horizon.

The mansion got larger and larger the closer they got, and the sight was as intimidating as it was familiar.

It was when they drove past the gates that Bruce finally spoke up and said, “You will apologize for worrying Alfred so much.”

“Fine,” Cordelia said curtly.

Bruce frowned at her tone. “I want a sincere apology, young lady.”

“I said fine.”

Cordelia didn’t waste time. The moment Bruce parked the car, she scrambled out of it and rushed toward the manor door on wobbly heels.

She didn’t need Bruce to tell her to apologize to Alfred. Alfred was no longer his. 

The door was locked when she reached it. She hurriedly rang the doorbell, hoping that the elderly butler would make it before her brother — but Bruce’s shadow fell over her like a heavy blanket.

“Cordelia,” Bruce said. “I need you to fix your tone before we get in there. Alfred doesn’t deserve your disrespect.”

Cordelia kept pressing the doorbell. “Leave me alone.”

Bruce grabbed her hand to stop her from pressing the doorbell button again. “Did you hear me?”

Instinct took over. Cordelia grabbed at his wrist, the same way she’d done to one of those women at the nightclub, and almost squeezed before she realized who she was about to hurt. 

She dropped her hand. Bruce was staring down at her with an eyebrow raised, completely unaware that he almost had his wrist snapped.

“Well?” He prompted with an annoyed frown.

Cordelia tried to tug her hand away, but Bruce was being unfair with his strength. She started to bang on the door with her other fist. “Alfred! Alfred, help!”

Bruce’s eyes widened. “Cordelia —“

The door flew open. The aging butler stood on the other side in his pajamas, gawking at the pair and the situation with open bewilderment.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said. “What on earth is going on?”

“She’s —“

Cordelia used Bruce’s shock to her advantage by tearing herself out of his grip and throwing her arms around the butler’s middle. Alfred huffed in surprise, but returned the hug instantly.

“Alfred, I’m so so sorry,” Cordelia said into his shoulder. “I didn’t want to worry you but I’ve just been so lonely and stressed out. Bruce is always mad at me or ignoring me, and then Barry left me, and I’ve just been feeling like — like I just need to have fun for once. I promise I was responsible, okay? Please don’t be mad, too.”

Alfred was patting her back throughout her entire garbled speech.

“Ssh,” he said calmingly, “I’m not mad at you. This isn’t your fault.”

“Alfred,” Bruce grumbled disapprovingly from behind her.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said. His voice had taken on the cool edge that Bruce used on her when he was giving her an order. “You need to fix this before the situation becomes decidedly worse. Is that understood?”

The room was very quiet after that. Cordelia felt a sharp flash of fear at this and held onto Alfred tighter. Did she accidentally put him in danger? Would Bruce ever hurt Alfred? She doubted it — but there was always a chance.

She heard her brother step into the house behind her and shut the door, locking them all in together. And then felt Alfred gently push her away so that they could lock eyes.

The pale blue of his eyes scanned her face and then the oversized jacket she was wearing. “You left the house without a jacket again?”

Cordelia nodded silently.

Alfred sighed. “Did anything terrible happen while you were gone?”

Cordelia thought of the sharp crunch of a nose breaking against brick, a sink full of pink water, manicured nails raking over her skin, and hurried hands pulling her shirt up to her chest.

“No,” she lied. “I just danced a bit.”

Fortunately, Bruce didn’t see a need to worry Alfred, either, judging from how silent he was behind her. 

“Good,” Alfred said. His face softened as worried tension leaked from his muscles. She felt about two inches tall as she watched this. “I am glad to hear it, Miss Cordelia. Now off to bed. Master Bruce will help you there.”

“Why not you?” Cordelia said.

Bruce’s hand settled on her shoulder to pull her away from Alfred, but she held fast.

“You and Master Bruce need to have a talk,” Alfred explained. “You will be fine, my dear.”

“Cordelia,” Bruce said gruffly.

She reluctantly let go of the butler, feeling a lot like a drowning man letting go of a raft.

“Let’s go,” her brother said, and pulled her toward the stairs.

The entire mansion was dark as they walked through it. It had to have been well-past midnight at this point, which made Alfred and Bruce catching her even more bewildering.

How on earth did Bruce know she left the house? As far as he was concerned, she’d gone up to her room to sleep hours ago. Was there an alarm on the gate now? Did Alfred see her drive off with a teenage boy? Was there something else that she’d overlooked?

By the time they made it to her bedroom, she’d already cycled through several possibilities.

“Sit down,” Bruce said. “We need to talk.”

But Cordelia had already kicked off her heels and settled underneath the covers. Her memory had served her correctly: her bed was very much a cloud.

Bruce was pinching the bridge of his nose again.

“Cordelia…” he paused as if looking for the correct words to say. Cordelia pulled her blanket up to her nose and watched him struggle silently. “We need to talk about this new habit you have of running away.”

“I don’t have a habit of running away,” Cordelia said with blatant annoyance.

Bruce was giving her that look again. The one that said I can’t believe that you are talking to me like this. But his hands remained by his side, so Cordelia didn’t bother to look sorry about it.

“You’ve been living here for three weeks and have already snuck out twice,” Bruce said with forced calm. “That is a record that only one of my children has managed to break.”

“I snuck out once,” Cordelia corrected. “The first time I was kicked out.”

“I did not kick you out.”

“And I did not run away,” she snapped.

Both the Waynes’s masks were completely discarded as they glared at one another.

Outside her window, Cordelia could see the sun beginning to rise. She’d been dancing and drinking all night, and now it was a new day.

“This cannot happen again,” Bruce said.

The Cordelia of yesterday would have ducked her head and agreed. The Cordelia of last month would not have been in this situation at all. The Cordelia of today, the one who beat Jerome so badly he could very well be dead at this very moment, said, “Or what?”

The challenge made Bruce grit his teeth.

She could see him then: Batman.

The Batman was not just a mask. It was a creature that lived under the skin of the man who owned him. It was living, breathing, terrifying, and always present.

“Cordelia,” when he spoke, he sounded like him, too. “I have backed off about letting you skip meals because you asked me to. But don’t take that as an invitation to continue challenging me.”

Her vision wavered. It felt like all of her wavered. The room was buzzing around her like everything was attached to an electric circuit. The only thing she could think was: this is it, this is it, this is it. The moment she’d known would always come — the moment she almost felt relieved to finally meet.

He could make it normal. He could make it all normal again.

No more wondering when Batman would make his return.

“Or what?” She repeated desperately.

Hit me, hit me, hit me.

Bruce’s fists were clenched at his side. Cordelia braced for it; she wanted it. Let this charade go; this fantasy that a non-abusive Batman could ever exist. It wasn’t true, it was never true — because if a gentle Batman was ever possible, then why hadn’t her father ever been gentle with her?

“Or I will send you to boarding school.”

Cordelia felt like her mattress had been pulled out from under her. She had to blink several times just to make sure that she wasn’t in some weird dream.

“What?” She said. Her own voice echoed in her ears.

Bruce was still glaring at her, still clenching his fists and gritting his teeth. The Bruce that hid his more scary emotions from her was completely gone. This one looked tired of her.

“I’ve done research into a few,” he said. “They are all great schools with plenty of resources that can help you. You will be able to go to therapy twice a week, be around other children who have grown up in similar situations as yourself, and even join a few science clubs. I believe this will be the best for you —“

“No,” Cordelia said. She couldn’t hear anymore. “Why — why have you been researching boarding schools? How long have you been thinking about sending me away?”

She scrambled through her memory, trying to find what she could have done so wrong to have led Bruce down this line of thinking. Was it her crush on Barry? Could it have been all the times she’d yelled at him during her first week here?

“I looked through all our options,” Bruce continued. “Letting another family foster you would not have worked, since there aren’t many people I know who would be well equipped to handle your situation. And the few who would are within the superhero community, which I do not want you to be a part of. I thought that maybe you needed some more time in the manor, but tonight has proven to me that you have far too much freedom here. You need structure. Boarding school is the best option for everyone.”

Cordelia was pale. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “You can’t,” her voice cracked halfway through.

Bruce’s simmering glare dimmed, but did not disappear. “Legally, I can.”

He was right. He could. The legal documents she kept in her desk said so.

“Has it been that terrible?” She asked, hurt. “Living with me?”

He does not answer that. He does not have to. They both know how difficult living with her has been; how she was constantly arguing with him, how she embarrassed him by having a crush on his friend, how she freaked out on him in the Cave, and how she ruined his date with Miss Everlott — a date he’d probably prepared so he could loosen up after having to deal with her. 

How he left every room she walked into and never ate in the kitchen anymore.

No, he did not have to answer that. Because she already knew: she was a terror to live with.

Cordelia struggled to sit up. The room shook around her as her intoxicated brain tried to catch up with her vision. She cursed Bruce’s awful timing — his need to have such a serious conversation when her mind barely connected with her mouth.

He’d probably planned this. Probably hoped that Cordelia would meekly give in.

But she wouldn’t.

Wayne Manor was her home.

“I won’t go,” She said. “I’ll tell Alfred what you’re planning to do. He’ll become my guardian. We’ll leave.”

“Alfred wouldn’t leave,” Bruce said, unaffected by this threat.

“He would,” Cordelia said. She crossed her arms to hide the way her hands were shaking. “He promised. All I have to do is ask.”

Something in her expression, or perhaps her voice, made her brother pause. His icy blue eyes settled on her face, tore through her skin, and read her mind with practiced ease. What he saw made his eyes widen and the skin along his cheeks pale.

Cordelia was telling the truth.

He could see that.

Bruce suddenly looked a lot younger. He looked lost. An orphan, just like her.

Cordelia felt sick with guilt just for seeing him in this vulnerable state. For being the one who was hurting him so deeply.

“I don’t want to,” she said, a little quieter — a mercy that Bruce had not given her when he threatened her with boarding school. “But I’m not being sent away. Alfred is all I have left. You can’t take him away from me like you’ve taken everything else.”

Bruce shook his head faintly. His ink black hair fell over his forehead. If this were another timeline, one in which they had both grown up together and trusted each other without the threat of Batman, then she would have reached forward and brushed it back.

But this was not that timeline. This timeline was a flip side to another, darker one. It might have been brighter, but the shadow still clawed at the edges.

“I haven’t taken anything from you,” Bruce said, just as quiet.

“You have,” Cordelia said. “It’s your fault that Barry no longer wants to be my friend. It’s your fault that I haven’t been Batgirl for nearly a month. It’s your fault that my timeline is gone, along with my life, my history, and everything that I’ve ever accomplished. It’s your fault that Father never loved me. It is all your fault.”

The lost expression in Bruce’s eye was slowly bleeding away. He watched her shaky rant with a look that was almost sad. 

She gripped her blankets and wished she was standing, wished she was wearing her cowl. Wished that Bruce would stop looking at her like she was a cat that he’d found half-drowned near a dirty lake.

“Everyone in my life has abandoned me,” Cordelia said, and ignored the pang in her heart that followed that realization. “Barry. Father. My mother. You. Everyone. Alfred is the only person who has stayed by my side. If you think I’m not going to fight for him, then you’ve underestimated me.”

The sky outside was a milky mixture of orange and pink and yellow. The first beams of the sun sunk through the window pane and gently danced across the floors of her bedroom.

Meanwhile, both the Waynes were encased in darkness, staring each other down with matching blue eyes they'd inherited from a man they barely knew.

Bruce was the first one to move. The mattress dipped as his large form sat down next to her.

When he spoke, his voice was soft. “I didn’t realize you two had gotten so close.”

“Why would you?” Cordelia said. “We barely see you.”

“You told me to back off,” Bruce said. “That I was making things worse.”

“And before that?”

“I’ve been giving you space, Cordelia. You’re not comfortable around me. We both know that.”

“Yes, but... I’m so lonely it hurts,” she wiped at tear from her eye, angry that she had to admit something to vulnerable and embarrassing. But just the thought of all that time she’d spent alone — all the times she saw Bruce and hoped he’d talk to her, only to see him turn to walk away — left her entire body aching with pain. “You know, for the first week you were avoiding me, all I did was follow Alfred around. We talked about gala etiquette, Russian literature, proper attire to wear at various times of day, and what my favorite meals are. Useful discussions. But it’s not the same as it was with you.”

“Cordelia —“

“When I first got here, I was terrified of you,” Cordelia cut him off. If she did not say this now, then she didn’t think she’d be able to say it sober. “I didn’t know what kind of man you were and I kept expecting you to — to hurt me. But then we started spending time together I got to know you. I finally figured out what it was like to be part of… to have a brother. And then you brought me to the Cave.”

Bruce looked away from her tears. “Cordelia. I never should have brought you there. I —“

“And then you did hurt me,” Cordelia said, her fingers still clenching her blankets in her lap. “I forgave you instantly. It broke my heart, but I knew I’d survive it because being your sister was better than running away and being alone. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He was not looking at her the way that she expected him to look at her. He didn’t look at all understanding; he looked disappointed. This emotion was etched across every line and feature in his face. And Cordelia worried that she had lost him completely.

“I understand that you still don’t believe that I won’t hurt you again,” he said.

“You’re Batman,” she said and grabbed his hand in the comforting way she’d grabbed Alfred’s hand before. “Pain is inevitable.”

Bruce ripped himself out of her grip with a hiss. “Our father —“

“Never spent time with me,” Cordelia said. “He never bothered to, other than to give me an order. You did, until two weeks ago. Do you know how painful that was? To experience affection for the first time in — in years only for it to be taken away completely after one mistake? I’m sorry about how I reacted in the Cave, Bruce. I’m sorry. But you can’t keep punishing me for it. It’s — it’s mean.”

“I’m not punishing you, Cordelia.”

“Then why am I hurting so much?”

Bruce looked like she had given him a roundhouse kick.

She watched him, waiting. It felt like she’d stripped all her skin off and laid it in his hands. All that was left was the raw meat and bone and blood. Yet… Bruce was just sitting there.

Cordelia waited and waited and waited until the sun outside was halfway over the horizon.

“Well?” She said. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“I’m….”

Bruce was struggling to respond. She wanted to reach out to him again, comfort him, but he’d already pulled away so much.

It felt like an eternity before he said, “Does quality time mean that much to you?”

“Yes.”

“…Understood.”

Cordelia waited to see if there was anything more, but even that simple word seemed to take a lot out of her brother.

She slowly settled back under the covers and laid her head on one of her many pillows, wondering if this conversation was over. But Bruce stayed sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at his own hands as if they belonged to someone else.

She watched the light from the window touch the black of his hair. It was relaxing to see; so relaxing that she felt almost sleepy by the time Bruce spoke up again.

“Anything else?” He asked.

Cordelia hummed. Her eyes had closed without her realizing it. When she opened them, she saw that Bruce had smoothed out all the distress and turmoil he’d been feeling. “I don’t like your mask.”

“My mask?”

“The one you use to hide your emotions. It makes me feel on edge.”

His mask instantly slipped away. Beneath it, he looked rueful. But he nodded and Cordelia could easily imagine him making a mental list just like Alfred does.

“I also don’t like seeing you date people.”

Bruce’s expression turned wry. “I didn’t like seeing you with that boy, either.”

“Understood,” Cordelia said with a sleepy nod. “I won’t have James over. But if I can’t have James over, then you can’t have Miss Everlott over. I don’t like the way she was speaking to you. It was disrespectful.”

“Understood.”

She felt a jolt of surprise. Her toes did a strange, happy wiggle at the idea of ordering Batman around. Bruce’s quick blue eyes caught the tiny movement beneath the blankets. The corners of his lips twitched.

“Is that all?” He asked.

Cordelia considered asking for a motorcycle like Jason’s, but a much more serious request was floating around her mind. She squirmed so she could see Bruce and read his expressions before she asked: “Just… if you’re ever thinking about sending me away again: tell me first. Okay?”

She’d hoped to see the same soft honesty that she got when she asked Alfred a question — but Bruce did not give her that. Something shuttered closed in the deep depths of his eyes.

Before she could question it, he reached forward and swiped a lingering tear from beneath her lashes. When the warmth of his hand retreated, she latched onto it and pulled it back to her cheek.

Bruce made a sound that was something between a scoff and a soft laugh, but he seemed to know what she wanted. His thumb rubbed circles into her cheek, the same way it had done the first night she’d been brought to this timeline — the night she’d woken from a nightmare.

Cordelia closed her eyes and made a silent wish that nights like those would be left long in the past.

Eventually, she stopped thinking altogether as sleep finally began to overtake her.

She was about halfway into a deep slumber when she felt the mattress beneath her shift and Bruce’s deep, grumbling voice said, “Dick? I…. Your presence at the Manor is required. I will make sure someone picks up the slack in Bludhaven to make up for your absence.”

Notes:

We are officially in the BatFAMILY era of this story! 🥳

Chapter 36: Dick Grayson

Summary:

“Dick Grayson,” Cordelia said.

His smile widened.

“Cordelia Wayne,” he said back teasingly.

Cordelia dreamt that she was Batgirl and that she was falling deep, deep, deep into a pit.

She reached upward, trying desperately to grab onto something that could stop her fall. But all she felt was her cape wrapping around her arms.

The ground was getting closer. 

She gazed up at the sky, wanting the last thing she saw to be the stars in the night sky, but instead she saw Batman glaring down at her with red glowing eyes.

“Father?” She tried to scream, but no sound left her lips.

Lights started to flash behind him. Civilians were watching her fall, too; and they all had their phones out to take pictures.

Cordelia screamed again —

“Miss Cordelia?”

Light still flared in her eyes, but Alfred’s voice was enough to break through her panic. Cordelia squinted past the brightness as she tried to understand when and where she was.

“Did you have another nightmare?” Alfred asked. “Would you like me to get Master Bruce?”

He stood next to her bedroom window. The curtains fluttered as if he’d just thrown them open, letting the sun glare down at her loudly and painfully.

“The curtains, Alfred,” Cordelia said weakly. “Why?”

She crawled slowly back under her blankets so everything could be dark again.

“It is midday, Miss Cordelia. You have slept through breakfast. We did not want you to sleep through lunch, as well.”

Cordelia didn’t answer him. Her entire body felt off, but mostly her head. It felt as if she’d slept inside a spinning top and then got woken up with a sledgehammer. Under the blankets was not much better — but, still, it was better.

“Are you feeling unwell?” Alfred asked.

His subtle amusement was a stab of betrayal.

She could hear his footsteps approach where she was lying. For a moment, Cordelia worried that he’d take the blanket from her, but all he did was set something down on her bedside table.

“For your affliction,” he said. “You’re expected for lunch within the hour. Will you need anything else, my dear?”

She wished he’d stop asking her questions. Her body did not want her brain to work.

“Can’t you bring my lunch up here?”

“I can,” Alfred said, “but that would be inconsiderate to Master Bruce. He’s delayed his own lunch so he can share a meal with you.”

The butler left her room before she could properly process that piece of news.

Cordelia crawled out from under her blankets just enough to narrow her eyes at the door. Bruce wanted to eat lunch with her?

She dragged herself to her bedside table, where Alfred left two tiny white pills and a glass of water. And as she swallowed them, she quietly wondered when she’d started to trust Alfred so blindly.

If anyone else had given her unmarked pills, she would have quickly thrown them out the window.

But with him, she knew that nothing terrible would happen.

The pain relief didn’t come instantly. She felt awful the entire time she showered, brushed her teeth, got dressed, and walked down to the kitchen. The only thing that kept her going was the knowledge that Bruce was waiting for her. Without that, she would have turned around and locked herself in her bedroom for the rest of the week.

Once Cordelia got to the kitchen door, she pushed it open and blinked against the sharpness of the light.

Bruce was sitting at his usual seat. There was a Batman mug in his hand; the mug that had confused Cordelia so much when she first met him. He was taking a casual sip from it, as if he had no idea how much that mug had affected her.

She must have been staring for too long, because his greeting came out stiff and awkward: “Cordelia.”

Her heart fluttered with excitement. He was here and waiting for her.

She’d taken that for granted before. She’d fought with him, left the table early, and wasted their precious time together being too scared to even look him in the eye.

But if the last few weeks had taught her anything, it was that eating at a large table alone was terrible… and that she had missed her brother.

Cordelia shuffled over to the seat next to him. “Hi.”

Alfred was laying out a much larger lunch than she was used to. The midday meals he prepared usually entailed cucumber sandwiches or a light salad. But this time, he’d created a small buffet of assorted sandwiches, fruit salads, fluffy biscuits, and tiny cakes.

Bruce set his mug down. It made a small clink as it hit the table top.

“You said you liked quality time,” he said. “So I’m here.”

The small, hopeful smile that had toyed at the the corners of her lips withered. His words were stilted.

Last night was foggy, but she remembered the most important details: that she snuck out, that she drank too much, and that she had confronted Bruce and said some things that she would have never dared to say sober.

Bruce had been kind. He hadn’t raised a fist.

But what if something she said had hurt him, instead?

“You don’t remember,” Bruce said.

It wasn’t a question.

After James had given her that second blue drink, her memory became unclear and distorted. What she could recall was James fitting himself in between her legs, cameras lights blinding her as Bruce guided her into his car, cold air biting at her cheeks as she ran into the manor, and then her brother’s heated glare as he told her his plans to send her to boarding school.

“Cordelia?”

His voice pulled her out of the fog and into the present.

“I remember some things,” Cordelia said. “Like… boarding school?”

Alfred, who’d been carrying ingredients back to the pantry, stopped moving entirely.

Bruce sent a quick glance to the butler before saying, “Yes. That was discussed.”

Cordelia’s stomach ached. Had sneaking out pushed Bruce too far? Should she expect this to be the last meal they shared together?

“What…” she licked her dry lips. “What was decided?”

There was a tense moment as Bruce stared her down. She wasn’t sure what he was looking for or what would work in her favor. So all she could do was stare back and wait for the verdict.

The thought of being sent away was as appealing as the thought of jumping off a rooftop without a grappling hook. But, in the end, Cordelia knew that there was not much she could do to stop Bruce if he decided that dealing with her was too much trouble. 

He was Batman. He had every resource at his disposal to keep her away if he wanted to.

“We decided against it,” Bruce finally said.

Cordelia felt something in her chest loosen at his answer. And out of the corner of her eye, she could see Alfred leave into the pantry with the ingredients.

“However,” Bruce continued before her smile could return, “there will be some ground rules. Boarding school would have given you structure. Structure that you need.”

Cordelia nodded.

Rules.

She was used to Rules.

Bruce held up one finger and said, “You cannot leave this house without my explicit permission. Being stressed or angry with me is not an acceptable excuse to run away. If you need space, you can ask for it.”

She nodded again, ignoring how the movement made her still hungover body nauseous.

He held up a second finger. “You are not allowed to consume alcohol. You are too young, it isn’t healthy, and it will impair your judgment.”

Again, she nodded.

A third finger was lifted into the air. “And you are not, under any circumstances, allowed to steal phones from our guests.”

This one made her cheeks flush. “You know about that?”

“Yes.”

Cordelia had the decency to feel embarrassed about that. “Okay. I won’t do any of those things, Bruce.”

Bruce hummed and took a sip from his mug. “Good.”

Cordelia watched the stiff movement before looking away and preparing her own plate with food.

She shouldn’t have expected this lunch to be like the lunches from before. Of course Bruce would feel awkward around her after everything he had learned.

Cordelia took a tiny sip from her coffee and watched Bruce do the same.

Maybe it was her turn to reach out.

“…Bruce?”

He grunted.

She picked at her biscuit. “How did you know where I was last night? You even knew I was in the car and not the nightclub.”

Bruce was visibly suspicious at this question. “Why do you ask? Are you going to use that information to sneak out again?”

“No.”

His eyes narrowed.

This made her sad for some reason. “I’m not a liar, Bruce. I’m just… making conversation. One detective to another?”

When that did not seem to move him, Cordelia slumped and tried to think of a different conversation starter.

It was then that he answered — quietly, hesitatingly: “I… knew Miss Everlott hadn’t left her phone in the second sitting room. I’d watched her put it inside her pocket. So when she complained about it being missing, I knew that you were somehow responsible.

“You weren’t in your room. Or in any of the other rooms you’re known to locate. I checked the cameras pointing toward the gates to see if you had run away again, and saw you leave wearing heels. This meant that you weren’t planning on walking very far. The next thing I checked was Miss Everlott’s phone for any recent activity. That’s how I knew that you were being contacted by a number owned by a boy named James Thompson.

“He had no car registered in the system, but his brother did.

“All I had to do after that was search the street cameras until I found the license plate I was looking for. That’s when I saw you both getting into the backseat of his brother’s car.”

Cordelia had propped her chin in her hand as she listened to his thought process in solving the small mystery of where she’d gone and why she’d stolen Miss Everlott’s phone. And as she listened, she could feel the tension in the air ease.

She’d chosen the right topic of conversation.

“I didn’t know you had access into the street cameras,” Cordelia said.

The only cameras she’d accounted for were the ones on the gates that surrounded Wayne Manor. After she and James drove past them, she’d thought they were both in the clear.

But she was wrong. Her escape plan had been flawed from the very beginning due to one glaring reason: Bruce was not Thomas, and she’d forgotten that.

Thomas Wayne was never very good with technology. He’d been a brilliant man on all other accounts, but if a case required hacking a system or creating a code, then he almost always had to rely on Cordelia’s expertise.

Bruce did not have the same inadequacy.

“I have access to any camera that I want to have access to,” her brother said.

Bruce stated this so simply. As if it was something that anyone interested could also have access to.

But it wasn’t. It was groundbreaking. It was —

“Cool,” Cordelia said, and dared to let some of her smile come back. 

It was the right thing to do. The last bit of tension around Bruce’s eyes eased away at the sight.

Cordelia could feel her heart fluttering with excitement again.

They could start again; all was not lost. She would not have to be so alone anymore, with just Alfred to keep her company and the small possibility that maybe she could see James again.

All she had to do was make Bruce believe that she was no longer scared of him.

“That explains how you knew where James lived,” she added. “I think you really terrified him by knowing that. You should have seen his face when you were walking back to the car.”

Bruce didn’t respond. He took another slow sip from his mug.

But Cordelia was no longer paying attention to him. Her hangover was starting to fade as whatever pills Alfred had given her took effect. And with her fading hangover came clearer memories of last night.

She could remember dancing with James, and having him kiss her nose and cheeks, and spinning her around on the dance floor despite the angered looks they were getting from all sides.

Cordelia had fun last night.

She really, really had fun.

“Do you know if his brother’s car is alright?” She asked.

“No,” Bruce said.

“Can you check?”

“…Yes.”

Cordelia closed her eyes in relief. The last thing she wanted was for James to blame her for his brother’s car being stolen or broken into. “Thank you.”

The sound of light clinking was coming from the pantry as Alfred continued to put away ingredients.

Cordelia opened her eyes and began to choose which sandwiches looked tastiest. Now that her head had stopped spinning, her stomach was practically screaming at her that she hadn’t eaten a full meal since lunch yesterday.

She bit into a tiny cucumber sandwich that was so scrumptious her feet started to kick beneath the table.

Beside her, Bruce was cutting into his already bite-sized sandwiches with a fork and a knife.

He did that a lot: ate finger food with utensils. Cordelia wondered if this was a habit he’d picked up from his mother back when she was sane, because she never saw their father or Alfred do it.

“James is another thing I wanted to bring up,” Bruce said, deceptively casual. “I don’t want you seeing him anymore.”

He brought a small piece of tuna sandwich to his mouth and began to chew.

Cordelia stopped eating. “Why.”

“He’s using you.”

She hummed and tried not to look as upset as she was feeling. They’d had this conversation before, back when she’d been ignorant of James’s intentions and Bruce had been well aware of them.

At first, it had hurt her to realize that her friendship was not enough for the boys at the shopping center. But after spending so long on her own in this manor with no Batgirl to distract her… she didn’t care.

Most relationships were a give and take, anyway: her father had used her as a soldier, and James wanted to use her for physical pleasure.

At least with James she did not have to worry about abuse.

“You mean for sex?” Cordelia said. She picked up her food again, pretending that this conversation meant nothing — as if the thought of getting rid of her only friend didn’t send a flash of panic through the very core of her being. “I know that already. You’re the one who told me a few weeks ago, remember?”

It was Bruce’s turn to stop eating at the word sex. His face did a bizarre spasm.

“Cordelia, you’re not ready for that,” he said.

She gave him a strange look before swallowing her cucumber sandwich and saying, “Of course I am, Bruce. I know everything about sex.”

“What.”

“I took health class in middle school just like everyone else did,” she said. “My teachers gave us the entire overview: the female anatomy, the male anatomy, how to avoid diseases, how to avoid pregnancy, and to always get consent beforehand.”

From Bruce’s expression, one would think that it had been Cordelia who cornered him with the topic of sex. His eyes darted toward the pantry — toward where Alfred was still stacking ingredients and successfully avoiding the conversation that neither Wayne wanted to have with each other.

“There’s more to it than that,” Bruce forced out.

Cordelia frowned. “Like what?”

His response was short: “Emotion.”

“Not all the time. Sometimes it’s just about release. And James really needed —“

“I don’t care what James needed,” Bruce said, quickly cutting her off before she could finish her sentence.

She had never seen Bruce so awkward before. There was even a tinge of pink appearing at the center of his cheekbones. The sight was almost… funny.

Cordelia recalled her own feelings about Bruce having sex, and completely understood why he looked seconds away from bolting out of the room. But that was where her sisterly compassion ended — because even if the thought of Bruce being intimate with someone made her want to puke, she knew it wasn’t fair to forbid him from making special friends.

Some of her amusement at his expense must have shown on her face, because one moment Bruce was wrestling to find the right words and the next his blue eyes had sharpened like icy daggers.

“Is your own well-being a joke to you?” He snapped.

The flinch came involuntarily. She hadn’t expected his anger.

“No, Bruce,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

His glare pinned her where she sat; unrelenting, unapologetic, analytical. “I’m beginning to believe that you enjoy making the people who care about you worry.”

Cordelia shook her head, shocked. “I don’t.”

“There has to be a reason why you continuously make such poor decisions,” Bruce said. “Out of everyone in Gotham, you chose to become intoxicated with one of the boys that you knew I didn’t approve of. One that cares so little about you that he would get you drunk before shoving you into the backseat of his car. Do you have any idea how —“

Bruce cut himself off and took a deep breath. His voice had slowly gotten louder and louder during his rant, until it echoed back at them around the kitchen.

The next time he spoke, it was significantly more restrained: “Do you have any idea what was running through my mind when I saw you on camera? You were stumbling down the street half naked with a total stranger. And then that stranger started pressuring you into the back of his car. I thought I would get there too late.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Cordelia protested. “I was in complete control of the situation.”

“You could barely walk.”

“That’s a…” she stopped herself from saying the word exaggeration.

She did not want to fight with Bruce anymore, and that was a sure way to increase his anger.

Cordelia took a deep breath and restarted her sentence: “I was walking just fine. Besides, I don’t need to be able to walk in order to defend myself. If James ever does something I don’t like, I am more than capable of taking him down.”

“Like you did with Jerome Price and Ronald Davis?”

That felt like a slap to the face: knowing that a part of Bruce blamed her for what happened that day.

Cordelia crossed her arms protectively over her chest, and glanced over to where Alfred was still in the pantry. But he did not make a sudden appearance. It seemed like he was not willing to help any of the Waynes today.

“That was different,” Cordelia said quietly. “I didn’t check to see if they had weapons. I made sure with James. Okay? I was careful.”

“It wasn’t that different,” Bruce said. “Jerome Price subdued you with a gun, and James Thompson subdued you with alcohol.”

Cordelia did not want to hear this. He was turning her amazing, fun night with her new friend into something ugly and skin-crawling. What she remembered as affectionate kisses on the neck started to feel slimy and gross.

Again, her eyes darted to the pantry.

“Don’t compare them,” she said. “James is my friend. Jerome is a monster.”

“They are both men who saw someone in a vulnerable situation and used it to their advantage,” Bruce corrected, unknowingly echoing the epiphany she’d had last night.

“Bruce, please stop.”

“You have to hear this, Cordelia. You cannot go around trusting people blindly —“

“Last night is one of my few good memories,” she explained desperately. “Please, Bruce. Please. I don’t want it taken away from me.”

Cordelia wasn’t sure what had caused Bruce to stop speaking, but he did.

The tension from before had made a glaring return, and Cordelia was too frazzled to think of a way to ease it away again.

She pulled her mug back to her lips and took absent-minded, mechanical sips.

“I won’t talk about it again,” Bruce said.

Cordelia nodded gratefully, but he wasn’t finished.

“If you promise not to see James anymore.”

The mug hid from Bruce how her lips started quivering at his words.

She was suddenly reminded of the boy from The Secret Garden. Back when she and Bruce had watched the movie together, she had identified more with the little girl. But now she could see that her life was not as unstructured and free as that.

She was the little boy. The one who wasn’t allowed to leave the house or open the curtains or have any friends because everyone around him was convinced that he was too weak to handle any of that.

Maybe her brother meant well. But his protectiveness was starting to feel a lot like suffocation.

“Bruce, can’t you just trust that I know what I’m doing?” She asked.

“No,” he said. “I am not budging on this, Cordelia. You might think I’m being unfair, but this is my job as your guardian: to protect you, provide for you, and guide you away from making mistakes that could ruin your life.”

The thing was… he wasn’t going to budge on this. Cordelia could hear the truth of that in every word he spoke, the same way he hadn’t budged on the topic of Barry.

Bruce was stubborn. And Cordelia would have to find a way to deal with that.

“Okay,” she said.

He looked surprised, but pleased. “You won’t see James?”

“I won’t see James,” she confirmed, and felt a delicate light that had been shining within her since last night flicker away for good.

“Good,” he said.

Cordelia hummed in acknowledgement, and then quietly went back to eating.

It wouldn’t be so bad not having friends. At least she had Alfred, and Bruce would probably show up to future meals, as well. And once she got Batgirl back, she would be so full of purpose that the emptiness of the hours would stop hurting so terribly.

She could feel Bruce staring at her as she ate.

It took everything she had to meet his eyes and fake a smile, to make it seem like he hadn’t mercilessly crushed a flower that had only just began to grow.

He did not return this smile, either. Something like regret crossed his face.

They kept eating quietly for a moment before Bruce said, sort of slowly, “I also have some news to share.”

Cordelia felt an inkling of dread. “Oh?”

“I invited Dick to come over and stay with us for a while.”

It was an electric shock. Cordelia’s head snapped up to gawk at her brother. “My nephew?”

Bruce hummed. “He’s been wanting to meet you for a while now, so last night I —“

“When?”

Bruce frowned at being interrupted. “He should be here tomorrow morning.”

Cordelia had no idea what to do with all the excitement and energy that was traveling through her body like an electric current. “How long is he staying?”

“That depends on how needed he is in Bludhaven,” Bruce said, as if a vague answer was enough. “But I set up a good team in his absence, so he should be able to stay for at least a month.”

A small shriek left Cordelia and startled Bruce enough that he spilled some of his coffee.

Cordelia clapped her hands over her mouth.

Every thought of James completely left her brain. Instead, she was thinking about how Bruce had told her she couldn’t meet his children because she wasn’t ready — but he must have thought differently now, which meant that soon she would be meeting all of his children.

Dick and Tim and Damian and Cass.

Even Jason might come to visit her.

She’d have all her family under the same roof. And there were so many of them. It would be impossible to be lonely in a house with so many people.

A desperate, greedy emotion soon mixed in with her excitement at the thought.

Cordelia’s shriek must have startled Alfred, too, because he finally returned to the pantry to see what all the commotion was about.

“Miss Cordelia, are you alright?” He asked.

“I told her the news,” Bruce said.

“Ah,” Alfred said. “I see you are pleased?”

Cordelia nodded, her hands still over her mouth.

“Master Dick will share in your excitement, I’m sure,” Alfred said.

Cordelia was glad that Alfred had faith in her likability, but she still remembered Jason’s reaction to finding out she was his aunt, and she had no intention of repeating history with another nephew.

So she hopped out of her chair and announced, “I have to prepare so that Dick loves me. Do you have files on your son, Bruce?”

“Miss Cordelia, you do not need to —“

“I have files on all my children,” Bruce said. “I’ll print them out and give you copies.”

Alfred sent Bruce a look full of judgement.

But Cordelia was satisfied. She eagerly waited for him to move, but he just started to cut his tiny sandwiches with a knife and a fork.

“Bruce?” She prompted.

He paused. His fork was halfway to his mouth. “Yes?”

“Can you print them out right now?”

Amazingly, the corners of his lips twitched. Cordelia felt like she was being laughed at.

“Don’t you want to finish eating lunch with me?” He asked. “I thought quality time was important to you.”

“It is, but…” Cordelia shifted where she stood and glanced at the clock. The seconds looked like they were flying around the face of it rather than ticking slowly. “I have to study.”

“Miss Cordelia, I really don’t think that is necessary. Master Dick will love you regardless of the first impression you make,” Alfred said. “As a matter of fact, I believe the general public finds it off-putting when they meet a stranger who knows too much about them.”

“I’ll be subtle,” Cordelia said. She turned back to Bruce, who was slowly cutting up another sandwich. This frustrated her enough to say: “Bruce, the way you eat is not normal.”

“Eating with utensils keeps your hands clean,” he responded calmly.

Alfred sighed at them and walked away.

Cordelia watched Bruce take another small bite of his sandwich before admitting defeat and sitting back down. “Okay. I’ll finish eating lunch with you. But can you at least tell me about him? What’s he like?”

Bruce amusement at her expense dimmed at her question. When he answered, he spoke with sincerity: “Dick is… everything you’re hoping he will be, Cordelia. There is no one else like him, because there are very few people capable of inspiring the sort of love and loyalty he’s earned over the years. 

“You’ll be proud to call him your nephew, Cordelia. I know this because I have always been proud to call him my son.”

His words replayed in Cordelia’s head for the rest of the day.

She stood up half the night with Dick’s file, which had been pruned of any of his vigilante work because Bruce said “you’re going to meet Dick, not Nightwing.”

But Cordelia did not waste time arguing. She quickly ran to her room and began to highlight every small detail she thought would help her win his love, like how he enjoyed teaching his siblings gymnastics tricks, and how he had a sweet tooth, and how he was slightly old-fashioned but still young at heart.

She highlighted and highlighted and highlighted until the pages were so full of highlighter that the colors began to bleed into each other and the words became ineligible. But it didn’t matter, since Cordelia had already memorized everything she’d read.

The next morning, Cordelia woke up extra early.

She wanted to rush right down stairs to see if they had a new visitor, but knew that would not be the right first impression.

From what she’d learned about Dick: he enjoyed fashion.

Even if the fashion he sometimes enjoyed was sparkly and neon.

Cordelia did not own anything neon or sparkly, but she did have a blue long-sleeve shirt, which was apparently his favorite color. So she slipped that on over her head, brushed her hair into a ponytail, and raced downstairs until she got to the kitchen — and burst inside.

There was a tall, muscular man standing next to Alfred. He was leaning a hip against the kitchen counter and laughing at something the butler had said. The laugh was free and energetic, bouncing around the kitchen like a living thing; and his smile was so genuine that Cordelia could not help but stare at it.

Both of the men turned when the door clicked shut behind her.

“Dick Grayson,” Cordelia said.

His smile widened.

“Cordelia Wayne,” he said back teasingly.

She blinked at the slightly mocking tone of his greeting. She hadn’t prepared to be mocked. Unwillingly, she glanced at Alfred for further guidance.

This caused a soft cooing sound to leave Dick’s lips. “Aww, she’s looking at you for help, Alfie. Like a lost little bat.”

“Master Dick,” Alfred said, “perhaps offer Miss Cordelia a proper greeting?”

The reprimand made Dick chuckle. “Sorry, Alfie.”

He pushed off the counter and walked over to where Cordelia stood next to the kitchen exit. Everything about his posture and movements were relaxed and easy — not at all like the way Bruce or Alfred or even Jason moved.

Once he was close enough, he held out his hand for her to shake.

“Hi Cordelia,” he said. “I’m Dick Grayson. Your nephew.”

His hand was warm in hers. She stared at it in wonder, before meeting his gaze.

There was no way that he knew how much this moment meant to her, how much finally meeting him meant to her. But he was smiling down at her as if he had a clue.

“Hi,” was all she could say at first. His eyes were a deep blue and glittering like the sea right before the sun set. “I’m your aunt.”

Cordelia felt stupid immediately afterward. Why would she say something so obvious? But Dick started talking as if he was unaware of her embarrassment.

“Alfred said he made all your favorites,” he said with a gesture to the kitchen table. He leaned down conspiratorially to loudly whisper: “Congrats on having him wrapped around your little finger, but the way. He’s never done that for me or my siblings so soon after we snuck out.”

Cordelia was barely listening to his words. All she could think was: he likes me, he likes me, he likes me.

She found herself subconsciously mirroring his smile as he spoke.

Behind him, Alfred said, “You boys know better. Miss Cordelia, come sit. I’ve prepared your plate for you.”

She didn’t want to drop Dick’s hand, which was still so warm in hers. The callouses she could feel on his palm told her a short story about who Dick was; he was a hard worker, a gymnast.

A trapeze artist.

Dick was not someone who shied away from his past, but embraced it.

He was also looking down at her expectantly, waiting for her to respond to Alfred’s request.

Cordelia dropped his hand. “Okay. Thank you, Alfred.”

She edged around Dick. And since she was watching him so closely, she could see that he was doing just the same with her.

Observant, Cordelia thought. Like me. Like Bruce.

It almost made her breathless to find a similarity that connected the three of them.

Cordelia sat down at the table, and was surprised when Dick eagerly plopped down onto the seat directly beside her. He looked up and down the table curiously before gasping dramatically.

“Wait!” he said. “Alfred? Where’s my plate? Is this how it is now? Only your favorites get to eat? Should I be worried that you’re going to starve my poor sister and brothers?”

Alfred sighed. He set a warm plate of food in front of the younger man. “Master Dick, you would have made an excellent stage actor.”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice how you avoided the favoritism topic, Alfred. As far as I’m concerned, that’s an admission of guilt.”

“I would never admit to such a thing.”

“I can’t believe you have a favorite,” Dick continued tragically. “This is really going to hurt my development years.”

Alfred looked so exasperated with him that Cordelia couldn’t help but giggle.

Dick brightened like a puppy who was offered a treat.

“I made a Wayne laugh on the first day of meeting them,” he said proudly. “This has never happened before. Alfred, you witnessed it, too, right?”

“I did indeed,” Alfred said with a soft smile. “Miss Cordelia, is there anything else you will need?”

“No, thank you, Alfred,” Cordelia said.

“I won’t need anything, either, Alfie,” Dick pointed out.

Cordelia knew that Alfred was amused underneath his stoic expression. “I was going to ask you, too, Master Dick.”

“You can never be sure when you’re not a favorite.”

Alfred shook his head at Dick before excusing himself from the kitchen.

If she had been with Bruce, then he would have let silence fill the kitchen. But Dick did not waste any time to engage Cordelia in a conversation.

“Do you have plans for today?” He asked her.

Cordelia never had plans. “Um. No.”

“Great!” Dick said cheerily. “What do you think about going to the trampoline park?”

“What’s a trampoline park?” She asked as she envisioned a dozen trampolines scattered across a soccer field.

Dick blinked. “That settles it, then. We’re going to the trampoline park.”

“Okay.” She smiled up at him. He could have told her that they were going to crawl through mud together and she would have agreed. “Bruce told me you’re a gymnast. Can you teach me a few tricks when we’re there?”

Dick was practically glowing next to her. “You bet!”

Her feet started to kick under her again. Her studying was paying off.

Dick’s eyes flickered downward before meeting her eyes with a look so beaming and proud that Cordelia wanted this moment to never end. “You are the happiest little Wayne I have ever seen in my life. Are you sure you’re related to Bruce and Damian?”

That question would have hurt if it was coming from anyone else but her nephew. But it was, so all she did was shrug. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

An odd expression took over his face, but it was gone before she could properly analyze it.

“When are we going to the trampoline park?” She asked.

“When you’re done eating,” he answered. “Speaking of, save room for ice cream.”

Cordelia almost pointed out that it was much too early in the day for something so sugary, but thought better of it. If ice cream would make Dick happy, then she would let him get ice cream.

He began to shuffle food onto his plate, completely disregarding food groups to collect the most unhealthy items Alfred had provided. “And after ice cream, we can go to the movie theatre. I don’t really know what movies are out right now, but we can find something exciting to watch. And if there’s time after that, we can visit an arcade and just go all out with Bruce’s money. Maybe win some random kids a few expensive gifts.”

Cordelia’s mind tried to follow his finicky schedule as she watched him douse his chocolate chip pancakes with maple syrup and then top it all with enough whip cream to hide the pancakes underneath.

“Bruce said that all this was okay?” She asked.

“Bruce gave me his black card,” Dick said with a shrug. “That means he’s fully expecting us to spend more than a couple hundred dollars on an arcade game.”

“No, I meant…” she glanced at the kitchen doorway. “He’s okay with me leaving the manor? He said I wasn’t allowed to.”

Dick stopped powdering her pancakes to give her a narrowed look. “He said that?”

She nodded.

“I’ll talk to him.”

Cordelia didn’t like the way he said that. Like talk really meant yell or fight. “That’s okay. I just need his explicit permission before agreeing to go with you.”

Dick was no longer smiling. In fact, he looked sort of annoyed.

“That was the phrasing he used?” He asked.

Cordelia hummed. “Yes.”

She picked out a few of her favorite breakfast foods and began to eat. The sooner she finished, the sooner she could ask Bruce if she could spend time outdoors with her nephew.

Cordelia was almost positive that he’d say yes, but Bruce has been far from predictable up until this point.

Dick was silent next to her as she quickly ate through her food. Cordelia was so used to silence that she barely noticed it. The comforting sound of a clock ticking and utensils clicking filled the space as nephew and aunt ate beside each other.

And all throughout the meal, Cordelia kept sending glances in his direction. He still looked vaguely annoyed, but since it wasn’t aimed at her, she did not take much stock into it. She just couldn’t believe that he was here eating with her. That this was her nephew and that he liked her. That she was eating with a family member who was so excited to spend the day with her that he’d already planned it all out.

At one point, Dick must have felt her staring at him, because he turned to her at the same time she turned to him.

Cordelia flushed at being caught and looked away. “Sorry. I just — is that me?”

On the counter, right where Dick had been standing when she first walked into the kitchen, she could see a newspaper.

And her face was on the cover of it.

“Wait —“ Dick began.

But Cordelia was already across the room and plucking the paper up from the counter.

The photo was of her, and of Bruce, too. It was a photo from the moment Bruce had started to escort her into his car outside of Club Effie. His head hadn’t gone down yet, so anyone with eyes could see that he was visibly angry in the picture, and it was clear that the person he was angry with was the wide-eyed girl beside him.

Cordelia rarely saw pictures of herself, so it was almost like she was staring at a completely different person on the cover of that newspaper. Her black hair was tousled on top of her head, her cheeks were stained red from the cold, and the giant jacket that Bruce had lended her was so large that it passed her skirt and made it look like she wasn’t wearing any pants.

And, finally, above their faces was this headline printed in bold black: Wayne’s New Wild Child.

Chapter 37: Batman vs Big Bird

Summary:

“I’d say this is the best first impression I’ve ever made with a Wayne,” Dick said. She could hear the smile in his voice. “But Bruce basically adopted me the moment we met.”

“I’d adopt you, too, but you’re already claimed,” Cordelia promised.

He chuckled, surprised. “I’m also older than you, Little Bat.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

Before Cordelia could read any further, Dick snatched the newspaper from her hands.

“Give that back,” she said.

But he was rolling it up so that the only thing she could see was the image of her own curious eyes staring back at her.

“Why?” He asked.

Cordelia gawked at him. “Because it’s about me.”

“No, it isn’t,” Dick said. “Lesson number one when it comes to becoming Celebrity Adjacent: the person they describe in the news is never you. It’s whoever they want you to be.”

He gave this advice with so much experience and wisdom that Cordelia felt like it could only be the truth. Still: her picture, which didn’t exist anywhere else in the manor except for her legal documents, was on the newspaper. A newspaper that would also be sent to a bunch of other doorsteps in Gotham.

Cordelia reached for the paper again. Dick held it above his head.

“Dick,” Cordelia said patiently. “Please give me back the newspaper.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to read it.”

“I disagree,” she held out her hand expectantly. “Please?”

He got that odd expression on his face again. “You can’t just say ‘please’ like that and expect me to crumble, Little Bat.”

Her eyebrows crinkled in confusion.

Well… if it worked.

“Please?” She repeated.

Dick sighed in defeat and handed the paper over. But not without adding: “Fine. But only so you can find out why every single one of us avoids reading gossip columns about ourselves.”

Cordelia flicked to the page where the story was written, and was surprised to see that they had even more photos of her to print. There was another one with her and Bruce outside his car; except that this time his head was down and she was leaning against his side to peer up at him.

The other two were slightly blurry pictures of her in the nightclub, as if the civilian who’d taken them hadn’t been focusing on her but on the crowd in general.

In one of them, she was staring directly into the camera with a raised chin and a small smile. The outfit she’d chosen was on full display — and it was only then that Cordelia realized how naked she looked wearing the thin-strapped top and the dark mini skirt.

In the other, she was being held in the air by James as he spun her. Her head was tilted back and her mouth was frozen mid-laugh.

James was staring up at her with open admiration.

Cordelia’s attention lingered on him, her heart aching dully, before she began to read the article.

EXCLUSIVE: Gotham’s resident billionaire Bruce Wayne, 39, has taken in another orphan!

Sources close to Wayne revealed that this new child, rumored to be around 15 years of age, is a distant relative to the playboy billionaire. Her background is currently unknown, but our sources believe that there is a lot more going on than even Wayne is aware of.

“He’s impulsive and a bleeding heart,” a friend close to Wayne says, “there are bound to be people who take advantage of that.”

Wayne has become famous for his adoption frenzy over the years. Beginning with his unexpected adoption of Richard Grayson, a boy he met at a circus, and ending with yet another adoption of Cassandra Cain just under a year ago.

Friends of the impulsive billionaire are becoming increasingly concerned with his erratic habits, but this new orphan has caused a stir among Gotham’s elite, especially after she was spotted drinking alcohol and experimenting with drugs in the most dangerous parts of Gotham.

“She’s belligerent,” our source says when asked about Wayne’s new orphan. “I’m not at all surprised that she spends her time with boys from the Bowery, doing who knows what with them. She likely did it to get Bruce’s attention. I met her once and noticed that she could not stand when his attention was on other women. It is so concerning how young girls nowadays have become so attention hungry. Poor Bruce really needs someone looking out for him and making sure he doesn’t take in every orphan that asks.”

Cordelia read the rest of the article, narrowing her eyes at how often the “source” called her a slut or a whore.

“The source is Miss Everlott,” she said.

“Who?” Dick asked.

“Miss Everlott,” Cordelia repeated. “The woman that Bruce is dating.”

Dick looked confused. “Bruce introduced you to one of his dates?”

“No, I interrupted them,” Cordelia said moodily. “It was an accident.”

And, apparently, her interrupting the date meant that she deserved to be gossiped about on wide-spread media.

Dick surprised her by chuckling. “Bruce used to hate it when I did that.”

Cordelia frowned at him and then looked back down at the article. The way Miss Everlott described her… like she believed that Cordelia would genuinely ruin Bruce’s life.

Was that the impression that she gave off? That she would do anything for Bruce’s attention? Even hurt him?

That was what Bruce had suggested just yesterday, too.

I’m beginning to believe that you enjoy making the people who care about you worry, he’d snapped.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dick advised. He was leaning against the counter watching her. “I get called a slut all the time. The only thing it means is that there are a bunch of people that want to be with you. Take it as a compliment.”

But Cordelia was shaking her head before he even finished his sentence. “It’s not just that. It’s everything else — the way I’m described. What if your siblings read this? They’re going to think I want to hurt their father.”

If they read this… that would be their first impression of her. That she was attention-seeking, dangerous, and a nuisance to Bruce.

They would see her as something that they needed to get rid of, not as another member of the family.

This article could ruin everything for her.

“No one under thirty reads the newspaper,” Dick assured her, cutting through her panic. “And even if they did, they know better than to listen to gossip about the family.”

She wanted to believe him, but the photos of her in the newspaper recaptured her attention. Was that what she looked like? Arrogant and careless?

How would anyone ever be able to look past it —

“If anything,” Dick continued, “my siblings will be more upset with Bruce for dating someone who talks to journalists when things don’t go her way.”

The more Dick kept cutting through her panic, the harder it became for her to recapture it.

Cordelia gave him a slanted, suspicious look. He was still leaning casually against the counter, shoulders relaxed, as if he held no stakes in this conversation.

But he had to have been doing that on purpose.

“Are you being truthful?” She asked. “Or are you saying these things because you think they’ll make me feel better?”

The corner of his lips twitched up into a sheepish grin.

Cordelia’s eyes narrowed as she processed this. So he was doing it on purpose. He didn’t want her to worry, even if what she was worrying about was valid.

Should this annoy her? That he was treating her with kid gloves even though she was the aunt and he was the nephew? Or should she be happy that he cared enough about her feelings to want to cheer her up?

In the end, the answer was easy.

Cordelia took the article about her out of the newspaper stack and tossed it in the trash.

Dick closed the lid of the trash happily. “Down with gossip!”

Cordelia shook her head at his antics, reluctantly amused, before looking down at the rest of the newspaper — and saw a list of people who had died over the weekend.

She forgot that newspapers made these sort of lists.

She’d stopped reading them a few years after she started to kill people. The blurbs from their family members just became too much for her to handle.

And even though she hadn’t killed anyone in this new timeline yet, old memories almost made her toss this piece of the newspaper away, too.

That is, until one name stood out to her: Jerome Price.

Cordelia did a double take, hardly able to believe it.

She hadn’t killed him that night. She’d left him bloody and crying in the alley. She’d granted him mercy.

Yet he died anyway.

“He has terrible luck,” Dick said, peeking down at the paper.

Cordelia looked at him curiously. 

“He was planning on leaving Gotham yesterday,” Dick told her. “His plane was booked and everything.”

She couldn’t help but stare. “How did you know that?”

“I was there when he booked it.” Cordelia must have looked as confused as she felt, because Dick crossed his arms and explained further. “Jason called me after what happened. So I came here to confront Bruce and ask him why he hasn’t told any of us about you yet, but Bruce wasn’t exactly in a talking mood.”

Cordelia looked away. “He was mad at me. It wasn’t your fault.”

“It wasn’t yours, either,” Dick said. “Bruce wasn’t mad at either of us. He was dressed as Batman and on his way to the hospital where Jerome Price and Ronald Davis were being treated.”

The thought of Bruce meeting up with the men who tried to attack her made Cordelia want to throw up. “Why.”

Dick took the newspaper from her to see Jerome’s name listed with the rest of the deaths. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking as he read the blurb, but his eyes were so dark and glittering that a shiver passed its way through her.

“To leave his own mark on them,” he said. “Jason really messed them up from what we could see, but Bruce wanted to scare them enough to make sure that they never came back to Gotham. Ronald left a week later. I guess Jerome decided to take one last stroll through Crime Alley before he left, too. We don’t know for sure who shot and killed him yet, but Batman has his suspicions.”

This information sunk in slowly. That’s how difficult it was for Cordelia to imagine Batman ever doing something like that for her.

“Bruce… went to confront them?” Cordelia asked doubtfully.

“Of course he did,” Dick said. He put his hand on her shoulder to get her attention, and she was surprised to see how earnest his eyes were. “I know it might not mean much. That what happened might still be hurting you. But we have your back.”

Something lodged in the back of Cordelia’s throat at his words. “No, it… it means everything.”

And then he smiled at her, and Cordelia suddenly felt the same pull towards him that she’d felt toward Jason. Like her heart had extended out of her body and was wrapping its strings protectively around the man in front of her. 

She hadn’t understood this pull at the time. She’d simply stared at Jason and basked in the feeling.

But now she did. This pull meant that they were hers — her family, her nephews, the people that she was supposed to protect.

Cordelia hardly knew what she was doing before she did it. But one moment Dick was beaming down at her with a hand on her shoulder, and the next she had jumped up to wrap her arms around his neck.

Dick made a startled, half-strangled sound, but let himself be yanked down into the hug.

Cordelia hummed happily and held tight.

He laid a hand on the small of her back and pulled her in closer.

“I’d say this is the best first impression I’ve ever made with a Wayne,” Dick said. She could hear the smile in his voice. “But Bruce basically adopted me the moment we met.”

“I’d adopt you, too, but you’re already claimed,” Cordelia promised.

He chuckled, surprised. “I’m also older than you, Little Bat.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

She tugged him even closer to her until her cheek was pressed against his shoulder and she could hear his heartbeat. 

He rested his own cheek against the top of her head.

It was so incredibly easy to love him, Cordelia realized. Just like it was easy to love Jason. 

Because even though their eyes were blue and their hair was black, their eyes were not Wayne Blue and their hair was not Wayne Black. She did not look at them and become reminded of the man who still haunted her every nightmare like she did with Bruce.

She did not have to look at them and feel a complicated mix of fear and grief and love.

These boys were adopted.

And that made them perfect.

Bruce and Alfred entered the kitchen at that very moment and blinked at what they saw.

“Dick,” Bruce frowned. “You’re here early.”

Cordelia reluctantly let her nephew go so he could address his father.

“It’s nice to see you, too, Bruce,” Dick said as he straightened up his back.

Bruce grunted. They watched him survey the scene like he always did when he entered a room, and then watched him freeze once he noticed the newspaper in Dick’s hands.

“She already saw it,” Dick said. “I was going to throw it out, but then she walked in and got distracted.”

Cordelia could feel Bruce scan her face, trying to see how she felt about the article without actually asking.

“It’s fine,” she said hurriedly. “It doesn’t bother me anymore. Dick said being a slut is great.”

Bruce’s eyes widened.

Alfred looked downright alarmed.

“Master Dick,” he protested.

“That is not what I said!” Dick exclaimed. “I just said that she should take it as a compliment.”

Cordelia didn’t see a real difference in those two statements, but decided it was best not to point that out based on everyone’s reactions.

Bruce pointed a stern finger at his son. “Find better ways to phrase things.”

Dick looked offended. “You’re lecturing me on how to communicate?”

Bruce hummed unhappily, but otherwise had no response. Cordelia watched him go over to the kitchen table with Alfred and sit at his usual place.

Beside her, Dick leaned down to whisper, “Did you do that on purpose?”

Cordelia frowned at him. “Did I do what on purpose?”

Dick didn’t get the chance to answer. Bruce, who had been grumbling to himself as he read the newspaper article, closed it with a slam. “I have to call Lacey and get her to retract her statements.”

Alfred was clearing up the table of Dick’s and Cordelia’s plates. “That would be best, Master Bruce. This article can do a lot of damage to how Miss Cordelia is treated in society. I think it is about time that we start planning her official introduction.”

“Don’t you think that’s sort of outdated?” Dick piped in. “I doubt she wants to be paraded around a bunch of rich snobs.”

“Not all of the rich are snobs, Master Dick,” Alfred said stiffly. “And even if they were, they are still part of the society that Miss Cordelia will grow up in. We have to make sure that she is presented in the very best light, or else they might treat her badly.”

“That sounds like a society full of snobs to me.”

“Alfred is right, Dick,” Bruce said. “You never had to experience it because the public always had a lot of sympathy from the moment you came to Gotham, but Jason had a bad time in the press. It even affected his school life. I don’t want to make the same mistakes with Cordelia.”

This made Dick pause. 

Cordelia could tell from his expression that he was remembering a few unsavory moments regarding the press and his younger brother. Whatever had happened clearly wasn’t something that he also wanted to happen to Cordelia.

And almost as if remembering she was there, Dick turned to her and asked, “What do you think?”

Cordelia felt a jolt of surprise at being addressed. People so rarely asked for her opinion in her own timeline, and that hardly changed in this timeline, either. But before she could open her mouth to answer, Bruce said, “She doesn’t know enough about the Gotham elite to make that decision for herself.”

She felt a flash of annoyance. She knew about the elite — they committed some of the worst sort of crimes.

But, again, she was interrupted before she could speak up for herself.

“So her opinion doesn’t matter?” Dick demanded.

“I never said her opinion didn’t matter,” Bruce said.

“The implication was there.”

“You’re imagining things, Dick.”

“If I’m imagining it, then why didn’t you let her answer?”

Bruce scowled. “I didn’t invite you to my home so that you could start arguing with me, Dick.”

“No, you invited me over so that I could help. And that’s what I’m trying to do.”

“Is it?”

Their voices were steadily rising the longer their argument lasted. Cordelia’s eyes darted from one man to the other, panic swelling inside at the realization that they were arguing over her and that this was her fault and that she needed to do something to stop it before it spun out of control.

“What does an official introduction mean?” Cordelia said, interrupting Dick before he could say anything else to raise Bruce’s ire.

“It means,” Dick said with heat, “that they want to put you in a ridiculous dress and make you perform for the bored, rich, and old.”

Cordelia cringed away from him, surprised by his anger.

Dick drew back.

There was a tense pause before Cordelia decided to direct her next question to Alfred, who seemed to be the only calm person in the room. “Perform?”

“Master Dick is exaggerating,” the butler responded gently. “We are just thinking about putting together a party in your honor. The only people who will perform there are the musicians. All you will have to do, my dear, is introduce yourself to your peers and dance to a couple of songs.”

From Dick’s and Bruce’s reactions, Cordelia had been expecting something far more painful. But a party in her honor and a chance to socialize sounded nice. “I’ll do it. I like parties and dancing.”

In her mind, she recalled flashing lights, a bar full of alcohol, and a handsome boy spinning her across the dance floor. By the time she blinked the memory away, Bruce was wearing a smug expression and Dick seemed annoyed about it.

Dick turned to Cordelia and said, very seriously. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

Cordelia blinked at him, bemused. “I want to.”

“Splendid,” Alfred said with cheer that felt misplaced in the tense room. “I will begin the planning. Would you like some input, Miss Cordelia?”

There was really only one thing that Cordelia would like at her party. So she said: “Can you invite the rest of the family?”

Alfred’s smile was approving. “Of course.”

“They will come, right?” Cordelia asked. “Or does everyone in the family hate parties and dancing?”

Alfred and Bruce turned to Dick expectantly.

He was looking back at them stiffly until he caught Cordelia’s eye. She tried not to look as hopeful as she felt.

Dick’s shoulders fell in defeat. “Fine. I’ll go. But I’m against it.”

“Duly noted,” Alfred said, deadpan. “I will begin planning today.”

And with that, the butler left Cordelia in the kitchen with her brother and nephew.

This should have been an amazing moment: having two of her favorite people in the world within her reach. But neither of them could even look each other in the eye, and Cordelia had a hard time thinking of a way to solve it.

She watched as Dick moved closer to her, his arms still crossed and his eyes still glaring. Meanwhile, Bruce had started to pour himself some coffee, his knuckles white as they gripped the mug.

Cordelia scoured her brain for what could have caused this sort of tension. It was ridiculous to think that either could really be that upset over a party — something that was designed to be fun. So the only conclusion she could come to was that there was some sort of history here that she was missing.

She glanced over at her nephew, who had settled for staying almost shoulder-to-shoulder with her, as if they were soldiers on the same side of the war and her brother was their enemy.

That’s when it clicked.

The only two times she’d seen Dick upset in the last few hours was when Bruce behaved as an authority figure over her; once when she said she needed his permission to leave the manor and then again when Bruce didn’t want her opinion on whether she needed to be introduced to society.

Dick had a problem with authority.

That was something Cordelia could empathize with. Only… she’d pushed Bruce enough.

He already revealed that he was thinking about sending her away to boarding school. Cordelia was not about to risk that over something as trivial as needing to ask his permission to leave the house.

Cordelia could feel frustration bubbling in Dick beside her. He didn’t look like Bruce, but they had the same angered expression: the lips pressed together, the narrowed eyes, the slightly crinkled nose.

She had to say something before he did, or an argument would likely break loose.

“Bruce?” Cordelia asked.

The man grunted a response.

“Dick said that he wants to take me to the trampoline park,” she said. “May I go?”

Bruce hesitated. When he spoke, he sounded genuinely regretful. “This isn’t the best time to leave the manor, Cordelia. With this article out, people might recognize you on the street. They could start shouting things at you.”

Cordelia’s stomach dropped. She’d been so excited to leave with Dick that she hadn’t prepared herself for a no from Bruce.

“So?” Dick snapped. His eyes were narrowed even further. “I’m sure Cordelia can handle a couple of insults, Bruce. We both know that she’s faced worse things.”

Worse things.

He knows, Cordelia realized. He knows about Father.

It made sense that he would know. If Bruce and Alfred and Barry knew, then what was stopping Dick from knowing, too? 

The realization filled her with embarrassment.

“That doesn’t mean that I should allow her into potentially dangerous situations, Dick,” Bruce said sharply.

“You can’t be serious. She won’t be in any danger, Bruce. I’ll be with her.”

“You don’t know her like I do. She’s sensitive. Their words can actually hurt her.”

Her embarrassment skyrocketed. Sensitive? 

Cordelia stepped forward before Dick could respond to that. Two pairs of blue eyes snapped in her direction.

“Can you both stop talking about me like I’m not here?” She asked.

Dick had the decency to look away in shame, but Bruce held her gaze.

She adopted a pleading look so he didn’t feel like she was challenging him. “Bruce, I don’t care what civilians think of me. I never have. I just want to spend time with my nephew."

They held eye contact for a moment longer. It felt, to Cordelia, like he was trying to gauge which would hurt her more: getting insulted by strangers or not being able to go to the trampoline park with Dick.

They both knew the answer to that.

“You can go,” Bruce relented.

Dick scoffed in disgust. “So glad we could have your explicit permission to leave, B.”

Cordelia winced. She should never have told him that.

“Dick,” Bruce said warningly.

“What?” Dick challenged.

Cordelia grabbed his hand before they could start arguing again. “Why are you upset? He said we could go.”

Dick grit his teeth. “Because you shouldn’t have to beg to leave your house!”

“It’s okay,” she assured him.

“It’s not!” Dick was fuming. “It’s ridiculous and controlling. You’re fifteen, not a toddler.”

“You don’t know the full story, Dick,” Bruce said. “She’s impulsive. She needs supervision.”

“She’s a teenager — of course she’s impulsive. That doesn’t mean you have a right to isolate her.”

Both of their faces were growing red with barely contained rage.

Cordelia felt like everything was slipping through her fingers, despite how hard she was trying to keep them both civil. 

Bruce’s next words were said through clenched teeth: “Telling her to ask me before she leaves the house is not isolating her, Dick.”

Dick’s hands balled into fists at his side. “But keeping her a secret from the family is, Bruce.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about. You haven’t been here —“

“— that’s your fault, Bruce. If you had let me come back the minute I found out, then —“

“— then you would have undermined me at every turn —“

“— is that why you’ve been keeping her a secret? So you can train her to only listen to you —“

“— that isn’t such a bad thing, Dick. I can keep her alive —“

“— at the cost of barely living? Being stuck in this big empty house with nothing to do but count the windows —“

“— you were far from being stuck here, Dick. I could barely keep you in the house for twenty four hours straight —“

“— this isn’t about me —“

“— isn’t it?”

Bruce was on his feet now. The chair made a scraping sound as he stood up, hands clenched at his sides. His glower was filled with anger that had years to build, and it was all directed at his son.

But Dick was not flinching away from it, he was returning it tenfold.

The air crackled around them as both men breathed heavily, looking only a few seconds away from trading blows.

Beside them, Cordelia felt a sick feeling swirl in the pits of her belly.

Danger, she thought. They were in danger.

“She just survived an abusive Batman, Bruce,” Dick said angrily. “Do you really think she deserves to live with a controlling one now?”

His words struck a chord. Bruce’s face contorted with rage, looking every bit like his father right before he released all the pent up rage he could on the victim close enough to receive it.

“Enough,” Bruce snarled. He was closer to them in under a second. His finger was raised in harsh, jabbing motions toward Dick’s chest. “You are taking this too far, Dick. I didn’t provide you with that information so you could use it against me.”

He was looming over them. Cordelia felt like she was being strangled.

She could practically feel the large fingers wrapping around her throat, squeezing the air from it, and shaking her until the world got blurry.

Only the reality was worse — because what usually happened to her was about to happen to her nephew.

Once she realized this, she could not stand still.

Cordelia forced her way in between them, bravely keeping herself open so that she could press one hand against Dick’s stomach and shove him backwards toward the door. 

The other hand was raised defensively up to her brother.

Bruce froze where he stood.

Several expression flitted past his face, first surprise and then alarm and then regret and then fury, before the mask made its return and Cordelia could no longer read anything from him. She continued to push Dick backwards, but he wasn’t making an escape.

“Don’t hurt him,” Cordelia begged.

Bruce was barely moving, barely breathing, as she spoke.

He just kept staring at her with that blank mask.

“I won’t go,” she said. “Okay? I’ll stay here.”

Her hand kept shoving at Dick, but he had turned into a wall behind her. No matter how hard she pushed, he would not move an inch.

She almost wanted to turn to him, to comfort him and get him well out of Bruce’s reach, but she knew better than to turn her back on a threat.

Someone grabbed her shoulder. Cordelia shuddered violently under the grip before she realized that the hand belonged to Dick and not Bruce.

“He wasn’t going to hurt me, Cordelia,” Dick said. His voice was soft, gentle. “It’s okay.”

Her breathing became shaky, because it sounded like Dick actually believed what he was saying. But Cordelia had grown up around abuse long enough to see the signs clear as day. Bruce was about to hurt him — maybe it would have been the first time, but still. 

She had seen it in Bruce’s eyes that he had wanted to hurt Dick.

Her nephew was trying to get her to turn to him.

Cordelia grabbed his hand and squeezed it comfortingly.

“I’ll wait until you think leaving the manor is safe,” she said to Bruce.

Bruce’s blank eyes trailed away from hers to look at Dick’s. Whatever expression his son was wearing made Bruce’s back stiffen.

The older Wayne abruptly turned away from them both and said, with a voice so strained it sounded like he had swallowed a handful of glass: “Go.”

Cordelia’s own breathing was loud in her ears. “Go?”

“Go to the trampoline park with Dick,” Bruce snapped. “Spend time with him. Have… fun.”

The air was prickly around them. Things were being left unsaid, but Cordelia was so relieved that a physical fight hadn’t broken out that she didn’t really care about asking any follow up questions.

“Okay,” she said with audible relief. “Thank you, Bruce.”

He didn’t turn to her or respond. Bruce was like a statue; a cold, mysterious statue.

Maybe he had felt it, too: that desire to hurt his son. Maybe it scared him.

Cordelia wanted to tell him that she would never let him hurt his children. That she would always step in the way, whether it ended badly for her or not.

Nothing bad would ever happen to her niece or nephews — that she knew.

Behind her, Dick started to pull at her shoulder. She only allowed herself to face him when Bruce stiffly left the kitchen out of the back door.

Cordelia almost expected Dick to look angry or scared when she turned to him, but he was neither.

Dick was wearing his wide and easy smile again, the one she’d seen when she first saw him talking to Alfred. It was like nothing had happened; as if he had no clue that he’d only been seconds away from being punched by Batman.

“Go get your shoes,” Dick said brightly. “And matching socks, or else you’ll be forever known as the girl who wears mixed-matched socks to the trampoline park.”

Cordelia nodded, but didn’t leave yet. Instead, she grabbed his wrists, half to comfort and half to check how fast his pulse was beating.

Only, when she counted it, she realized that his pulse was completely steady.

She frowned at his wrist. Did he really not know how close he was to being hurt by his own father? Had she been the only one to see it?

Cordelia looked back into his eyes, searching for the answer there. But his eyes were as cheery as his smile.

“Are you okay?” She whispered.

Dick’s smile didn’t waver at all. “Of course I am, Little Bat. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Confusion filled her. There was no dishonesty in his expression. 

But —

Bruce had tried to attack him.

She’d seen it.

Dick had to have seen it, too. But, for some reason, he was pretending otherwise.

And he was doing a really good job at pretending otherwise.

You would have made an excellent stage actor, Alfred had said to Dick.

That must be it. The circus performer turned secret vigilante. Of course he would be a brilliant liar. And now he was using that skill to… pretend he wasn’t terrified of Bruce?

But why would he? Did he think that Cordelia shouldn’t know how terrified he was?

She was his aunt. He should always feel safe to tell her these things.

“It’s okay to be scared, Dick,” Cordelia said softly.

His smile fell a little at her words. “Cordelia… were you scared?”

Her eyes flickered between his as she nodded. She watched the rest of his smile fall.

“I’m sorry,” Dick said, and his voice was filled with regret. “I shouldn’t have picked a fight with Bruce in front of you. I know what it must have looked like from your perspective.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Cordelia said. “I don’t blame you for anything.”

Dick shook his head in protest. “I do need to apologize to you. I thought I was standing up for you, but I ended up scaring you, instead.”

“You didn’t scare me,” Cordelia said earnestly.

“But Bruce did?” Dick asked.

Of course he did. Bruce could scare anybody.

Cordelia nodded again, even though the answer this time was obvious to them both.

“You don’t have to be scared of Bruce,” Dick told her firmly. “The worst thing about him is how controlling he is. It might not drive you crazy right now, but give it a year and you will be arguing with him just as much as I do.”

Cordelia did not tell him that she had been arguing with Bruce a lot. But that had resulted in nothing but tears and lonely days and threats of boarding school.

“Arguing with Bruce is never fun,” Dick continued. “He thinks he knows everything. But it never becomes violent. Bruce has never hurt any of us, Cordelia, and he never will.”

The memory of Bruce’s angry, red face from just moments ago surfaced in her mind, along with the memory of finger-print shaped bruises along her arms.

Cordelia suddenly felt very sorry for this man right in front of her. Dick had no idea just how dark Batman could sometimes get; how his anger was sometimes uncontrollable and unavoidable.

She would make sure that he never did find that out.

Cordelia reached up and wrapped her arms around Dick’s neck again, pulling him close. She felt him relax into her arms.

“I know he won’t, Dick, because I’ll be here to protect you,” Cordelia said into his shoulder. “You and your siblings will never have to go through what I went through with Batman.”

Dick was no longer relaxed in her arms. In fact, he was extremely stiff. But when she tried to draw back so she could see his face, she felt his hand press her head back into his shoulder and kept it there.

So Cordelia stopped trying to draw back, closed her eyes, and smiled.

Chapter 38: Have Fun, Miss Cordelia

Summary:

“A cuddly Wayne,” Dick said, with absolute joy. “I have the sudden urge to wrap you in a bunch of blankets, carry you everywhere I go, and never let you escape.”

That was something that only an extremely crazy person would fantasize about. She was sure that Batman and Batgirl had worked on kidnapping cases that began with men saying the same exact things to their victims.

Notes:

TRIGGER WARNING: Panic Attack

When Cordelia felt Dick’s hand ease from the back of her head, she took that as a sign that the hug was over.

The warmth that nestled in her chest was speedily replaced with disappointment. If it was her choice, then the few hugs she’d received in this timeline would never end. She was sure that she could survive centuries wrapped up in another person’s arms; that their comfort could sustain her better than any meal Alfred prepared.

But it was not just her choice, so Cordelia made sure that any lingering feeling of disappointment was hidden deep inside her before she pulled away.

Dick had a very expressive face. While she had to read Bruce’s moods through the lines of his shoulders and the tilt of his chin, Cordelia did not have to work as hard to read Dick’s mood. Every muscle moved in harmony, projecting the same emotion with so much clarity that it might as well have been written across his forehead.

“What’s the matter?” Cordelia asked.

A deep furrow appeared between his brows at the question, as if there was something wrong with it.

“I have to speak with Bruce,” he said quietly. “Go get your shoes. I’ll meet you in the parking garage.”

He straightened to his full height, his shoulders thrown back and his arms folded. The very picture of strength. But even the strongest of people could feel fear.

“Would you like for me to go with you?” Cordelia asked.

Dick shook his head, his answer immediate and honest. “No, just get your shoes.”

He left before Cordelia could push him on the subject, following Bruce through the same back exit he’d made his retreat through.

Cordelia hesitated for a long moment before deciding to follow orders. If she’d read Bruce correctly, then he would not be a danger to any of his children for a good long while after what just happened. He was too aware of what was possible; too aware of how easy it was to become their father.

Many people could become monsters overnight, but the Waynes were different. They were too stubborn, too determined to do good.

It had taken Martha years before she succumbed to her madness and adopted the name Joker. It had taken Thomas even longer to start hurting children.

If what Dick said was true, and that Bruce hadn’t laid a hand on any of his kids, then he was more stubborn than both of his parents combined.

With that assurance in mind, Cordelia was able to make it to her bedroom without turning around and sprinting after her nephew.

Her bedroom was still a mess from how quickly she’d gotten ready that morning. Her bed was unmade with a pillow leaning dangerously against the edge, her wardrobe door was completely open, socks were peeking out from under her bedside table, and one of her lamps was still on.

Cordelia, just as impatient to leave the manor as she had been to meet Dick, hurried to clean up the mess for Alfred’s sake. No matter what the man said, he was too old to be stooping down and picking socks up from the floor.

Cordelia tossed the socks into the hamper and got to work clearing her desk of the books that she’d stolen from the library. Most of them were classics, so that she could have something to speak to Jason about, but she had added a few Manga to her reading list, as well, for little Damian.

Despite what Bruce had told her about his youngest boy, what little Damian read told her a different story. Maybe he was a violent kid, but there had to be more to him if his choice of books featured romance and art.

How could a child who spent their time reading about two art students developing a crush on each other be dangerous enough to keep away from a new family member?

Cordelia carefully tucked the books into two piles, one for the books she hadn’t read yet and one for the books that she’d completed.

And beside the two piles: her notebook.

What had once been an investigative notebook focused on Bruce Wayne had become a place where she jotted down her thoughts about the books she read. Words like dangerous and suspicious morphed into words like metaphors and foreshadowing.

Yet it was still, in a way, an investigative journal.

She did not just pick apart the plot of the stories, but also analyzed why these specific plots would have enticed her more bookish nephews.

Through Austen, Cordelia could see that Jason was captivated with themes of social class and the effects that it had on individual families; she could also see that he was a sarcastic person who held a lot of judgement for the “rich snobs” that Dick had referred to earlier.

Through the Manga that Damian read, Cordelia could see that her youngest nephew was a competitive boy who craved praise and acceptance. She could also see that he loved art in all forms, not just painting like in the art room, but sketching and drawing.

Cordelia’s finger gently slid over the page of her notebook, her heart aching with longing as she read over her previous thoughts about the boys.

She could have gotten lost in those notes; read the whole day away, daydreaming about a family that she hasn’t even met yet — but a soft knock on the door alerted her that she wasn’t alone.

Cordelia turned away from her notebook to see Alfred standing at her open doorway.

“Hello, Miss Cordelia,” he said. “I must admit, I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Did yours and Master Dick’s plans change?”

Cordelia startled, and glanced toward the clock. How long had she been reading her notebook? Did Dick’s conversation with Bruce end? But the clock told her that only ten minutes had passed since Dick left her in the kitchen.

She sighed with relief. “No, we’re still going. Dick is just talking to Bruce first.”

Alfred nodded sagely, unsurprised. “And I trust that you will stay out of trouble when you are in the city?”

“It’s Gotham,” Cordelia said, “that would be impossible. But I’ll do my best.”

From his expression, she might as well have told him that she was going to another nightclub.

“Alfred. Bruce already thinks I’m irresponsible. Please don’t tell me that you agree with him.”

“I did not say a word, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said with faint amusement. “However, I do have two requests.”

Cordelia was suspicious. “What are they?”

“The first is that you stay close to Master Dick,” he said.

She nodded in agreement. “Of course. I’ll make sure he’s safe.”

One grey eyebrow raised. “Splendid. My second request is that you bring a jacket. It gets very cold when the sun goes down.”

The old butler walked over to her wardrobe and pulled the doors open so that he could sift through her jackets. His other eyebrow raised to meet the other one when he noticed the two new pairs that she recently added to her collection.

“Is this Master Jason’s jacket? And… is this Master Bruce’s?” He asked.

“It isn’t stealing,” Cordelia said. “They gave them to me.”

Alfred tutted but didn’t tell her to give them back. Instead, he took one of her own from the hangers and gestured for her to turn around. Cordelia let him pull the sleeves over her arms and smooth down the collar once it was secure around her shoulders.

“My mistake,” he said. “I have one last request.”

“Okay.”

He gave her chin an affectionate pinch. “Have fun, Miss Cordelia.”

She smiled. “I will.”

After Alfred left, Cordelia slipped on a pair of sneakers and rushed out of her room.

The parking garage was located in the furthest corner of the mansion where people arriving through the Wayne Manor gates couldn’t see. It wasn’t a room that she visited often in her own timeline, since her only means of transportation back then had been the motorcycle she kept in the Cave, and so it had turned into a room that she never visited in the new timeline, either.

Which was why, once she opened the door to the parking garage and stepped inside, her jaw dropped completely to the floor.

The parking garage was huge, yet somehow it was still crowded with lines upon lines of the most beautiful cars Cordelia had ever seen in her life.

The car closest to her was a Bugatti race car with blue and black detailing. The windows were pitch black and impossible to see through. Cordelia itched to press her face against it, wanting so badly to see the interior, but the mere thought of the gorgeous vehicle in front of her having fingerprints on it was as appealing as telling Alfred that his cookies were stale.

Cordelia moved as if hypnotized down the lines of cars, taking in ever detail she could without actually touching anything.

It was a car jungle. It was a car dream.

Cordelia’s yearning only tripled once she got to the front of the garage and saw the collection of motorcycles Bruce had lined up. It pained her how new they looked — as if they were just props and not truly being appreciated.

Someone needed to ride these motorcycles. It felt like a crime to have them collecting dust in a hidden room of Wayne Manor.

Cordelia kept walking until she was standing over a bike that could almost suit a girl her size. The seats were plush and ink black, the handles an enchanting silver.

She glanced upward at the ceiling, wondering if Bruce had installed cameras in the garage. But he must have. These cars and bikes were too valuable to leave without security, even if they were owned by Batman himself.

Yet Cordelia could not see a single camera.

She looked back at the bike and bit her lip. Could she get away with just sitting on it for a bit? Bruce shouldn’t mind, he had yet to complain about her touching any of his other things. And it wasn’t like she was going to do anything other than sit on it.

With her mind made up, Cordelia slowly edged closer to the bike and sat down on the abnormally comfortable seat. Her fingers curled delicately around the silver handles, which had grooves in it that were clearly made for hands much bigger than her own. 

She wanted so badly to turn the key — she just wanted to hear what the bike sounded like when it was turned on — but fate got in her way.

Right when she was about to give in to her instincts, the garage door began to lift.

Cordelia scrambled off the bike and took several steps back before anyone could catch her on it. But it was only Dick standing on the other side of the door.

“Hey,” he said, before wheeling in another motorcycle.

The model he was holding was much less-expensive looking, but still impressive. It was a deep blue color with thin wheels and a sleek design. He let it stand next to the rest and gave her a stiff smile.

Cordelia searched for something to say that might make the smile real, but all she could think to ask was: “Is that yours?”

“Yup,” he said, and patted the seat of his bike. “I thought I’d bring her inside in case it rained while we were gone. Gorgeous, isn’t she?”

Cordelia stepped forward so she could get a better look at it. If he had shown it to her a month ago, she would have been dazzled by it. But now she had not only seen Bruce’s large collection, but also Jason’s unforgettable, custom-made one.

By comparison, Dick’s bike was… a little underwhelming.

“It’s nice,” Cordelia said kindly, “although Jason’s is much bigger. I could barely get on without his help. Has he let you ride it?”

Dick froze.

He slowly raised his eyes to stare at her.

Cordelia stared back.

“I really hope that will be the only time anyone ever says that to me,” he said after a tense silence.

“Oh,” Cordelia said, pressing her lips together. She’d offended him. “I’m sure no one else will mention it. Not unless you put yours next to his.”

Dick’s eyes were becoming bigger and bigger with every word that she spoke. It was only once she saw the maniacal glimmer in them that she realized Dick wasn’t offended, he was amused.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, and the glimmer intensified.

“Why are you —“

He clapped his hands together. “Anyway, which car do you want to take?”

Cordelia narrowed her eyes. “Dick, why —“

“You don’t want to be late, do you?” Dick asked brightly. “I think I promised you trampolines, ice cream, and a movie.”

“No…” she said slowly. “I don’t.”

Cordelia was still distrusting of his glittering eyes. But they were a step up from the unhappy look he’d had earlier, so she let it go. Besides, she could handle being laughed at a little… just as long as it meant that her nephew was laughing.

Dick spread his arms open and gestured to the cars around them the way a chef would present a feast they’d prepared. “Which is your favorite?”

Cordelia’s interest piqued at the question. “Bruce said we can use his cars?”

“He did,” Dick said. “In fact, he said — and this is a quote: ‘Dick, you are the absolute best of the best. I don’t say this enough, but you are the Wonder to my Woman and the butter to my peanut. Take whichever car you want and spend however much money you want. It is the least I can do for you after all that you have done for me.’ And then I think he said something about not scratching his car, but I stopped listening at that point.”

Cordelia’s lips had parted halfway through his spiel. “Dick, that was an amazing impression. You sounded just like him!"

“I know,” Dick informed her. “Well?”

She didn’t even have to think about it. There was one car in the garage that she’d fight Batman to be able to ride. “Can we take the Pagani convertible? And have the top down?”

Dick brightened. “I was hoping you’d say that. I haven’t been able to drive that one yet.”

He bounded over to the walls of keys, easily plucked one right off the wall, and then hopped over the Pagani door and into the seats. Cordelia cringed when his shoes got close to the pristine steering wheel, but he managed to avoid blemishing the interior of the beautiful car.

“Hop in,” he said as he turned on the car.

Cordelia refrained from telling him that this was a car one should never hop into as she sat primly in the passenger seat, and then felt like maybe she’d been spending a little too much time with Alfred. The seats were plush like a dream and smelled so brand new that the car might as well have been right out of the factory.

“Are we really taking this car to a park?” She said. “It belongs on a race track.”

“Race car driving is dangerous,” Dick pointed out, “and Bruce specifically told me to keep you out of danger.”

“Race car driving is no more dangerous than going head-to-head with the Joker. Which I did. Constantly.”

“Figures the Joker would still exist in both timelines,” he said as he put the car in drive and slowly drove out of the garage.

But even the thought of the Joker could not ruin this moment for her. The sunlight was warming her cheeks as the car rumbled beneath them so fiercely that she hardly knew if it was her buzzing with anticipation or the car itself.

“How far is the trampoline park?” Cordelia asked.

“It’s pretty close,” Dick said. He threw her a mischievous grin that would have suited an imp perfectly. “But we’re taking the long way.”

Cordelia eagerly smiled back.

The car passed Wayne Manor gates. Waiting for the back tires to touch the road felt a lot like waiting for a grappling hook to catch at a crevice: she could barely breathe until she felt the rope tighten in her grasp.

When the back wheels did touch the main road, Dick didn’t waste a moment before stomping on the gas.

It was like being on a motorcycle. It was like flying.

They were speeding through the road like limits didn’t exist.

Cordelia’s hair whipped around her as she squealed in excitement.

The convertible was full of wind, rattling her clothes and making it impossible to hear even her own voice when she turned to Dick and said, “This car is amazing!”

Dick’s dark hair was twisting and flying on top of his head, curling around his ears and sweeping over his forehead. He smiled over at her, having just as much fun driving the car as Cordelia was having sitting in it.

The road was completely empty as the car speeded through it. Signs and buildings were nothing but a blur around them, and still Dick did not slow down. He had a bigger smile on his face than he had when talking to Alfred, hinting that he was experiencing the same rush of adrenaline that Cordelia was having.

This was something that she was sure every vigilante shared: daredevil habits.

Whether they developed it naturally or over time, it didn’t matter. It connected them all. Made them effective.

Made them feel alive.

Cordelia leaned her head backward and let the wind rush over her face. This was as amazing as being on a motorcycle.

No. This was better than a motorcycle.

Cordelia really wanted a race car.

They must have been in that car for twenty minutes before she felt it slow down. She blinked her eyes open to figure out why, and saw a giant building up ahead.

Her face was tingling; both from having wind beat into it for so long and from smiling.

“So much for a race track being dangerous,” Cordelia said with a slanted look toward her nephew.

His grin turned sheepish. “I might have gotten over-excited. Don’t tell Bruce.”

“I won’t,” Cordelia said, “but he has access to street cameras.”

“He only checks the cameras if he has a reason to,” Dick said. He grimaced immediately afterward. “Don’t tell Bruce I told you that, either.”

“I’ll keep your secrets,” Cordelia said, and silently filed that information away for future use.

Dick brought the car into the parking lot. Heads turned in their direction, gawking at the race car and the two people in it.

But Cordelia ignored them. She was too excited to be sitting in this amazing car with her amazing nephew who was still grinning from the high of driving it. It felt impossible that she’d only been living in this timeline for a month; too much had changed.

Too many people have become important to her.

Dick parked the car, glanced at her, and started chuckling.

“What?” She said.

He reached over and tugged at the end of her ponytail. “Your hair.”

Cordelia self-consciously touched her hair before leaning out the car to look at her reflection in the side mirror. The ponytail that she’d created was basically non-existent; the tie only held onto the ends of her hair, and the rest was a wild mess of straight, ink black flyaways and loose locks.

Dick was still chuckling at her in the driver’s side seat. She squinted at him, and the way his own dark curls were practically defying gravity atop his head.

“Your hair is crazy, too,” Cordelia said.

This did not make him stop laughing at her. Cordelia’s eyes narrowed further.

She reached over and messed up his hair.

“Hey!” He protested.

A moment later, both Grayson and Wayne were peering into the side mirrors, combing through their hair with their fingers until it looked like they hadn’t just drove through a wind tunnel.

Cordelia’s hair had gotten longer than she usually let it get. To fit all of her hair into the Batgirl cowl, she always had to keep it just below her chin, but she hasn’t cut it for the past couple of months. Now, her hair fell below her shoulders in a thick, long mess.

She needed to get her hands on some scissors before it became a problem with her nightlife.

“You ready?” Dick asked.

Cordelia let the lock of hair she’d been inspecting fall. “Yes.”

Dick jumped out of the car again as Cordelia stepped out of it.

“People are staring,” she informed him. “I think I saw cameras.”

“I saw them, too,” Dick said. “It’ll be okay. A new story about Wayne’s wild child spending time with Wayne’s circus boy will distract everyone from what they published today.”

“What if the new story is worse than the old one?” Cordelia said. “Bruce will never let me out of the house.”

Behind him, Cordelia could see someone hold up a camera and take a picture of them.

“Bruce says no to a lot of things if he thinks it might be dangerous,” Dick said. “Just keep asking. Or come to me. I’ll have your back.”

“I’m not interested in starting fights between you and your father.”

“I’d rather have a fight with Bruce than have you stuck inside a house by yourself,” he said seriously. “Don’t be scared to stand up for yourself, Little Bat.”

She wanted to protest — tell him that she did stand up for herself — but then he threw his arm over her shoulder and led her to the building and through the doors. Once Cordelia saw what the interior looked like, her eyes blew wide open. It was a large dark room with neon lights and colors, dozens and dozens of people milling about, flashing signs directing people to restaurants and bathrooms and ticket booths, and rows upon rows of trampolines.

“This is a trampoline park?” Cordelia asked in disbelief.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Dick said cheekily.

Her mouth was still agape as she nodded.

The air was conditioned and cool. The floor was covered in a multicolored rug with bizarre patterns. The people around them were all different ages, from cheery toddlers to excitable teenagers to joyous middle aged parents.

It was nothing like the nightclub James had brought her to, yet everyone around her looked just as happy sober as the club-goers looked under the influence.

Dick led her through the crowd toward a stand selling tickets.

“Two for two hours,” he told the employee behind the stand, and handed her a black card.

The girl lit with interest when she saw Dick, and only became more interested once she saw the name on the card. She hurriedly swiped it and handed it back.

“Let me see your hand?” She said with a sugar sweet tone.

Dick laid the back of his hand on the table and let the girl wrap a neon green bracelet made of paper around his wrist. Cordelia did not miss how the girl’s fingers lingered at the skin of his palm — or how the girl not-so-secretly slipped him a piece of paper with her number on it.

Cordelia raised one eyebrow at Dick, who tucked the piece of paper into his back pocket.

“Don’t give me that look, Little Bat,” he teased when the employee disappeared to get their gear. “Alfred told me all about your first trip to the shopping center. And the pocket-full of numbers you came back home with.”

She felt her face get hot. “I didn’t even say anything!”

“You didn’t need to,” he said. “You, Bruce, and Damian have identical I do not approve stares.”

“Well… I don’t approve.”

Dick cooed and ruffled her hair. “You’re so cute, you little Mini Bruce.”

Cordelia scowled.

The employee came back, their “gear” in her hand — which was really just two pairs of thick black and neon green socks.

Cordelia held her pair up, unimpressed, as Dick and her left the line to sit down at the closest bench.

The area was crowded with loitering teenagers and families chatting with one another. Cordelia could see a little girl a few benches down lifting her tiny foot in the air so that he father could help her put her socks on. The father tickled the bottom of his daughter’s foot, and beamed at the giggling sound that erupted from her.

Cordelia looked away and tugged on her own socks.

She frowned at the rubbery circles that were stitched into the bottoms of them and tapped at one of them with her finger. The style was weirdly familiar.

“Aren’t these what Arkham Asylum patients have to wear?” Cordelia asked Dick.

“Yup!” The man said brightly. “Let’s go!”

Dick was already bouncing without the help of the trampolines, as eager as the Joker in a bomb factory. Cordelia hurried to catch up with him and watched as he did a backflip onto the trampoline closest to them.

Cordelia followed, walking onto the same trampoline and wobbling over the trembling fabric. She would have lost her balance if the grippy socks didn’t help her stay upright.

Dick landed again and the entire trampoline shook.

Cordelia looked down and saw her own sock-covered feet. It reminded her, briefly, of the first time she trained with her father: how she had walked onto the training mat and hoped that it would be bouncy — hoped that some fun would exist in the Cave for her.

Dick must have felt her spirits lower, because he stopped jumping so he could stand in front of her. “You’re supposed to jump, Little Bat.”

“I know.”

“Is something wrong? Have you never been on a trampoline before?”

She shook her head quickly. “I have. It’s — I’ll jump.”

Cordelia went to jump onto the next trampoline, but Dick grabbed her elbow. “Are you sure?”

“Dick,” she faked a smile. “Everything is great.”

She expected him to push, to keep asking questions the same way Bruce and Alfred would have, but he must have believed her smile.

“Okay,” he said happily, “but remember: no really cool tricks. The civilians will get suspicious.”

Cordelia nodded. It had been a long time since she lived a double life. Ever since she dropped out of school, she’d only been Batgirl.

Now she had an identity beyond that to protect.

Cordelia turned back to the trampoline in front of her and jumped onto it. Dick was right behind her, although his weight and height made him bounce much higher than her.

She couldn’t say that she cared — not until Dick looked back at her with the cockiest grin she had ever seen.

“Is that all you got?” He said.

Cordelia narrowed her eyes, which did nothing to intimidate him. Dick just laughed and did two flips mid-air.

She tried to bounce higher, but Dick was basically flying through the air, moving like gravity had nothing to do with him. Cordelia could almost see him on a trapeze, wowing a crowd with a flip and a wink and a wave.

Dick must have eventually taken pity on her, because he got close enough to her to grab her hands and help her bounce even higher.

“There!” He said proudly, once they were at the same height. “The Little Bat has finally gotten her wings.”

Cordelia giggled and said, “If I’m a little bat then what does that make you? A big bat?”

“Nope! My brothers call me Dickie Bird.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

His eyes sharpened. “Oh yeah? So is this.”

Dick’s grip on her hands tightened so that she couldn’t escape, his face bright with mischief. Cordelia was about to ask him what he was doing before he flipped them both over and let her go.

Cordelia shrieked as she flailed mid-air, her arms and legs kicking out around her. She somehow managed to right herself and land on her feet, stick straight and stiff as a board. It took her a second before her brain caught up to her body. And when it did, she finally noticed Dick, who was doubling over with laughter right across from her.

She made a face at him.

“Do you have any idea how adorable your little Wayne scowl is? Come over here so I can boop your nose.”

“What does ‘boop’ mean?“

He poked her nose.

Cordelia blinked. “Why.”

Dick cooed. “I can’t believe Bruce has been hiding you from us for a whole month. Get over here.”

He picked her up and squeezed her tightly.

Cordelia’s feet were dangling, but she hugged him back.

“A cuddly Wayne,” Dick said, with absolute joy. “I have the sudden urge to wrap you in a bunch of blankets, carry you everywhere I go, and never let you escape.”

That was something that only an extremely crazy person would fantasize about. She was sure that Batman and Batgirl had worked on kidnapping cases that began with men saying the same exact things to their victims.

“That is not normal, Dickie Bird,” she said into his shoulder.

“I think I’m getting cuteness aggression.”

She tried to figure out what that meant.

Cuteness was good; aggression was not.

“I’m confused,” Cordelia said, leaning back so she could peek up at his expression.

His eyes were wide and shining. “Oh my God. May I squeeze you?”

She furrowed her eyebrows. “Yes. But don’t hurt me.”

He barely waited for her to finish her sentence before tightening his arms around her waist. Neither were bouncing anymore; Dick was standing solidly on the edge of the trampoline, holding her up easily. If he put anymore strength into holding her up then the grip would have been painful. But it wasn’t; it was perfect. It made her feel safe, secure, and….

It kind of reminded her of how her mother used to hold her.

She sighed contentedly into his shoulder.

Bruce and Alfred weren’t this affectionate with her. She barely knew Dick for a day and he had already hugged her three times. And now that he had, she couldn’t help but feel that greediness from before return full-force.

Enjoy his affection while you can, Cordelia, he’s only here for a month, an evil voice said in the back of her mind.

A month. That felt too short.

Maybe she could find a way to keep him in Wayne Manor for even longer.

As she was thinking, Dick loosened his hold and said, “I remember promising to teach you some tricks?”

“Yes,” she said, not letting go.

Dick’s chest rumbled as he chuckled. “You’ll be needing your arms, Little Bat.”

Cordelia took the hint and broke away unhappily.

His poked her nose again. “Follow me. We’ll want a less crowded section.”

Cordelia rubbed the tip of her nose, but followed Dick as he bounced deeper into the trampoline jungle, passing groups and groups of laughing, giggling people.

“How much do you already know?” Dick asked once they had their own quiet corner. “Bruce told me that you used to be Batgirl.”

“I am Batgirl,” Cordelia corrected. She straightened her spine and crossed her arms. “I’ve just been… on a little vacation. It’s temporary.”

He nodded. “Right.”

“Batgirl doesn’t do many tricks,” Cordelia said. “She’s more about brute force.”

Dick beamed. “Brute force? With these arms?”

He lifted one of her arms and tickled the muscle.

Cordelia squirmed away from him, grinning. “Yes. I’m quick and know where to aim. Bones are easy to break when you know exactly where to apply pressure.”

“Terrifying,” Dick said happily. “Anyway, this one is always fun to learn. And it won’t freak out the civilians.”

The civilians weren’t even paying attention to them, but Cordelia knew how easily that could change if they did something too spectacular. Even Dick’s background as a circus kid couldn’t get rid of all the suspicion that would grow like weeds around them.

“I’m going to do it first so you can see what it should look like,” Dick said.

Cordelia stepped back to give Dick some room. And watched with amazement as he performed a trick with three flips. The trampoline provided him with the advantage of height, but even Cordelia — who rarely did tricks herself — knew to be impressed by what she saw.

Dick’s grace on the ground was nowhere near as close to his gracefulness in the air.

He landed as if floating right in front of her and beamed when she started clapping. Surprisingly, he did not waste time gloating. Instead, he took in her praise and then got to work showing her how to replicate what he’d done.

It was difficult. Cordelia would have face-planted more than once if Dick wasn’t there to catch her. But he was an amazing teacher; encouraging, warm, and eager to help.

Dick even treated her failures like they were successes.

It was nothing like working with her father, who treated her failures like they were permanent strikes against her.

“Look at the wall over there,” Dick told her after catching her from another face-plant. “See that window? Only start the trick once you’re at eye-level with it.”

Cordelia nodded and tried the trick again. This time, she could feel that it was right. She nailed the trick in mid-air and then felt her muscle-memory kick in to help her land on her feet.

Her heels barely touched the ground before she heard Dick’s cheers.

“That was great!” He said. He looked to be the very picture of pride. “Do that again exactly.”

So she did. And then she did it again and again and again until she no longer had to focus on the window at the other side of the wall. All she had to do was feel when her body was close to reaching peak height, and then perform the trick as Dick had instructed.

Every time she landed, she landed straight.

“You’re good at this,” Dick said. “It didn’t take you long to perfect that at all.”

Cordelia preened under the praise. Her face was more aglow with pleasure than sweat. “I want another trick.”

“You got it, Little Bat.”

Dick showed her one more trick before challenging her to a race. Cordelia, who knew that Dick was competitive from his file, raised her eyebrows and said, “Okay. But you’ll lose.”

His mouth popped open, surprised. “Excuse me?”

Cordelia shrugged, trying to look casual. “I already told you: I’m quick.”

She could see that her words had goaded out his competitive side from the way his eyes became all squinty. “So am I.”

“I’m sure you are,” Cordelia said, with a touch of playful patronization.

“Okay, that’s it. First one to the other side of this room is the winner.”

Cordelia nodded sharply — and then they were off. She could tell that Dick had planned on slowing down for her sake, but that plan quickly changed once he realized that she didn’t need him to take it easy on her. 

This was always one of her best talents: her speed.

There were a lot of criminals in Gotham who were stronger than Batgirl, but she had yet to meet one quicker than her.

Cordelia raced right past Dick, who grunted in surprise and picked up the pace. By the time she made it to the other side and fell against the wall, he was three trampolines behind and gaping at her as if he’d just discovered a shocking secret.

“I told you I was quick,” Cordelia said smugly.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t expecting you to tap into the Speed Force!” He said. “Are you sure Barry brought you to this timeline? Or did you run here yourself?”

Cordelia’s face broke into a smile. “Maybe I helped him a bit.”

Dick laughed and Cordelia soaked in the sound.

By then, there two hours were up, and both lazily hopped over to the edge of the park. Cordelia saw Dick rip off his paper bracelet and toss it in the garbage, but Cordelia carefully folded hers and stored it inside her jacket pocket.

Both of them had red cheeks and burning muscles from the exercise, but the burn felt good when it wasn’t accompanied with bruises.

Leaving the trampoline park was a lot more difficult than arriving. Now that the morning had become the afternoon, there was an overwhelming amount of newcomers rushing in through the doors.

Dick put a hand on Cordelia’s elbow as they walked through the crowd, a silent way of letting her know that he was safe by her side.

But, as it turned out, there was no one that Cordelia needed to worry about. The new crowd were just a bunch of eager teenagers who barely looked their way. Cordelia and Dick were able to exit the building without any disruptions — at least until the rain began to pelt down on them halfway to the car.

“Guess we can’t drive with the top down, anymore,” Dick said lightly.

Cordelia frowned up at the sky as if it had personally insulted her.

Dick chuckled and tugged her hoodie over her head before she could stop him. “If you get sick on my watch then I don’t know how I will be able to face Alfred. Do you have any idea how heartbreaking it is to be on the receiving end of his disappointed stare.”

“Yes. He caught me eavesdropping on Bruce one time.”

Dick hissed in sympathy. “He caught me doing that, too. Several times.”

Cordelia opened up the passenger side car door and sat down. Dick did the same on the driver’s side.

“I’m pretty sure we all got caught doing that,” he continued, “but it’s Bruce’s fault for keeping so many secrets.”

Cordelia hummed as Dick started the car and turned on the window wipers. The Gotham sky had turned into a murky gray, a stark contrast to how bright and blue it had been only two hours prior.

The city always had a way of punishing its people for having too much fun.

It was pretty much expected that every warm summer would be quickly followed by a horrible rainstorm.

Dick had to be much more careful when driving this time around. The windshield wipers were going full force in front of them, and still it was difficult for them to see the road ahead further than a few feet.

“So what’s your favorite ice cream?” Dick asked.

Cordelia looked at him curiously. “We’re still getting ice cream?”

“Of course. I promised.”

“But it’s raining.”

“Sometimes the best time to have ice cream is when it’s raining. Or after a breakup. You don’t know about that yet, but remember my advice: the best heartbreak cure is a tub of Ben & Jerry’s and a really sad movie. Speaking of which, the cinema is playing a few old movies and I saw one that I think you will like.”

“What is it?” Cordelia asked, silently wondering what types of movies he’d associated with her.

“It’s called Ferngully. It’s about fairies trying to save a forest by planting more trees.”

Cordelia furrowed her brow. Fairies? “Why would you think I would like that?”

“Because you have a gardening hobby.”

On its own, the statement wouldn’t have raised any suspicions. Sure, she’d only gardened once — and doing something once didn’t exactly make it a hobby — but maybe Alfred had told Dick a story about how they gardened together, and Dick had assumed that they had planted several flower beds instead of one.

Except that Dick wasn’t the first person to refer to gardening as Cordelia’s hobby.

I’m glad Alfred thought of gardening, Barry had said. I’m sure Bruce would have chosen martial arts as a hobby for you.

Gardening wasn’t a planned hobby, Cordelia had replied. It was more spontaneous.

Right, Barry had said.

Cordelia had been suspicious back then, but she’d brushed it aside in favor of trusting her friend. Now her suspicions were coming back with a vengeance.

“Who told you that I liked gardening?” She asked.

And why would they? What was the point of telling Dick that her “hobby” was something that she’d done only once? She’d done many things at the manor that she enjoyed: painted, picnicked, spent time with the pets, and was working her way through reading every book in the library. 

Why were they labeling gardening as her hobby?

“Alfred said you helped him with the peonies,” Dick answered easily. “Bruce also mentioned that you liked the movie The Secret Garden.”

There was something going on, but Cordelia couldn’t figure out what.

She sat in the passenger side seat silently trying to pick this mystery apart without interrogating her nephew. Maybe Alfred was hoping that gardening would be her hobby so that they had something to share. Or maybe everyone was just misinterpreting the peony story and believing that it was a reoccurring thing.

It was only once the car began to slow down that Cordelia decided to let the mystery go. After all, how harmful could it be for people to believe that she gardened regularly? It was a misunderstanding which would quickly clear up once she became Batgirl again and people realized that vigilantes didn’t have time for hobbies.

The rainstorm blocked most of their view, but through the heavy fog and the rain, Cordelia could see the brightly colored ice cream parlor up ahead.

“Do you have a jacket?” Cordelia asked Dick before he could step out into the rain.

“No, but I’m wearing layers,” he said.

Cordelia tilted her head questioningly at that and he responded by tugging down his collar just enough to show a thick fabric beneath his shirt.

“My Nightwing uniform,” Dick explained.

“Nightwing,” Cordelia repeated. “Your vigilante name? Dick, if you can fit your uniform beneath your civilian clothes than it doesn’t have enough armor to protect you.”

He shrugged carelessly. “I prefer thinner uniforms. Armor can be restrictive.”

“Armor is also safer,” Cordelia insisted. “What if you get hurt?”

“Then I’ll recover.” At her stricken expression, Dick’s smile softened. “Don’t worry, Little Bat. I’ve been doing this for a long time.”

That did not make her feel any better. Cordelia pressed her lips together. “How can Batman let you out in that? Even my father made sure I had armor that would protect me from bullets.”

“Bruce doesn’t control what I go out in,” Dick said, “no matter how much he wishes he did.”

Although his tone was light, Cordelia could see a bit of his stubbornness showing in his answers — the same stubbornness that had helped cause the argument between him and Bruce. Cordelia did not want to be another person that Dick argued with, but she also didn’t want to lose him to a stray bullet or a lucky knife.

She worried her lip as she tried to think of a way to convince him to redesign his uniform.

“What if you keep the joints without armor,” Cordelia said, “but put armor on your chest and back and arms?”

“Nope. That makes my uniform too heavy.”

“Dick,” she said, “it won’t be that heavy. And if it is, that means that you have to build up more muscle.”

An amused huff left his mouth. “Wow.”

“What?”

“I think I had this exact same conversation with Bruce five years ago.”

That was not promising. It meant that Batman had tried to convince Dick of the same thing and lost.

Dick raised one eyebrow at her. He looked as though he was waiting for her to admit defeat based on that fact alone.

Cordelia huffed. “Fine.”

Her nephew threw her a wink and opened his car door to get out, under the impression that he’d won. But Cordelia was not giving this up; she was just making a strategic retreat. If Bruce agreed with her, then maybe they could share notes and come up with a better argument to confront Dick with.

The ice cream parlor was small, but was located in an impressive area. The cinema was close by as well as several Mom and Pop shops that sold things like trinkets and toys and antique furniture.

The rain poured heavily down on the Grayson and the Wayne, but neither flinched as they cut through it. It was a testament to how persevering Gothamites were that the vigilantes were not the only ones to be unaffected by the horrid weather. Several families milled about, ducking into shops and pointing at ones they were interested in.

“You’ll love this place,” Dick told her as he held the door open. “Even Damian smiles when he gets his order.”

Cordelia watched Dick order a sundae with an enormous amount of toppings before asking for a simple chocolate milkshake.

“Next time,” he said, “I’m ordering for you.”

That felt very much like a threat to Cordelia once she saw Dick’s order handed over to him. It looked less like ice cream and more like a giant bowl of gummy worms, candies, and whipped cream. She watched with fascinated horror as Dick used a tiny spoon to shovel a few bites into his mouth.

“Here you are, sweetheart,” the old woman who served the ice cream handed Cordelia her milkshake. “Enjoy!”

“Thank you,” Cordelia murmured, and followed Dick to a booth near the window.

Outside, she could still see Gothamites walking from store to store. Only a few of them had umbrellas. The rest walked as if they didn’t feel the cold rain droplets hitting their skin.

Cordelia absentmindedly took a sip of her milkshake and felt her eyebrows raise at the flavor. BatBurger’s milkshakes were not half as good as the one in front of her.

She happily took another sip.

“So,” Dick said. “What did you think? Are you a trampoline park fan now?”

Cordelia nodded. It didn’t require much thought.

“Especially if you’re there,” she said honestly.

Dick looked very smug about this. “Does this mean I’m your favorite nephew?”

Cordelia held back a smile. “I don’t know about that. Jason saved me, let me ride his motorcycle, and promised to get me my own motorcycle. That’s some steep competition.”

Dick blinked in surprise. “He’s getting you a motorcycle?”

Her hum sounded different when she was grinning. Less deep, more light. “A custom-made one like his.”

“What a cheater.”

“It’s not cheating!” Cordelia argued with a laugh. “It’s being strategic.”

“You have no idea what you’re starting,” Dick said with a shake of his head. His dark curls flopped around his ears. “This family is very competitive. Damian might start stabbing us if he hears that he’s behind on earning your favor.”

“He’s not behind. He earned points for being cute.”

This made Dick’s jaw drop dramatically. “Are you saying I’m not cute?”

“I’m saying Damian is the cutest kid I’ve ever seen.”

“I can’t believe I’m a third place nephew. How will my reputation ever recover?”

“You just have to work harder,” Cordelia shrugged.

Dick narrowed his eyes playfully. “I see how it is. You’re going to pit us against each other so that you can keep getting gifts. Well, I’ll have you know that I plan on using this strategy if we ever end up getting a second aunt.”

Cordelia shook her head in amusement. “Considering how unlikely that is, I’m not worried.”

“You never know,” Dick said. “Weird things happen in this family.”

Her focus sharpened, as it always did when the topic of the family came up. “Like what?”

Her interest in learning more had to have been obvious, because Dick instantly began telling her all sorts of funny tales about his siblings. He laughed his way through telling her how he first met Tim (“the little stalker,” Dick said with warmth). And was especially animated as he told the story about Damian appearing out of nowhere in Bludhaven to challenge him to a duel, just for Damian to reveal that he only attacked Dick because he missed him.

Dick’s stories about Cassandra, on the other hand, were full of soft affection — similar to how Bruce always talked about her. 

“She doesn’t speak a lot,” Dick said, “but she has better ways of expressing how she feels. Sometimes I feel like she is better at communicating than any of us.”

His stories about his siblings seemed endless. Every time she thought, “that’s it, that’s the last one,” he shared yet another one with her.

Cordelia couldn’t wait to collect as many stories about the family as Dick. To be able to speak so long about them that an entire bowl of ice cream could melt in front of her and she’d still have stories to spare.

“What about you?” Dick asked.

Cordelia sipped the last of her milkshake. “What about me?”

“What was it like in your timeline? Do you miss it?”

She had a lot of time to ask herself that question, and the answer never really changed. While she still didn’t feel like she belonged in Bruce’s manor or in this new timeline, there was no denying that everything became better for her when Barry took her away.

“I don’t miss my timeline at all,” Cordelia said, and in her heart she knew that this was the complete truth. “There was nothing for me there.”

His next question surprised her. “What about your father?”

She felt herself freeze. That word was echoing in her mind: father, father, father.

And with the echo came images of him. Glaring eyes and clenched fist and a voice so deep it growled. All the memories were awful; none of them were welcome.

Cordelia takes a deep breath and lets it go, hoping that the images will leave with it. But they don’t. She doesn’t think that they ever will.

When she looked up at Dick, she expected him to look just as light-hearted and care-free as he had looked during the rest of the conversation. She’d hoped that seeing that expression would chase the scary memories away.

But Dick was watching her closely, his eyes dark as he inspected her reaction in the same way that Bruce had done ever since that horrible day he brought her to the Cave.

It made her feel ill.

“I’m glad my father’s gone,” Cordelia said.

Her throat was dry as her lips formed those words. A month ago, simply thinking them would have made her keel over with guilt. But she knew more now than she knew then — she knew what it felt like to be held after a nightmare, what it felt like to have someone smile at her as she walked into a room. 

She knew what it felt like to look at her guardian over the breakfast table and be happy that they were there.

“You’re lucky,” Cordelia found herself telling Dick. “Bruce loves you. Every time he talks about you his entire face changes. It’s like he stops looking like Bruce and starts looking like a father.”

She could see Dick silently processing her words.

It was interesting: those small differences between him and Bruce. When Bruce picked apart a situation, he closed himself off behind a blank wall, impenetrable and impossible to read. But Dick did not do that; Dick covered his analytical eyes with an understanding, sympathetic expression that invited trust.

Cordelia looked away and out the window, where families walked with each other hand-in-hand through the rain.

“Not that I know what a father looks like,” she said into the quiet. Dick was staring at her from across the booth, most likely picking apart every word and trying to see what hid in between. “But I imagine it must be something like the way Alfred looks at Bruce. Like he’s proud.”

Silence followed. Cordelia knew that Dick was waiting for her to say more, to reveal more. She might be family, but she was also a mystery to him — and if he was trained by Batman like she was, then that mystery was most likely eating away at him.

But she did not say more, so Dick had to be the first one to break through the quiet.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”

Cordelia peaked at him out of the corner of her eye. His expression of regret was believable; but they weren’t so different.

“Maybe it wasn’t your intention,” Cordelia said, “but you knew it would happen.”

The small glint of guilt she saw soothed the stab of hurt that accompanied this realization.

“Earlier…” Cordelia said slowly, “when you were arguing with Bruce, you told him that you came here to ‘help.’ And now you’re asking questions about my father….”

She faced him fully as she prepared herself to ask the next question. Detectives did not solve cases if they were too scared to find the answers.

“Did you come here for Bruce or did you…” She faltered and began again. “You’re not here to spend time with me, are you?”

His expression remained largely unchanged. All except for his eyes, which flickered away for the tiniest of seconds.

“It’s okay,” Cordelia said, even as her heart ached. “I understand. He’s your father and I haven’t exactly been the easiest person to live with. I think I make Bruce uncomfortable, actually.”

Her last sentence, although truthfully, was said in jest.

Dick frowned.

“Alfred the Cat makes Bruce uncomfortable. Don’t take it personally,” he said seriously. “And I am here for you, Cordelia. I’ve been wanting to be here for you for weeks.”

That did not make sense to her. “Then why haven’t I seen you?”

“Because Bruce told me to stay away,” Dick said. “He told me you weren’t ready.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Cordelia shook her head. “The day he told me you were coming, I was recovering from a hangover. We’d just argued the night before about me sneaking out. Why am I ready now and I wasn’t weeks ago?”

“I don’t know,” Dick admitted. “Bruce doesn’t share with me the reasons why he does what he does.”

Cordelia looked between Dick’s eyes. He was telling the truth.

She asked another question: “When he called you to invite you over, what did he say? What does he want from me? What does he want from us spending time together?”

Dick’s smile was soft with sympathy. Like she was a starving dog begging for scraps. Cordelia wanted to hide from it, but she needed answers.

“He just wants you to be happy, Cordelia,” Dick said.

She didn’t allow herself to feel — that would just make the interrogation sloppy. “Okay. Then what do you want from this?”

“I want to help you,” he said. His eyes were wide, as if trying to will her to believe him. “If you’re anything like Bruce and Damian, then you’re bottling up a lot of trauma. But whatever you’re facing, you don’t have to face it alone. You have a family now. You have me.”

Cordelia felt her steely resolve to keep her emotions out of the interrogation wobble. How could this be? How could she go from having no one to have someone like Dick?

Their day had been so nice together. But it was more than that. He was saying everything she wanted to hear in a tone full of so much understanding and compassion.

That should have been a giant, glaring red warning sign. After all, no one was perfect. But in her mind she could hear Bruce saying, with a voice soft with pride: Dick is… everything you’re hoping he will be, Cordelia. There is no one else like him, because there are very few people capable of inspiring the sort of love and loyalty he’s earned over the years. You’ll be proud to call him your nephew.

Cordelia blinked against the sting in her eye.

“I…” Her hands were fidgeting with the zipper of her sweater. Bringing it up and down and up and down so that the noise could fill the pained silence her own voice had left behind. “I don’t know what to say.”

If Dick was still analyzing her, she could no longer see it. The Batman-esque look had been replaced with one that looked more similar to the one Alfred gave her.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said, “just know that you can.”

It wasn’t so long ago that she was sitting in a booth across from another nephew. That nephew had backed away in fear once she tried to talk to him. This one was reaching out.

She couldn’t take that for granted.

“Okay,” Cordelia said silently. She looked down at her empty cup of chocolate milkshake. It had been a nice gift; a nice treat. The entire day had been. He deserved something in return. “You can ask me questions if you want to. About my father, your grandfather. I’ll answer them.”

She felt a burst of panic following her promise. But, still, she did not take it back. Instead, she waited for him to begin firing out questions, to finally get the answers so he could solve the mystery that was Thomas Wayne.

“Do you want me to ask you questions about your father?” Dick said instead.

Her skin felt prickly. Cordelia shook her head. “I don’t like thinking about him.”

“But you do,” Dick said.

It wasn’t a question. Cordelia nodded anyway.

“Do you have any good memories of him?” Dick asked. “Any at all?”

She hesitated before searching her memory. It was like unlocking a door you were told over and over again should never be opened. The room on the other side was cold and dusty and dark, and then from the dark rose a shadow of a monster that told you without speaking why this door had been forbidden for so long.

But it was too late to shut it. The shadow of a monster formed a face; ice blue eyes peeking out from under ink black hair streaked with grey. His large fist clenched around a bottle that would be thrown at her if she was too far away to choke.

Cordelia fought against those memories. She tried to find the quieter ones; the ones that didn’t involve pain or fear.

But the monster followed her around the room, appearing at every corner with so much persistence and speed that Cordelia became too scared to look anymore. She turned toward the exit, just to see that the monster was standing in the way —

“No,” Cordelia said. “None. He was — a really bad person — and he hated me.”

It was odd. One moment, she was speaking normally. The next, she was gasping out her words. She tried to pause, to catch her breath and restart, but when she opened her mouth the gasps kept coming.

“Sometimes — we’d train together and I’d think — this is it — he’s going to kill me — I’m going to die in this Cave — Batman is going to —“

She didn’t see Dick get up, but suddenly he was sliding into the booth next to her and wrapping his arms around her. Cordelia continued to speak in that odd, gasping way. It felt almost like someone had thrown a hook down her throat and was painstakingly ripping each word out of her.

“He’s everywhere,” Cordelia gasped into Dick’s shoulder. “In the paintings — in my nightmares — in my memories — even in the mirror.”

“You see him in Bruce, too,” Dick murmured, half to himself.

“Especially in Bruce,” she said fiercely.

“They’re different,” Dick said. “They’re not the same man.”

“They are different,” Cordelia said, “but how different can a son be — from his father? You say yourself how — similar I am — to Damian — and I — haven’t even met him yet —”

Dick was rubbing solid circles into her back. “Cordelia, I need you to breathe.”

Cordelia was feeling lightheaded. She tried to take in a breath of air, but her lungs felt full of it. Crowded. Her lungs were crowded.

Cordelia tried to shove Dick away from her, tried to get some room to breathe, but her limbs were heavy and her vision was spotty.

“You’re having a panic attack, Cordelia,” Dick said. His voice was calm despite his words. She felt him grab her hand that was shoving at his chest and keep it there. “Follow my breathing. Okay?”

She was going to pass out. The edges of her vision were darkening.

There was someone approaching their table.

Cordelia tried to grunt a warning, but only a weak gasp came out.

Dick seemed to get the hint. He turned toward the newcomer before they reached them.

“Is everything alright?” The voice was sweet like sugar. It was the old woman who gave them their ice cream. Couldn’t trust her. “Should I call an ambulance?”

“We’ll be fine,” Dick said, voice tight with stress. He turned back to Cordelia. “You have to listen to me, Little Bat. Are you listening?”

She was not. The old woman was standing over his shoulder and his back was to her. She could easily pull out a knife and stab Dick when he was vulnerable and his thin suit would do nothing to protect him —

Dick got up from the booth and pulled Cordelia with him.

“Is there anything I can do?” The old woman asked, but Dick was already half-carrying, half-pushing Cordelia toward the door to the girls’ bathroom.

The room was completely empty.

Dick brought her over to the wall and helped her sit down on the floor. “No one is here but me, Little Bat. You’re safe now.”

It was safer here. No one could sneak up on them from behind when their backs were to a wall.

Her breathing was becoming weaker the longer they sat there. Cordelia closed her eyes and laid her head on Dick’s shoulder, accepting her fate.

If she died, he would be safe.

“Cordelia, please listen,” Dick said.

“…am,” was the only thing she had the strength to say.

“Follow my breathing.”

His shoulders were moving in an exaggerated way. Cordelia, half conscious, did what she could to mimic it.

She didn’t know how long they sat there on the dirty floor, but the more she copied Dick’s breathing, the more aware of her surroundings she became.

Cordelia was leaning heavily against Dick’s shoulder, her entire body shaking and sweaty and hot. Dick was sitting stiffly beside her, face hardened with anger.

“I’m sorry,” Cordelia said.

Dick did not respond at first. He was staring at the door across from them, looking every bit as if he wanted to be anywhere but right next to her.

Cordelia curled her shaking fingers into the fabric of his sleeve. She would not let him leave her.

“I’m sorry,” she said pleadingly.

He wrapped his arm around her. The movement felt depressingly automatic.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, and felt a hot tear roll down her cheek.

“Don’t apologize. Why are you apologizing?”

“I’m better than this,” Cordelia said. “I’m Batgirl.”

“Everyone has panic attacks,” Dick said. “I’ve had a few myself. And so has Bruce.”

More hot tears were spilling down her cheeks, but she was too exhausted to wipe them away. They fell into Dick’s shirt and darkened the fabric.

His arms tightened around her.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you to talk about…” he looked away as he trailed off. His jaw was clenched. “I’ve been messing up a lot today, haven’t I?”

“No. You’re perfect.”

“No one is perfect.”

“You are,” Cordelia said tiredly. “Proud to call you my nephew.”

She could not see his face, but she knew that her words affected him when he slowly reached down and grabbed her hand. Cordelia did not have the strength to smile, or to even say anything. But she hoped that Dick knew how much this gesture affected her, as well.

Notes:

I hope you liked the chapter!

I've been really excited to reach this point because the next few chapters are so important for Cordelia. I've been wanting to post them for so long. 😩

Chapter 39: Protective Handcuffs

Summary:

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Dick was saying. “I’ve got this. The second you see your chance: run.”

Cordelia ignored him.

Notes:

TRIGGER WARNING: Guns, blood, and death.

“Move into Wayne Manor.”

Dick choked in surprise.

“Alfred cooks three times a day,” Cordelia continued, “so you’ll never be hungry. And he bakes cookies when you’re sad.”

Dick started chuckling beside her. “Are you trying to bribe me with Alfred?”

“No,” Cordelia frowned. “I’m bribing you with his cooking.”

“Oh my God,” Dick said. She could hear the smile in his voice. “While I appreciate the thought that you want me to stay so bad that you’ll resort to manipulation, I can’t move back in. Getting your own place and starting your own life is a part of growing up. You’ll understand one day.”

“We live in a mansion. You can have your own wing and start your life there.”

He patted her hand comfortingly. “Sorry, Little Bat. Bruce will never let me have the space that I need if I lived under his roof.”

Cordelia stifled a yawn. “I don’t think that will be a problem. I’ve been living in the manor for a month and barely see Bruce.”

He didn’t say anything to that at first, but after squeezing her hand he said, “Damian and Tim will be coming back to Gotham early now that Alfred is planning your official introduction to society. The manor won’t feel so empty then.”

Cordelia’s blinks were slow, tired despite her location on a dirty bathroom floor. Panic attacks were exhausting.

He nudged her. “How about we go back to the manor and watch a movie in the theater room, instead?”

“Okay,” she said. The theater room was nice. “We can invite Bruce.”

“Great. But he’s not allowed to pick movies anymore after —“

BANG.

They both shot to their feet at the noise.

More banging slid from beneath the cracks of the bathroom door and echoed around the walls. Cordelia could hear a door getting ripped off its hinges, glass breaking, a woman screaming, and the deep sound of mens’ shouts.

Someone needed her help.

Cordelia charged toward the door, ready to protect the little old woman who had served her a chocolate milkshake, when the hood of her sweater was caught.

Dick yanked her backwards, causing her to stumble.

“Stay here,” he said seriously, palms out.

And then he ran through the bathroom door toward trouble.

Cordelia was not far behind.

The ice cream shop windows had been shattered completely. Rain poured in with the sharp wind, spraying Cordelia’s face in a cold mist as she took stock of the situation in front of her.

Five burly men wearing clown masks and holding firearms had piled their way into the shop, taking up most of the room with their bulk. At their feet was the little old woman who owned the ice cream shop, her wrinkled face crumpled in fear and her frail body shaking like a leaf as she sobbed hysterically.

Cordelia’s heart clenched at the sight.

“Please, don’t hurt me!” The shop owner begged, her voice cracking and whining at every word.

“Hey!” Dick shouted, getting the room’s attention. “Leave her alone!”

The little old woman’s eyes widened with desperate hope. She reached toward Dick with a trembling hand, silently asking for his help.

Cordelia could see Dick begin to walk toward her, but it was too late.

One of the men placed his gun at the back of the woman’s head and shot a bullet clean through it.

The head fell to the ground, and so did the hand reaching out for help.

Cordelia watched blood trickle out of the open wound, mixing in with the dirty rain the men had tracked in with their boots.

The old woman was dead.

The ringing silence that followed was broken by the sound of one of the men groaning in disgust. He took a step backward and shook one of his boots, causing droplets of blood and water to fly everywhere, including on the little old woman’s pale face.

Dick’s hands clenched into fists. 

“You’re going to regret that,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Dick, no,” Cordelia hissed.

She grabbed his wrist to keep him in place. The civilian was already dead; she did not want her nephew to put himself in harm’s way over something as useless as revenge.

Not that they weren’t already in harm’s way. 

Cordelia had no armor and no weapons; Dick’s uniform could barely pass as an adequate leotard; and their only exit was behind the five men, each of whom were holding loaded weapons and had no qualms against shooting innocents. If they were going to get out of this alive, then it would require both of them having clear heads.

That meant pretending like an old woman was not just shot in front of them.

The man who shot the woman aimed his gun at Dick.

Cordelia and Dick moved as one; just as she was shoving him behind the counter, Dick had grabbed her wrist and pulled her with him.

A bullet embedded itself into the bathroom door they’d been standing in front of just a moment before.

“I told you to stay in the bathroom,” Dick snapped.

“I’m your aunt,” Cordelia said back. “Technically, the one who should be following orders is you.”

The men were approaching their hiding spot on both sides.

Cordelia looked around desperately for something she could use as a weapon — a knife, a fork, something — until her eyes landed on a spare blender the old woman had kept beneath the counter.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Dick was saying. “I’ve got this. The second you see your chance: run.”

Cordelia ignored him.

She grabbed the blender and yanked the cord out the back of it. The cord was thick and strong; a good tool to use in order to strangle a man to death. And the metal bits at the end could cause a lot of damage if she made it into a pseudo-whip.

“Cordelia.”

The sound of footsteps was drawing nearer. Cordelia didn’t wait for them to invade their space and get the upper-hand.

She rolled out from behind the counter and pounced on the closest man she could see. The balls of her feet planted onto his collar bones, not hard enough to break them, but hard enough to make him stumble backward.

Still standing on his chest, Cordelia aimed three swift punches at his face: the first to break his nose, the second to break the bone near his left eye, and the third to break the bone near his right.

He crumpled to the ground, temporarily blinded and screaming in pain.

Cordelia didn’t waste time admiring her work. She used the momentum of his fall to roll behind one of the booths — and just in the knick of time. A bullet grazed her ear and ricocheted off the tile floors.

Dick was shouting on the other side of the room, but Cordelia couldn’t see him. She knew that if she stopped moving, she would die. More bullets were easily shooting through the soft wood and plush of the booths she was using as a cover.

“Boys, save some of those bullets for me,” Dick said, “I’m getting jealous.”

Cordelia’s jaw dropped from her position on the floor. Why would he say that? Was he an idiot?

His chance at escaping was all-but gone. Every single one of the men in clown masks turned away from Cordelia and started to shoot at her nephew.

For a moment, an image of him crumpled to the floor with a hole in his head like the old woman forced its way into her mind. His blue eyes wide and his tan skin cold to the touch.

Cordelia’s entire body shuddered.

Bruce would never forgive her if she let his son die.

She would never forgive herself.

So Cordelia wrapped the blender cord around her fist and stood up from her hiding place. The shop had turned into a war zone. Bullet holes covered the walls, the floor was smeared with dirty water and blood, glass was being stepped on and scattered everywhere.

Dick had lost his hiding spot behind the counter. The only reason why a bullet hadn’t found its way into the muscle of his body was due to his gymnastic abilities; he was flipping and twisting out of the way, dodging them with impressive ease, as if he knew where the bullet would be aimed before it left the barrel.

Cordelia did not like that he had distracted the men away from her, but she would use it to their advantage.

She picked her next victim, and attacked.

One moment she was standing behind a bullet-shredded booth — and the next she was sitting on one of the men’s shoulders, strangling him from the back with a blender cord.

The thick body jerked and jolted beneath her, but she didn’t let up. Not even when he backed up and began slamming her against the wall in a last-ditch attempt to get her off him. All Cordelia did was tighten her grip on the cord.

“Get — ack — off me — argh — you fucking psycho!” He said.

His hands were yanking at the cord as he continued to slam her back into the wall. This would have been a successful strategy if Cordelia was a regular civilian who was unused to pain. But, as it was, getting her back slammed into a wall was absolutely nothing compared to getting punched in the face by Batman’s armored fist. 

All the man’s struggling did was make Cordelia wish that he would pass out sooner.

In front of them, Dick was still dodging bullets. But now that he was only facing three armed men, he no longer had to play the prey.

She watched with reluctant interest as Dick stopped evading the men and, instead, slammed right into one with the full weight and power of a backflip.

The move knocked the man clean out.

Dick was onto the next one in moments, wrestling the gun out of his hand and using his body as a shield from the last masked man. Meanwhile, the man beneath Cordelia was slowly losing consciousness. She felt his knees get weak as he slid to the floor, twitching and gasping, before he was lying face first on the muddy tiles with Cordelia standing over him.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the final man turn his gun to shoot at her.

Cordelia moved quickly, using the cord as a whip in order to hit the masked man’s eye.

His pained shout let her know that she’d hit her mark.

She yanked the end of the cord back to her and curled it around her wrist, ready to strike again. On the other side of the room, Dick tossed the gun that he’d wrestled from the other man across the room and knocked him out.

The last man was still screaming with one hand over his damaged eye. Blood was gushing out from between his fingers. The other hand was waving the gun around wildly between Dick and Cordelia.

“Everyone stop moving!”

Cordelia scoffed. The man was no longer threatening; he was weakened and the hand holding the gun was shaky.

The unimpressed sound must have grated on his nerves, because the gun was suddenly pointed at her face. 

“What are you laughing at, bitch?” He snarled. “Look at what you did to my eye!”

His shout echoed around the room and then out into the street outside. The heavy rain and thick fog made it difficult to see past the sidewalk, but Cordelia knew that there was something terrible happening in this little town. Blurred figures were running past the window, police sirens were squealing in the distance, men and women were screaming, and gunshots were exploding.

She needed to take this last man down quickly so that she could help everyone else.

“Your eye should be fine,” Cordelia told him. “The stress of almost becoming blind is making you overreact.”

He fired the gun.

Cordelia ducked out of the way just in time.

Dick took his distraction as an opportunity to tackle him to the ground. They struggled for a long moment, before Dick finally got a good punch in and knocked the man out cold.

Cordelia barely got to her feet before he rounded on her.

“What the hell was that?” Dick asked.

Cordelia wiped the blood on her knuckles into the fabric of her ruined jeans. “Joker lackeys.”

“I’m not talking about them,” Dick said. “I was talking about you. I told you to run. Why didn’t you listen?”

“Because I wasn’t going to leave you with five killers, Dick.”

He was shaking his head at her, frustrated beyond words. There was a red mark on his cheek, almost as if someone had gotten a hit on him. Cordelia herself barely had wounds, other than the graze of a bullet past her earlobe.

She felt for it — that sting of pain that she’d used to be so familiar with.

When she looked at her finger, it came back red.

“I need to get you out of here,” Dick was saying. “If the Joker has something planned for this area, then you’ll be safer in Bristol.”

There were people screaming in the streets, yet he was talking about keeping Cordelia safe.

“I can’t leave,” Cordelia said. “Those people need me.”

“No,” Dick corrected, “they need me. You’ll only get in the way.”

Cordelia started, surprised. “Dick, that’s rude.”

He sighed, more frustrated than regretful. “Just listen to me, okay? I can’t drive you home, but I’ll find someone who can take you to Bruce.”

Dick didn’t wait for her to agree or to disagree. She watched as he started to tug off his shirt and pants, revealing a sleek black uniform underneath with blue lines along the chest and arms.

It was even worse than she’d imagined.

His uniform was so thin that it might as well have been a second layer of skin. Cordelia doubted it would keep him safe from a fork stab, let alone the many bullets that were flying around the street just outside the shattered ice cream shop windows.

Dick, completely unaware of his aunt spiraling just in front of him, pulled a small domino mask out of his pocket and plastered it over his eyes. Because not even his head was going to be protected from bullets, either.

“You can’t go out there in that,” Cordelia said.

He didn’t even bother to argue with her on that. Glass crunched beneath his feet as he walked around the mess of bodies on the floor and toward the little old woman who had died reaching out to them for help.

“Her name was Mia,” Dick said darkly. He reached down and brushed her eyelids closed. “She always gave Damian extra sprinkles when I brought him here.”

Cordelia’s heart broke at the thought of her tiniest nephew losing someone who remembered to give him extra sprinkles. She knelt down beside Dick and squeezed his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

The little old woman had died terrified. There was a gaping hole in the back of her head that was still leaking blood, coating her light grey hair in a thick, gooey layer of dark red. Speckles of blood and dirt were splashed on her wrinkled cheeks from the lackey who had tried to shake the grime off his boots.

Cordelia could see Dick itching to wipe it off.

“We can’t tamper with evidence,” Cordelia said softly.

His jaw clenched. His uniform was not half as terrifying as Batgirl’s, and not even a quarter as terrifying as Batman’s, but she could imagine that the dark look he was wearing at the moment could have had as much of an effect as a BatGlare to those who didn’t know him.

“I know,” he said.

Another gunshot sounded outside. A high-pitched scream followed quickly afterward. Cordelia and Dick stood up at the same time.

“I need to put these clothes in the car,” Dick said. “Stay close behind me. Got it?”

Cordelia nodded sharply.

Their footsteps were hurried as they stepped over the unconscious bodies, ducked through the doorway, and made it into the rain. Cordelia kept her eyes peeled, watching out for any threats that might jump out from the thickness of the fog, but most of the chaos seemed to have moved upward toward the cinema.

In front of her, Dick kept pausing every time he heard a noise. It was interesting to see how differently he moved than Batman.

Batman rarely paused. His thick armor and general anger at the world caused him to barrel into situations like a tank. Any man, woman, or teenager within leaping distance would get attacked without hesitation. And anyone who dared to sneak up on him from behind would find that even if Batman behaved impulsively, he was still well-aware of his surroundings.

Dick’s movements were more cautious now that he wasn’t fighting. Cordelia could tell that he was thinking about each step before he took it and that his ears were straining for any approaching threats.

But most unfamiliar of all: he was moving protectively.

Every mysterious sound they heard was followed by Dick angling his body between the noise and Cordelia.

It was sweet. But also worrying, because Cordelia did not want her nephew to get hurt on her account.

The car wasn’t parked very far. Cordelia could just see it through the fog when her foot stepped on something hard and metallic. Startled, she looked down.

They were handcuffs. Police-issued handcuffs.

One of the officers must have dropped them.

Cordelia stealthily ducked down and plucked it off the ground before Dick could realize that she’d trailed a little too far behind him. She was just tucking the handcuffs into her sweater pocket when Dick unlocked the car door and tossed his clothes inside.

“Get in,” he said.

He held the door open for her. Cordelia ducked under his arm and settled comfortably into the passenger seat, before looking up at him expectantly.

“Aren’t you getting in, too?” Cordelia asked.

Dick shook his head. “Wait here. I’m going to send someone to come and get you.”

He made to shut the door, but Cordelia grabbed his wrist. “No.”

She felt him try to tug himself out of her grip, but she tightened her fingers around the wrist bone.

“You’ll be fine here,” Dick assured her. “All the shops in this area already look looted and abandoned.”

“I’m not worried about me,” Cordelia said. “I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be.”

“I can’t help it,” Cordelia frowned. “Besides, Alfred made me promise to keep you safe.”

“Why would Alfred —“ Dick cut himself off and sighed. He visibly debated with himself, his expressions flitting from frustrated to sympathetic to impatient and then back to frustrated.

Cordelia waited.

Dick’s sympathy seemed to have won out, because when he knelt down to be at her eye level, he was wearing a smile that was soft and encouraging.

“I’m sure that was a misunderstanding,” Dick said, “Alfred is supportive of me being a vigilante. You, on the other hand, are not allowed to be Batgirl until you get Bruce’s approval.”

So Bruce had told Dick about her needing to train with him before she got her cowl back. Cordelia found that annoying, but she supposed secrets were meant to be shared between family.

Now that she a part of one, she would need to become used to that.

“Bruce would agree with me that this situation is an exception,” Cordelia said. “He’d want his son to have backup before he jumps into a fight this intense.”

“He would,” Dick said firmly. “But he wouldn’t want my backup to be you.”

Something exploded in the distance. Dick tried to tug himself out of her grip again, even as his face remained neutral.

He wanted out.

Cordelia did not want him to go.

“Bruce also wouldn’t have wanted you to go over the speed limit,” she said, “but you did. This can be another thing that we don’t tell him.”

“Cordelia, I don’t have time to argue with you about this,” Dick said. “You didn’t listen to me before, but listen to me now: stay in this car. We can hang out tomorrow.”

Cordelia searched his expression for a crack of doubt, but found none. It was surprising, considering what she knew about his relationship with Bruce, that he would choose to follow Bruce’s orders over having backup in a fight.

But then she remembered the way he had been so protective of her as they walked to the car.

Maybe it wasn’t about Bruce at all. Maybe Dick just wanted to keep her safe.

This meant that being honest with him wouldn’t get Cordelia what she wanted. Protective people were often illogical; like a mother being told that her child wasn’t excellent, there was no amount of proof that would change that mother’s mind that her child was exceptional.

So Cordelia would have to manipulate Dick, instead.

He pried her fingers off her his wrist and stood up as Cordelia thought through several different strategies she could try on her nephew.

In the end, she kept coming back to two simple truths she knew about him. The first was that he thought she was cute. And the second was that he did not like to see her upset.

So Cordelia allowed herself to feel all the emotions she’d been tampering down ever since she saw his uniform, and gazed up at Dick with the most worried expression she could muster.

He’d been about to close the door in her face when he saw her expression and froze.

“Okay, Dick,” Cordelia said softly.

It was almost ironic. The last time she had used a trick like this, she’d been facing a hero very similar to Dick.

Barry had been hesitant to move forward with his plan to “fix” the timeline once he realized that it would result in Cordelia losing her life. The only way Cordelia had been able to convince him to move forward with it was by behaving more bravely than she felt.

What was it that she had said? Don’t worry, Barry. You’re doing the right thing. I can forgive you for that.

Now she would have to do the opposite in order to get Dick to not move forward with his plan: behave more fearfully than she felt.

She just hoped that Dick would be able to forgive her for it.

“I’m sorry,” she continued, voice shaky. “I’m just scared.”

His shoulders sagged, the tenseness of his anger draining. Dick stooped down and, predictably, gave her a hug.

Cordelia curled into it, letting her arms curl around his back and her cheek rest against the warmth of his shoulder. Would this be the last hug that he gave her? Trust was hard to come by and so easily broken. And this was a clear breach of the delicate trust that they’d given each other.

But, truth be told, Cordelia cared more about Dick’s safety than she cared about making Dick like her.

A hateful nephew was better than a dead one.

“I’ll be okay, Little Bat,” Dick said, “I’ve been doing this for years. You, on the other hand, need a break.”

He patted her back and tried to stand up.

A clanging sound echoed around the car.

“I really am sorry, Dick,” Cordelia said. Her voice was no longer shaky. “But if you’re not going to let me watch your back, then I’m not going to let you throw yourself into danger.”

Dick was barely paying her any attention, too busy staring at the handcuffs trapping his wrist to the inside of the passenger seat door. His lips were parted in shock.

Cordelia gave him one last hug — a much more silent, yet heartfelt apology — before slipping around him to get out of the car.

“You’ll be safe here,” she was saying. “I’ll come back for you when I’m done.”

Dick caught her by the elbow.

She turned to look at him, and felt a touch of uneasiness at the heated glare he was sending her way.

“Get me out of this,” he said.

Cordelia grabbed his fingers and bent them so that they had no choice but to let her go. Dick hissed, more in building anger than in pain.

“I don’t have the key.”

“…What?”

If Cordelia thought he had been angry when arguing with Bruce, it was nothing compared to what he was feeling at that moment. He yanked at his wrist, trying to get out of the cuffs with nothing but pure anger-fueled strength. But, despite how talented Bats could be, they were not superhuman.

“I don’t have the key,” Cordelia repeated. “But I’ll look for it on my way back. I promise.”

“Cordelia,” Dick said slowly, teeth grit, “get me out of these cuffs now, or I’m telling Bruce that you can’t follow orders.”

That made her pause. Bruce would — well…. She didn’t know.

Dick made it sound like Bruce would be upset with her, but she knew how much her brother cared for his children. She had to believe that he would see her side and know that she was doing the right thing by protecting one of his sons.

After all, she’d been trained to protect Batman since she was eight years-old. Now she could use her training to also protect Batman’s children.

This would turn out well.

“I’ll be right back, Dickie Bird,” Cordelia said. And then turned around and ran up the street toward the chaos.

“Cordelia! Get back here!” Dick was shouting behind her. “CORDELIA!”

Eventually his shouting got lost in the fog.

The lights up ahead were becoming brighter. Red, blue, and white flashes told her that police cars were nearby — but flaring green told her that the Joker lackeys had brought more than just guns to fight with.

Every shop she ran by was looted. From the gift shops to the cafes — nothing was left untouched or unbroken. Worse: there were dead bodies everywhere. What she’d thought were shapeless lumps from the distance were actually dead men and women and children — all of whom were staring blankly up into the raining sky, too far gone to save.

Cordelia wished she could stop for each one of them, to repeat Dick’s actions and close their eyes, but there were still screams in the distance.

She kept running and running, her shoes splashing in the muddied and bloodied water, until she came across the first person who was actually alive.

“Stop right there!” The police officer said. “This is a danger zone —“

He tried to grab her as she ran by him, but didn’t even come close. Police were terrible at their jobs in this timeline, too.

“No, no, no!” A woman was whimpering.

Cordelia squinted through the fog for her, and saw a mother holding her son in her arms and backing away from a group of three men in clown masks.

“Don’t come any closer, please!”

They wouldn’t listen; they never did. 

The Joker was one of the most vile criminals in the world. Only the most evil of human beings went to her for a job — the sort of human beings who would not only kill for money, but would enjoy doing it. They didn’t care who the victims were; men, women, children, animals, or infants.

Which was why Cordelia didn’t wait to see if they would leave the mother alone.

Cordelia was on the nearest of Joker lackeys in moments, pummeling his face so hard that the mask cracked beneath her fists — before ripping the gun out of his arms and shooting the last two before they even knew what was happening.

The woman ran screaming with her kid by the time the second body dropped.

The three men were groaning at her feet. Cordelia didn’t stop to see if she’d hit any important arteries. Instead, she took their guns away from them, tossed them into an alley, and continued to run up the street.

Guns were more of her father’s thing. He had an entire arsenal of weaponry in the Cave, but his gun collection was the largest. Losing his family to that very weapon had caused him to have some twisted interest in it; he would marvel at its ability to rip a life away with nothing but a twitch of a finger and cold resolve.

This interest quickly became an obsession. If a new gun was manufactured, then he would spend millions to acquire it.

Cordelia, herself, did not like guns.

They were too loud and too messy. As Batgirl, she used stealth as its own sort of weapon. No one could overpower her if they didn’t see her coming. But if she walked in with a gun, then all the attention in the room would go directly to her, and she’d have to be very ready to face the consequences of that.

Guns, she decided, were for people who didn’t have anything to live for.

And Cordelia had suddenly found herself with a lot of reasons to live.

This is what she thought as she finally reached the very center of all the chaos. Joker’s lackeys were everywhere, shooting with no discrimination. Bodies, both masked and unmasked, were dropping to the floor all around her.

Cordelia ducked behind a car and squinted at the scene in front of her.

The shops were being looted, but it seemed more out of fun than with a specific purpose. The lackey’s were laughing with each other as the civilians tried to get away; pocketing anything they found valuable; and all-around moving without any sense of urgency that a well thought out plan would have required.

The Joker was nowhere in sight.

This was a distraction.

Cordelia hoped that Batman was somewhere out there tracking down the Joker’s real location. But, in the meantime, she had her own work to do.

Cordelia took out the lackeys at the edges first. The thick fog gave her the cover that midnight shadows usually did. She was able to take them down without them even realizing that she was there until it was too late.

One-by-one they dropped, as quiet as flies. And after they fell to the floor, Cordelia punched them each in the face to keep them unconscious for the useless police to find and tossed their weapons out of reach — all except one: a knife.

Her presence only began to get noticed after she took out the ninth lackey.

That was around the time a bullet almost pierced her stomach as she rolled behind a car.

“Did you see that?” One of the lackeys shouted to a coworker.

The coworker grunted. “Moved like a Bat.”

“One of the little ones,” another said.

Cordelia made a face. She really missed her terrifying Batgirl uniform. It was hard to call a dark shadow with glowing red eyes “little.”

The lackeys approached her location, guns drawn. Cordelia pressed herself to the ground and crawled underneath the car as quietly as she could, knife in hand.

Both of the lackey’s boots walked right past her to the place she’d been hidden before, then halted.

“I could have sworn….”

“I hate Gotham. At least Superman has the decency to say hello before he kicks your ass. These Bats spend their entire life hiding.”

Superman. That name was familiar.

Cordelia ignored her curiosity in favor of swiping her knife at the ankles in front of her.

The following screams were high-pitched with pain. Cordelia swiped at the feet again until the men fell to their knees, and then crawled out the other side of the car.

“It was under the fucking car!”

They wasted their round of ammo shooting at the street as Cordelia jumped on top of the car. She didn’t take the time to say hello, no matter how much they would have liked it. Cordelia knew her strengths, and she stuck to them: quick, unexpected, and powerful punches had never let her down before.

She jumped down on the first guy, delivering one punch to the forehead before rounding on the second one, who had to reload his gun, and kicked him in the face.

Cordelia put her hands on her hips and hummed, satisfied. At this rate, she’d see Dick in no time at all —

Muscular arms grabbed her around the middle and lifted her into the air.

Cordelia instantly started struggling, kicking her feet in an attempt to take out their knees. The person lifted her higher so that her feet couldn’t reach that important joint and carried her, kicking and growling, into a dark alley.

“Stop. Struggling.”

Cordelia froze. “…Dick?”

It was only then that she noticed the black material covering the arms, and the circular metal cuff wrapped around the wrist.

Dick’s mouth was near her ear as he said, in a voice so cold that her insides shriveled. “You are in so much trouble.”

“No.”

She had the feeling that her response only made Dick angrier with her. Her suspicion was proven accurate when he said, incredulous yet still angry: “You can’t just say no.”

Cordelia kicked his thighs lightly. “Put me down.”

“No,” he replied mockingly.

She tried to wiggle out of his hold, but his arms were like steel traps around her middle. “I’m your aunt, Dick. You can’t just drag me into an alley and not let me out.”

“You Waynes are so…” he started mumbling the rest of his words, although his tone made it sound like none of what he was saying was complimentary.

Cordelia flexed her arm muscles, debating on how much strength she needed to get free. There was no doubt in her mind that Dick was physically stronger than her, but she’d fought against men bigger than him. All it really took was a bit of applied pressure and they would go down.

The problem was that Dick wasn’t a criminal on the street. She didn’t want to apply pressure and hurt him.

So she unhappily let her arms and legs dangle as he held her.

“What’s your plan here?” She tried. “To let the civilians die because you don’t want my help taking down Joker’s men?”

“My plan,” Dick said, “is to take you home.”

“I don’t live in this alley, Dick.”

Dick shushed her.

She blinked, offended, before she heard the quiet footsteps of someone approaching. Cordelia tensed and tapped at Dick’s arms, trying to communicate to him that she needed out in order to defend them. But Dick either didn’t understand or ignored her purposefully, because all he did was angle his body so that he was between her and the approaching footsteps.

“Nightwing?” A gruff voice whispered.

Dick relaxed. “In here, Commissioner.”

The man huffed and walked into view. He was not intimidating: old with greying red hair, a bushy mustache, and slightly chubby build. More than that, he was looking at Dick and Cordelia like they were two very tiresome, very misbehaving children.

“Is this her?” He asked tiredly.

“Thanks for coming, Commissioner,” Dick said as an answer. “I know this isn’t the best time.”

“My men and women are rounding up the last of them,” the Commissioner said. “We could still use your help with finding a few stragglers, though.”

“No problem,” Dick said.

Cordelia kicked at Dick’s thighs again. “What’s going on? Are you getting me arrested?”

“No,” Dick said. It sounded like he was rolling his eyes. “I’m getting you a ride home.”

“I don’t want to go home. I want to help you.”

The Commissioner’s mustache was twitching, almost like he was laughing at her. Cordelia narrowed her eyes.

“Sorry,” Dick said. Cordelia realized he wasn’t talking to her when he continued: “She’s a fan. She must have followed me and thought she could help.”

“U-huh,” the Commissioner said.

Cordelia pressed her lips together, frustrated. Not only could she not move, but she also couldn’t speak because she’d end up revealing their identities to the police.

“Do you have handcuffs?” Dick asked. “She’s a runner.”

This time, Cordelia’s kick toward his thighs was not so light. “I’m not getting handcuffed!”

The Commissioner opened his mouth to respond, hopefully to say that he wasn’t going to handcuff her just because Dick asked, when his walkie-talkie made a crackling sound.

“We got the car ready, Commissioner,” a voice said on the other line.

“Great,” the Commissioner said, relieved. “Follow me.”

The Commissioner turned and walked out of the alley with Dick following close behind. The area was still foggy, but there was not as much chaos as before. The last of the lackeys had either run away or were being detained. Cordelia could see a few of the ones that she’d taken down getting shoved into the back of a couple of police cars.

“I did good work, Dick,” she muttered to him.

“Ssh,” Dick said shortly. “No names.”

She bristled, not liking the familiar phrase or the tone it was used in.

“I just wanted to help,” she said. “Please don’t be mad.”

“You handcuffed me to a car with a pair of cuffs you didn’t even have the keys to,” Dick whispered angrily. “How did you expect me to react?”

The Commissioner had led them to a black and white police car with the lettering GCPD on the side of it. An officer around Dick’s age was leaning against the driver’s seat door with a grouchy look on his face.

“Can you at least put me down?” Cordelia insisted. “This is embarrassing.”

“Do you promise not to run?”

She hesitated, but nodded. 

Cordelia did not like the way the police officer was looking at her.

Dick let her drop to her feet, but kept her elbow locked in his grip.

“Miss Wayne, this is Officer Leeds,” the Commissioner said. “He’s going to take you to your… father?”

“Cousin,” Cordelia corrected unhappily. Brother.

“You’re in good hands,” the Commissioner said.

He opened the police backdoor of the police car and gestured for her to get in. Cordelia tugged herself out of Dick’s grip, crawled inside, and moodily crossed her arms over her chest.

“Put on your seat belt,” Dick said.

She looked away from him, but otherwise didn’t move.

“It’s against the law not to wear a seatbelt, Miss Wayne,” the Commissioner piped in.

“It’s also against the law to kidnap,” Cordelia snapped. “Maybe I should have you arrested.”

The Commissioner stared at her for a moment, before slowly shutting the door and digging in his pockets. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one of them. 

“Boy, am I glad my Barbara grew out of her teenage years,” he said to Dick, his voice muffled through the window glass. In the front seat of the car, Officer Leeds turned on the car and put it into drive. “I should send my regards to Mister Wayne when all this mess is cleaned up.”

Cordelia didn’t hear Dick’s response as the car started to drive down the street.

Chapter 40: A Distraction

Summary:

“Hi, Cordelia,” Bruce said, a bit exasperated. “Why were you fighting with the Gotham police?”

Cordelia almost asked him how he knew she’d been fighting with the officer, when she remembered: the street cameras.

Bruce had been watching her.

This was wrong. This was backwards.

Dick was running around exposed in a skin-tight suit and Cordelia was sitting safe-and-sound in the back of a police car.

All her training, everything she knew, was telling her to jump out of the moving vehicle and chase after her nephew. But her nephew also happened to be a six foot tall vigilante who did not seem happy about her fighting criminals. So she had to create a different plan: to get Bruce’s permission.

And the only way to do that was to train with him.

Cordelia closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths.

This was not going to be the same type of training her father gave her. Alfred had promised. And she could trust Alfred.

The car rattled as it hit a speed bump. Officer Leeds glared at her in the rearview mirror as if it was her fault the street was designed to keep the pedestrians safe.

Cordelia frowned. “Eyes on the road.”

He snorted in disgust and muttered under his breath. Cordelia didn’t care to listen in, but she caught one phrase clear as day — spoiled brat.

She sighed and rested her head against the window.

“You know,” Officer Leeds said loudly, “this was my first day out in the field?”

Cordelia hummed, uninterested.

The houses outside the window were becoming larger. Soon, she’d be in Wayne Manor and having a conversation more important than this one.

“I went through years of school, years of training, and years of endless office work for this day,” Officer Leeds continued, “just for you to come along and fuck it all up.”

Cordelia blinked. From her experience with Gotham police, they never seemed interested in… being police. They enjoyed the power it gave them, they enjoyed abusing it. But when it came to helping Batman and Batgirl ridding the city of crime, they were about as lazy as fat house cats.

She supposed Officer Leeds’s rant was coming from a good place, even if it was coming out as insults. 

“I’m sorry your first day turned out badly,” she said fairly. “Maybe tomorrow you can be useful.”

His face spasmed in anger. “I could have been useful today if rich bitches like you didn’t treat the police like your personal taxi service.”

“We don’t use taxis.”

The car screeched to a halt. Cordelia grabbed the door handle before her face could slap against the metal bars that separated the backseats from the front.

“Get out,” Officer Leeds snapped.

She pressed her lips together. “You’re supposed to take me home.”

“Your legs aren’t broken.”

Cordelia glanced out the window. She was close to Wayne Manor, but what could be a few minutes drive would turn into a half-an-hour walk. Coupled that with the rain and the fog — walking would be absolutely miserable.

“I really need to get home,” Cordelia said.

“Then get home,” Officer Leeds said.

Rain splat against the windows as the two stared at each other through the rearview mirror, Cordelia debating on whether to push the issue and Officer Leeds doing his very best to intimidate her. In the end, her need to speak to Bruce quickly won out.

“Start the car,” Cordelia said. “The quicker you drop me off, the quicker you can return to the field. It’s a win-win scenario.”

“I’m tired of people like you winning,” he said meanly. “Now get out before I make you.”

Cordelia didn’t move. The idea of a Gotham police officer trying to make her do anything was so ridiculous that she could hardly believe she was the only one to see it. Once again, Cordelia was hit with how bizarre it was how blind civilians were. Where Officer Leeds saw a skinny rich girl, sat a deadly killer. Where he saw his own reflection, sat a body easy to kill.

Her lack of fear seemed to send him over the top. He threw his door open and jumped out. Cordelia turned her head to watch him walk around the car in her direction, before he pulled her door open, too.

“Don’t touch —“ Cordelia began.

Officer Leeds grabbed her arms and started dragging her out.

“Hey!” Cordelia growled. “Get off of me!”

Her fingers latched onto the edges of the door before she could be completely dragged out of the backseat. Officer Leeds yanked at her even harder, causing Cordelia to kick him in the ribs.

“Aurgh,” he groaned.

She punched him in the face.

He let go of her, his hands flying to his mouth, as Cordelia glared at him. Blood was dripping down his chin. She was sure that she’d loosened a tooth.

The officer raised his fist, ready to retaliate, when his phone began to ring. His fist did not lower, and his eyes did not leave hers, as he dug into his pocket for his cell phone.

“Hello?” He said, voice thick from the blood in his mouth.

Whoever was speaking on the other line made Officer Leeds’s face pale instantly.

“Uh, yes,” he said haltingly. “Sir.”

The rain had quickly soaked through his clothes, making the material cling to his skinny frame. He looked a lot younger than his age.

“Of course, Sir,” he said, and held out the phone for Cordelia.

She frowned at him distrustfully, but snatched the phone from his hand and scooted deeper into the car, out of reach.

“Who is this?” Cordelia demanded to know.

Officer Leeds looked far too nervous for her liking as he shut her door as quietly as possible and scurried back to the driver’s seat.

“Bruce,” said the deep voice on the other end.

“Oh,” Cordelia blinked, surprised. “Hi, Bruce.”

Officer Leeds started driving again, a bit more quickly than before.

“Hi, Cordelia,” Bruce said, a bit exasperated. “Why were you fighting with the Gotham police?”

Cordelia almost asked him how he knew she’d been fighting with the officer, when she remembered: the street cameras.

Bruce had been watching her.

“Officer Leeds doesn’t like me,” Cordelia told him, causing the man in question to send her an infuriated look in the rearview mirror. “He was trying to force me to walk home.”

It took a while for Bruce to respond to that. “Why.”

He was upset. “It’s not my fault.”

“I’m not blaming you, Cordelia,” Bruce said.

She pursed her lips, wondering if she believed him or not, before answering his question, “He said that he doesn’t like that we’re using the police like a taxi service. Then he called us rich bitches.”

Officer Leeds made a strangled sound. “I did not say that! Give me back my phone.”

Cordelia frowned at him. “But I’m using it.”

She could hear Bruce begin typing something on a keyboard. “We need to work on your people skills.”

“You said you didn’t blame me,” Cordelia complained.

“I’m not,” Bruce sighed. “Just try not to get into anymore trouble on your way home.”

That sounded a lot like he was blaming her to Cordelia, but she didn’t want to further frustrate him by arguing that point. 

“Give Officer Leeds back his phone,” he said.

“Okay,” Cordelia said, then hesitated. “See you at home?”

He hummed. “If you’d like.”

“I would.”

“Then I’ll be here,” Bruce said.

Warmth settled in her belly at his words. But… they also broke her heart. Because, after today, everything between her and her brother would be different. Everything. And, more than likely, it would all change for the worse.

“Bruce…” Cordelia began.

“Yes?” He prompted.

She wanted to tell him that she loved him, but fear that he didn’t love her back stilled her tongue. So Cordelia scooted up in her seat and pushed the phone between the bars. “Bruce wants to talk to you.”

Officer Leeds looked at the phone like it was a ticking time bomb. He grabbed it jerkily from her hand and pressed it to his ears. “Sir?”

Wayne Manor was starting to appear up ahead. Except — something was different. What was normally a pretty vacant parking zone was now very occupied with five large trucks and a few smaller cars.

Each vehicle was a pale yellow color with a vibrant green logo marking up the sides.

Cordelia squinted, trying to read it as Officer Leeds stuttered his way through a conversation with her brother.

“She misinterpreted that, Sir,” he said, face pale. “I would never call you a — no, Sir, of course not! I am so sorry…. Yes, Sir, I’ll apologize to her, too…. Yes, we’re arriving at your home right now. It’s beautiful, by the way —“

“Ask him what the Giovanni’s Gardens trucks are doing here,” Cordelia said.

Officer Leeds latched onto the question like it was a life line. “She is wondering what the gardening trucks are doing here…. He said that they’re here to plant a garden.”

Cordelia huffed. Well that was obvious.

The car was driving frustratingly slow now that they were nearing the gates that surrounded the manor. Cordelia practically had her face pressed against the window as she watched the men and women walk in and out of the trucks and cars, each holding either gardening tools or flower pots and — Cordelia narrowed her eyes, hardly daring to believe them — sheep.

“We’re at the gates,” Officer Leeds said, “do I press a button or — oh.”

The gates swung open ominously, letting the car drive through.

Alfred was standing at the doorway with a large umbrella, waiting for them to park. Cordelia barely let the car stop before hopping out and making a beeline toward the Giovanni’s Gardens trucks.

“Miss Cordelia!” Alfred said loudly.

Cordelia stopped. The butler was giving her a look that was usually followed with a lecture on proper etiquette.

“Perhaps waiting for me to provide you with coverage would have prevented you from becoming wet?”

She had already been wet before she left the car, but Cordelia knew better than to argue with Alfred on things like this, so she shuffled over until she was standing beside him under the umbrella.

“Very good,” he said, and walked with her to the front door. “I have dry clothes laid out for you in your room.”

Behind him, Officer Leeds was walking toward the two, shoulders hunched in the pouring rain. When Alfred turned and saw him, he gave a long-suffering sigh and went to get him under the umbrella, too.

Cordelia stood at the door. The Giovanni’s Gardens workers weren’t bringing their tools and plants and sheep to Alfred’s carefully grown garden. Instead, they were making an invisible trail toward the woods that bordered the back of the manor. 

She wasn’t sure how she knew, because he wasn’t making noise as he approached her, but suddenly she felt as if Bruce was close by.

“What are they doing?” Cordelia asked him. “Why are they going to the woods?”

“They’re building a garden… for you.”

He finished his sentence so awkwardly that it took a while for his words to sink in — for Cordelia to realize that those five trucks full of plants and animals and gardening tools were all there for….

The Giovanni’s Gardens workers were talking to each other excitedly despite the pouring rain. Their jeans and jackets were completely wet, but none of them seemed to care. One of the women carrying a small lamb gave it an affectionate kiss on the head before setting it down and letting it trot up ahead to the woods.

Cordelia tore her gaze away from them to look up at Bruce, eyes large.

He was standing a few feet away from her with hands dangling awkwardly by his sides. “You said you wanted one. After we watched the movie.”

A secret garden. Cordelia had been mostly asleep by the time the movie was over; she barely remembered walking to her room afterward, let alone talking to Bruce about wanting a garden.

Her stare must have been making him uncomfortable. He was as close to rambling as she’d ever seen him.

“They’re a family business, but they’re excited about the work,” Bruce said. “They should be done by tomorrow.”

His hands flexed, but otherwise stayed loose and visible at his sides.

Safe.

“I told them to make it as identical to the movie as possible,” he continued, “but if you want to make a few tweaks, we can do that, too. Anything you want.”

“But…” Cordelia couldn’t stop staring at him. “Why?”

Her entire chest was filled with a hope so strong she was sure that he could see it written all over her face. But she didn’t want to contain it; she wanted to stop guessing everything he was feeling and just know.

“I thought….” His hands flexed again, uncomfortable. “I thought it’d make you… happy.”

There was a splash of color appearing high on his cheekbones, and there was a tightening at the corner of his lips that revealed that he did not want to be having this conversation, but his eyes stayed locked on her own — honest, trying, for her.

Something clicked into place.

Alfred and Officer Leeds walked into the manor before Cordelia could figure out some way to respond. The old butler shut the door behind Officer Leeds, who stared at the closed door the way a man would stare at a noose.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said formally, “Officer Leeds has arrived upon your request.”

Bruce broke eye contact with Cordelia to peer down at the hunched over officer. Nothing in his expression changed but, somehow, he was able to drop the temperature of the room a few degrees.

Ice blue eyes drilled into Officer Leeds’s, pupils small and eyelids unblinking.

The look was enough to make Officer Leeds’s pale cheeks become all splotchy.

“Sir,” he said. His voice cracked at the end.

“Come along, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said. He pressed a hand against Cordelia’s back and guided her past her brother and toward the staircase. Water dripped off of her clothes the entire way over. “You’re making a puddle in the foyer.”

Cordelia let herself be pushed toward her room, still reeling over her conversation with Bruce.

They turned the corner when Bruce began speaking.

“My ward tells me you were going to force her to walk home on her own,” he said coolly. “A fifteen year old girl alone in Gotham. I’m sure you can imagine my… disappointment in your actions.”

They were approaching the family wing, but they could still hear Officer Leeds’s stuttering reply echo around the walls: “I — I wasn’t really going to leave her, Sir. I just — just wanted — well, I thought it might be beneficial to scare her a bit —“

“I don’t donate millions of dollars monthly to the GCPD so that they can scare little girls.”

“Of — of course not, Sir. I am so very sorry —“

Alfred closed the door separating the family wing from the rest of the house, muffling the sounds of her brother and the stuttering cop.

“Sometimes I wonder about the people they hire at the GCPD,” Alfred muttered critically. “To throw a child out into the rain…. How despicable can you be?”

Cordelia glanced in his direction at the word “child,” but didn’t protest, too busy thinking over what Bruce had told her and how much that changed.

“Regardless of the circumstance,” Alfred said, “I am glad that you’re here early. I’ve just finished your bedroom and have been eager to see if you like it.”

Her eyebrows scrunched up. “Finished it?”

Alfred smiled at her warmly, then pushed open her door. And —

Her room was different.

Gone were the plain white sheets and curtains. They were replaced with curtains that were a sky blue, bed clothing that was a powder yellow, and wallpaper that was cream with green leaf detailing.

And there was new furniture, too. Her old brown desk had been replaced with a longer one with attached bookshelves; her old lamps had been replaced with taller ones with little lights like stars; and attached to the wall across her bed was a flat screen television with a packed entertainment center just below it.

Cordelia slowly walked into the room.

“Master Bruce suggested adding a few things,” Alfred said from behind her. “He said the boys didn’t begin to feel at home until they were gifted with a few gaming sets. I did not have the heart to tell him that his sons were simply manipulating him into getting them what they wanted.”

Cordelia could barely look at them. “I don’t know how to use those.”

“I’m sure Master Dick and his brothers will be all too excited to show you how they work.”

There was art on her wall. The painting of Alfred’s garden she’d done with Bruce. On a shelf beneath it were porcelain figurines of flowers dancing with each other.

“Do you like it, Miss Cordelia?” Alfred asked. “Is there something you’d like to change?”

“No,” Cordelia said. “It’s fine.”

If she turned around, he would see how lost she felt. This was her room — yet it wasn’t. The design, so carefully put together, felt like it was put together for an entirely different girl. A girl who loved flowers and gardens and reading and playing video games like a little kid. Not for Cordelia, who spent most of her life killing people and trying everything she could to make her father love her.

This room belonged to someone like Dick. Someone who… someone who everyone could love.

Cordelia wasn’t that.

Was she?

“Miss Cordelia?” Alfred said. He was worried.

“I need to shower,” Cordelia said, her back to him. “Can you make sure that Bruce doesn’t leave until I speak with him?”

“Of course,” Alfred sounded like he was frowning. “Let me know if you require anything else.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

The door shut quietly behind her.

Cordelia didn’t move, still staring at the new decorations and the new furniture, trying to understand why they would do this for her but also knowing why they would do this for her. 

She hadn’t had a room like this since she was a little girl living with her mother. She hadn’t had a room like this since… since the last and only person who had ever truly loved her had died.

Cordelia wiped her cheeks, wetting her palms.

Life was becoming so confusing.

She used to wake up everyday knowing that no one cared about her. But now….

Now she had people who wanted to make her happy. People like Barry who would let her hug him one last time so that it would hurt less when he left; people like Alfred who would put together a room for her and eagerly wait for her reaction; people like Dick who would carry her to safety during a panic attack.

And people like Bruce. Bruce, who remembered an off-hand comment she made weeks ago about a fake garden. Bruce, who was trying to make that garden real for her.

Bruce, who needed her help to keep his son safe.

Cordelia wiped at her cheeks again.

Alfred had laid comfortable loungewear out on her bed. She picked it up and went into the bathroom to take a quick shower.

She hadn’t taken a shower this quick and effective since Barry pulled her out of her timeline. The soap was scrubbed deep into her skin and rinsed thoroughly away. In under two minutes, she was wrapped up in a towel and brushing her wet hair into a tight ponytail.

The girl in the mirror was as unfamiliar to Cordelia as her room was. That girl had full cheeks; eyes that were not dull with sadness; hair that was full and long from eating the proper nutrients daily.

Cordelia tossed the wet towel into the hamper and pulled on the loungewear. It was soft and comforting against her skin, but would soon be replaced with the rough texture of kevlar and flexible armor. 

Batgirl was making her return.

She just had to speak to Bruce first.

Cordelia left her room and followed the trail of water droplets out of the family wing, along the hallway, and then down the staircase. Officer Leeds was no longer stuttering in the foyer, and Bruce was no longer staring him down. She walked through the room and left toward the office space that was once her father’s, but was now her brother’s.

The door was open by the time that she got there. Bruce was typing on his desktop computer with the intensity of a man on a mission, most likely gathering as much information as he could on the Joker’s latest Arkham escape and the damage she’d — or he’d — done ever since.

Cordelia knocked softly on the open door.

“Cordelia,” Bruce greeted in that deep grumble of his.

“May I come in?” She asked.

He gestured to the seat in front of his desk. “Sit.”

Cordelia sat down and folded her hands in her lap. “You’re looking into the Joker.”

Bruce hummed. “He’s working hard to distract us. I’m trying to anticipate where his next target will be.”

Cordelia nodded. She’d suspected that, too.

Based on her knowledge of her own Joker, this new one would not wait long to target the next location. Joker was never a patient person.

“I want to help,” Cordelia said firmly.

Bruce’s reaction was curious. She’d expected… relief. He would have Batgirl back on his team — a top tier fighter, a battle genius, a tech enthusiast.

But he did not look relieved.

His fingers froze in their typing, his jaw clenched.

“I know you want me to train with you first,” Cordelia continued, “and I know that I put up a fight about it before. But I’m ready now. To train. With you.”

She was saying something wrong. She could see it in the stiffness of his shoulders as he shut off his computer and gave her his full attention.

Despite her sudden nerves, she waited for his response.

He was staring her down similarly to how he’d stared down Officer Leeds. Ice blue to ice blue; Wayne to Wayne. This was the beginning of Batgirl’s return — no, a beginning to Batman and Batgirl. The ultimate Gotham team.

Bruce’s eyes lowered. Cordelia sat up straight, feeling a lot like a soldier waiting for their battle call.

“No.”

Cordelia blinked. “No? No to what?”

“You’re not training with me,” he said.

Her folded fingers began to fidget with each other, uncertain. “So… I can just be Batgirl again? No training?”

He raised his eyes to meet hers again, deceptively calm. “You’re misunderstanding me, Cordelia. I mean that you are not going to help me with this case, so there is no need for you to train with me.”

Not going to —

“But Dick is out there,” Cordelia said. “He needs our help. Both of our help.”

“Dick is one of the best,” Bruce said. “He is perfectly capable of taking down Joker’s henchmen without us needing to interfere.”

Cordelia was shaking her head.

It didn’t matter how capable Dick was, he was still running around Gotham in a leotard. 

“Fine, he’s capable,” Cordelia said, and fought to keep the doubt out of her tone. “But that doesn’t mean that he has to go out there alone. If I’m out there, I can make sure that nothing bad happens to him. He’ll be one hundred percent safe with me watching his back.”

“He won’t be out there alone for long,” Bruce said. “I’m going to join him soon.”

“But then —“ Cordelia frowned sharply, “— who’s going to watch your back?”

Bruce raised one eyebrow. “I’m Batman.”

“Batman gets hurt,” Cordelia pointed out.

“And Batgirl doesn’t?”

“Batgirl was made to get hurt to keep Batman safe,” Cordelia said. “It’s part of my training.”

Bruce looked as if she’d slapped him.

She knew it wasn’t easy for him to hear all the things his father had done to her. But it hadn’t been easy for Cordelia to live through it, either. And it was up to her to decide how to deal with the aftermath of her upbringing.

In this case, she wanted to use her teachings to help her new family.

“It sounds terrible,” Cordelia allowed, because it was clear that Bruce was struggling to respond. “But we were an effective team because of this dynamic. Batman had to be the leader charging into battle, and I had to be his protector keeping him from becoming damaged. And now that he’s gone, I can do the same for you.” She raised her chin confidently. “You can use me, Bruce.”

There was something dark glittering in his eyes. It was the same look that their father got right before he killed someone. Cordelia was sure that he was going to punch her. Even his hands, which were lying on the armrests of his chair, curled into two giant fists.

She watched the knuckles turn white, the same way their father’s always did. Then she looked up at her brother, already forgiving.

“It’s okay,” Cordelia promised gently. “I have a high pain tolerance.”

It was then that Cordelia realized that her brother was wearing a mask. It wasn’t the same one that covered every tell of emotion on his face; but a thinner one — one that just covered the most important emotion: anger.

“I have no use for you, Cordelia,” he began coldly, before abruptly stopping himself by taking a long, slow breath.

He got to his feet, hands behind his back.

The next time he spoke, his voice was deceptively calm. “If you’re really worried about Dick’s safety, then I can make sure that Alfred keeps you updated on his health. In the meantime, you can distract yourself by speaking to the Giovanni’s Gardens group and let them know what you think about the project.”

He walked over to the grandfather clock and moved the hands to open the pathway to the Cave. Cold air seeped into the room once the clock slid to the side.

Cordelia watched him in disbelief.

He was… denying Batgirl? Denying further protection for his children?

Why?

And to say that she should “distract” herself from worrying about Dick with a garden? Did he think she was that selfish? Did he think she would forget Batgirl and forget wanting to protect his family all because there was going to be a garden installed in their backyard?

“Bruce,” Cordelia said. He stopped himself from retreating into the Cave. “I’m not giving up Batgirl for a garden.”

“Understood,” he nodded stiffly. “Then what will you give her up for?”

“Nothing,” she answered, confused. “Bruce, are you — are you trying to make me give her up for good?”

He didn’t need to answer. They were both finally realizing the truth.

Bruce was never going to let her train with him. He was never going to make her a new Batgirl uniform. And he didn’t want her help with the mission.

And the garden… the secret garden that he was building for her… had been a distraction, not a gift.

It was all becoming clear. This had been his plan all along; he’d wanted her to have a hobby that would keep her from the cowl. The more she realized this, the more she realized how obvious it had all been.

Alfred and Dick and Barry had each dropped hints, telling her that she loved to garden even though she’d only done it once, practically shoving that hobby into her subconsciousness.

Practically dangling Bruce’s plan right in her face.

I’m glad Alfred thought of gardening, Barry had said. I’m sure Bruce would have chosen martial arts as a hobby for you.

Gardening wasn’t a planned hobby. It was more spontaneous.

Right.

She’d been suspicious then, but she had let it go. Because she trusted Barry. Because a part of her had even trusted Bruce.

“That garden is a distraction, not a gift,” Cordelia realized. “You didn’t get it to make me happy. You got it to manipulate me. This was all just… manipulation.”

Bruce held her gaze, unapologetic. "It was both."

Her heart felt like a giant bruise.

Out of everything Cordelia had ever gone through, from losing her timeline to being left at her father’s mercy for years, nothing hurt her like those three words.

Bruce turned away from her - turned away from the hurt that he’d caused - and left to the Cave, leaving Cordelia to curl her arms around her chest and try to recover from the harshest blow she'd ever received in her life.

Chapter 41: Warm Milk

Summary:

She hesitated only once before lifting the staff up to Batman like an offering.

“Please,” she said, “let me earn Batgirl again.”

When Cordelia was four years-old, the only person she ever wanted to be around was her mother.

It wasn’t that Cordelia didn’t like other people, but that other people could never compare. Seeing her mother was like seeing a diamond in the water. When she walked into the room, the smell of strawberries would fill the space; when she laughed, the entire sky would brighten. And sometimes, when she was in the mood to tell stories, she could create entire worlds with nothing but her own voice.

Those were the best days: when her mother had nothing else to do, when there were no obligations or parties splitting them up, she would take Cordelia to the park and they would both lie in the grass. Her mother let Cordelia lie so close to her that their heads would touch, and then her mother would begin talking.

Cordelia didn’t remember most of the stories her mother told her, no matter how hard she tried. But she remembered the ones about her father.

“Your Midnight Protector,” she would call him.

The stories of Cordelia’s father were always so beautiful. He was a tall, strong man that could chase all the monsters away; he was a gentle, caring man who could make you feel like your every thought mattered; he was a handsome, charismatic man who could get the attention of everyone in the building.

He was the warrior Achilles, he was Prince Charming, he was Batman.

“You will meet him one day,” Cordelia’s mother would say, “when you’re older.”

“Why not now?” Little Cordelia would ask.

“Because he’s busy,” her mother would say. “He’s got a lot of people to protect. But he thinks about you everyday, and he loves you very much.”

That word always lessened the feeling of disappointment from Cordelia’s heart: love.

“Do you love me, Mommy?” Cordelia asked one day.

She remembered her mother turning her head to look at Cordelia. Cordelia remembered turning her own head to look at her mother.

Their faces were so close that Cordelia could see faint wrinkles where her mother would apply creams every morning and every night.

“You look like him,” her mother said.

Cordelia, who had only ever heard good things about her father, smiled brightly. Her feet did a happy little wiggle.

Her mother turned away to stare at the sky. Cordelia didn’t know what sadness looked like on adults back then, but she knew that sometimes her mother didn’t always look happy. So she scooted closer and snuggled into her mother’s side, pressing her tiny face into her arm.

It was a few minutes later, when Cordelia had already forgotten the question that she’d asked, that her mother finally answered: “Yes, my little heart. I love you so very, very much.”

Back then, it was just Cordelia and her mother against the world. Her mother traveled too much to make any lasting friendships, and the only family either of them had was Cordelia’s father, who neither had seen since before Cordelia was born.

So it was only natural that Cordelia would throw a fit every time she learned that she was going to be left with a babysitter.

Little Cordelia loved her mother so much. She loved her mother in the pure, all-encompassing way that the stars loved the moon.

And she could not yet understand why her mother didn’t love her like that, too.

“No, no, no!” Cordelia screamed at the top of her lungs. “No babysitter!”

Her mother sighed in frustration. She had a party overseas in Paris to go to, and had no time for tantrums.

“It’s not up to you, Cordelia,” her mother said. “You can’t come with me this time. I can’t network with you clinging to my skirts the entire night.”

“No, no, no!”

“Cordelia!” Her mother said sharply.

Cordelia began screaming, half out of anger and half out of sorrow. She did not like being left with strangers. She did not like that they never hugged her and she did not like that they never cared about her.

She did not like to be left behind.

“That’s it — that’s it!” Her mother grabbed her own hair like she was seconds away from tearing it out. She marched forward and snatched Cordelia off the ground, her long nails digging into skin. “You’re getting warm milk.”

Cordelia’s screams became louder as she fought against her mother.

This was a new tradition of theirs: every time her mother would want Cordelia to relax, she would make her warm milk. But Cordelia hated warm milk. There was a sweetness to the flavor that wasn’t there when it was cold and it always — always — made Cordelia so tired that it felt impossible to stay awake.

Her mother forcefully sat her in the kitchen high-chair and put a small pot on the stove.

“I don’t want!” Cordelia said.

She wished that there was something close to her so that she could throw it.

Her mother was behind her, preparing the milk and ignoring all the screaming from the toddler.

Cordelia started kicking her feet in anger. “I don’t want!”

There was some shuffling and then her mother was by her side with a full sippy cup. Her mother slapped it down on the tray in front of Cordelia. “Drink it.”

Cordelia grabbed the cup and threw it across the room with a sense of deep satisfaction.

“Cor-delia,” her mother snapped. “You are being a very bad girl.”

These words felt like a dagger to the heart. She did not want to be bad, she just wanted to be with her mother.

Cordelia’s screams turned into shrieking sobs.

Her mother rolled her eyes and left to pick up the sippy cup. When she came back, she didn’t speak. All she did was stare down at Cordelia with a look so empty that her daughter would remember it clearly years later.

“Cordelia,” her mother said.

Her flat tone made Cordelia uneasy. She stopped crying to gaze up at her mother.

“If you drink this milk, I’ll go take you to see Batman. Do you remember what Mommy said about Batman?”

Her uneasiness evaporated. Small pink lips parted in surprise. “He’s Daddy?”

Her mother’s answering smile was too wide. “Mhmm. Batman is Daddy. And he wants to see you. But only if you drink the milk.”

The sippy cup was placed into Cordelia’s chubby hands, but the little girl was still staring up at her mother in wide-eyed wonder.

Her father. Her favorite stories were all about her father.

He was a superhero. He was her protector. He loved her.

Cordelia really wanted to feel loved.

“Daddy’s coming?” She asked, just to be sure.

“No, we’re going to him,” her mother corrected. Her eyes flickered away to look at the sippy cup in her daughter’s hands. “Hurry up and drink. Or we’ll miss the plane to Daddy.”

The warm milk had bubbles at the top and steam was rising out of it. But drinking it would mean that she would get to meet her father. It would mean she would no longer have to be left alone with strangers. So she hesitantly brought the cup to her lips and began drinking.

The sweetness of it was so nasty that her large blue eyes squeezed shut when the first drop touched her tongue.

Her mother waited until the entire cup was empty before pressing a kiss against Cordelia’s temple. “Good girl. I’ll be right back.”

Cordelia set the cup down. Her stomach was gurgling uncomfortably beneath her pajama shirt.

She knew that the exhaustion would come after she drank the milk, but she still hated it every time. Her mother was making noise in their bedroom across from the kitchen, packing the last of her things, and leaving her daughter to sit in the kitchen high-chair all by herself.

Little Cordelia felt her stomach gurgle again. She wrapped her arms around herself in a lonely hug, and stared out the window as she waited for her mother’s return.

It was a bright morning. The white curtains didn’t let her see the birds outside, but Cordelia could still hear them chit-chatting happily with each other. She imagined that they were telling stories about their day.

Exhaustion felt a lot like heavy weights had tied themselves to her eyelids. It wasn’t very long before Cordelia started swaying back and forth in the high-chair, trying to keep her head from falling on the tray in front of her.

She almost gave up when she heard a gentle flap of wings.

Large eyes blinked confusedly at the window. A tiny red bird had landed on the sill.

It’s little beak opened to peep at her.

Cordelia’s fat fist reached up to rub at her eyes, trying to stay awake for her new friend.

“Birdie,” she whispered when she was done, and moved one of her hands in a ‘come here’ gesture. “Come here, birdie.”

The red bird peeped at her again, and took a little hop closer.

Cordelia gave a small gasp. An animal had never listened to her before. She reached forward with both hands, curling and uncurling her fingers. “Come here, birdie. Come here.”

And then, amazingly, another red bird joined it. They both looked at each other and chirped.

Cordelia held her breath, waiting to see what would happen. The birds chirped at each other some more, speaking in their own special language, before turning to Cordelia.

She waved hopefully from her high chair.

The birds chirped one more time, then flew away.

Cordelia watched them go, heart aching and feeling as if she’d lost something important. Few things had ever come to her before. Most of what Cordelia had, she had to scream and fight for. But that little bird had hopped forward.

She watched the window, waiting for it to return. But, slowly, the white curtains stopped fluttering and Cordelia’s head was staring to become more heavy. Her little body was falling forward by the time her mother returned and picked her up.

Cordelia’s cheek dropped onto the warmth of her mother’s collar bone.

Her mother sighed in relief. “Sleepy, little heart?”

Cordelia’s eyes were mostly shut. “There were birds, Mommy.”

“Were they pretty?” Her mother asked.

“Yes,” Cordelia said. And then: “Mommy?”

“Hm?”

“Will Daddy hug me when he sees me?”

Cordelia fought to stay awake, wanting to know the answer, but stilled once she felt a hand begin to pet her hair. She loved the feel of her mother’s fingernails scraping lightly against her scalp. It would be a feeling that she’d crave for the rest of her life.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” her mother said. “Just go to sleep, little heart.”

So Cordelia did go to sleep, believing that when she woke up she would find that drinking the warm milk had been worth it — that she would finally get to meet her superhero father. But the next time she opened her eyes, she was not staring up at a man, she was staring up at a woman.

Cordelia frowned at her confusedly. “Where’s Daddy?”

She was lying in a strange bed in a strange room with a strange woman she didn’t know.

That woman smiled sweetly. “I don’t know, honey. But I’m Pam! Your mommy just left for her plane, but I’m going to be looking after you for the next week. Aren’t you excited?”

Cordelia was not excited.

The only reason why she drank that awful milk was because she thought she’d see her father, not Pam. And now she was realizing that she’d been tricked.

It only took a moment for her crushing disappointment to turn into vicious anger. And for Cordelia to throw a fit so large that Pam swore, after only a week with the little Wayne, that she would never babysit her again.

That was the memory that went through Cordelia’s head as she sat alone in Bruce’s office. And not just the memory of what had happened, but also the memory of what it felt like to figure out that the person she’d trusted the most had manipulated her.

Stupid. She felt stupid. And inferior. And paranoid. And so, so humiliated.

Cordelia curled up in the cushioned seat across from Bruce’s desk, lying her forehead on her knees.

Bruce had lied to her about why he got the garden. Much like her mother, he had known what she wanted the most and dangled it enticingly in front of her so that she could take that blind step forward into the invisible trap.

For a moment, it had been great. She’d felt…

She’d felt loved by him for a moment. 

And then that feeling was snatched away. Replaced with the sickly sweet flavor of manipulation.

Even worse: he’d gotten the people she cared about to help him.

Barry and Dick and Alfred had all played a part in his plan. Barry had sat with her near the peony garden and listened so sweetly as she gushed about things like loosening soil and delicate roots; Dick had added watching a movie about nature to their list of activities for the day; and Alfred — Cordelia’s throat closed up at the realization that even Alfred had been a part of her humiliation — Alfred had been the one to introduce her to gardening in the first place.

All of them knew.

All of them helped.

Why would they do that?

Cordelia knew that she wasn’t perfect. She knew that she killed people, that she didn’t always get every joke they made, that she was moody and disobedient and clingy — but she tried her best to show them that she cared.

And, in return, they had helped Bruce try to take Batgirl away. 

They had helped him make a fool of her.

Bruce could have just told her that he didn’t want her to be Batgirl anymore. They could have talked about it. Cordelia would have argued, of course, but her brother was Batman — he should be able to handle an argument. Even if he did struggle with feeling-related conversations, the ability to talk his way out of a problem was one of Batman’s best talents.

This convoluted, manipulative scheme was so unnecessary that Cordelia couldn’t help but think that he’d wanted to embarrass her. And the more she thought about it, the more she realized that it was the only logical explanation.

Why else would Bruce choose to involve every person she cared about in this betrayal? Why else would he wait until she was her happiest with him to reveal the truth of his plan?

This all had to be payback. Cordelia had taken away his perfect vision of their father, so he was taking away the one thing about herself that she was proud of: Batgirl.

This scheme was just an added layer to the payback. It was his way of saying: How can you be Batgirl if you can’t even see that everyone around you is lying?

And he was right.

She should have known that all this was just a masterful plot orchestrated by Batman and implemented by his — his lackeys.

She had known, from the moment that Barry told her she had a gardening hobby — but she’d decided to overlook it. And then she overlooked it again when Alfred picked out gardening decor for her room, and then again when Dick had chosen to watch a nature movie with her.

Her desperation to be loved had caused her to bury her natural, suspicious instincts.

But that would not happen again, Cordelia decided. She could feel her anger building; could feel the way it replaced the pain and loneliness and humiliation inside of her.

It made her lost stare at the desk in front of her become a heated glare. It made her trembling lips twist into a sharp frown. It made her pale cheeks become burning hot red.

And then it made her pick up Bruce’s computer and throw it across the room.

The screen cracked on impact with the floor.

Cordelia glared at the screen, hating it, because Bruce was a billionaire and something as trivial as a broken computer would never hurt him as much as what he did hurt her. Lying to her, embarrassing her, making her doubt whether Dick and Barry and Alfred cared for her.

Her glare traveled around the room, looking for something else to take her anger out on, until her focus landed on a portrait of her father.

The man who started it all.

Bruce decorated every room in the mansion with at least one portrait of Thomas Wayne. The manor was like a shrine to him; a shrine to a man who had done nothing but beat her down and make her feel worthless.

She’d been kidding herself to think that Bruce actually cared about her. If he did, then he would never be able to look at those photographs. He would have taken them down the moment he learned the truth.

Cordelia’s jaw was trembling.

She felt strangely untethered to her own body as she moved toward the portrait.

Thomas Wayne was a handsome man — even in Cordelia’s timeline, when he’d grown old enough to develop deep wrinkles that didn’t go away when his face relaxed. He had a face that newspapers loved to put on the covers: a full head of hair, striking blue eyes, a strong jaw.

A face so handsome that no one cared to think about what was happening behind it.

Cordelia slammed her fist into that face. The thin glass shattered underneath her knuckles. She yanked what remained of the portrait from the wall and threw it to the floor. Then she did the same to the next portrait of Thomas Wayne, and then the next, and then the next until the only ones left were the ones she couldn’t reach. 

Shattered glass and splintered wood and dirtied paper littered the carpeted floors of Bruce’s office. Ice blue eyes were staring up at her from every direction, demanding attention — demanding guilt for her actions.

But Cordelia didn’t feel guilty.

Her breathing was coming out in heavy, painful pants.

She would never escape him. Her father might be dead, but he lived on through his children. He existed in Bruce’s cruel manipulations and in Cordelia’s bursts of rage; he whispered in their ears as they spoke to each other; he clouded their perspectives of each other and haunted their memories.

He would always be there.

And she was sick of it.

Sick of feeling his control over her. Sick of seeing him in her brother and in her mirror.

The only good thing Thomas Wayne ever gave her was Batgirl, and now Batgirl was being taken away from Cordelia by his son.

Well, she wouldn’t stand for it. She’d trained for years to become Batgirl; she’d bled for Batgirl. Batman might have given her the cowl, but he didn’t give it to her for free.

That cowl had to be earned. And that’s what she did.

She earned it.

Cordelia stepped on the face of her father as she walked across the office toward the broken grandfather clock and turned the hands.

The Cave’s dark passageway was as cold as she remembered it to be. The ceiling was rough and jagged with pointed rocks hanging over her like a prepared guillotine. 

Everything about the Cave was unwelcoming, yet she spent most of her life in it, so Cordelia pushed forward without looking back — not even when the grandfather clock slid closed and locked her into the darkness.

Her footsteps were quiet. Her breathing was quiet.

This was not a place for scared teenagers; this was a place for soldiers. 

By the time she made it to the Cave’s main area, she was no longer Cordelia — she was a Bat.

Screeching could be heard up above like a soundtrack to her life. Batgirl paused on the last step of the Cave to allow herself a moment to inspect her surroundings and get a bearing on what to expect.

The last time she’d been down in the Cave, all she had noticed was the training mat across the room. But there were many other differences between Bruce’s Cave and their father’s. Her brother’s Cave, for one, was much more structured with levels and floors and walls that made it seem more like a studio than a hole in the wall.

For another, her brother’s Cave was more cluttered with… things.

Like a giant toy dinosaur.

She narrowed her eyes at it.

Why was there a toy in the Cave?

Her father had also liked to collect trophies from his most gruesome battles, but Bruce’s trophies were not speckled with blood the way Thomas’s had been. There was something almost boyish about her brother’s collection, making her suspect that most of these were trophies his children wanted to keep.

Batgirl began to walk through the Cave, noting the differences and making a mental note to think them over later.

For now, she needed a uniform.

Bruce had uniforms lined up in cases on the second floor. Most of them were Batmen uniforms; some clearly more outdated than others. She wrinkled her nose at one that looked like it had cotton underwear pulled over the tights, before moving onto the next uniform: a torn apart red, green, and yellow leotard.

Batgirl stared at the stained material for a long, long time.

One of the boys got hurt. Terribly.

The Kevlar was shredded and beaten down. Blood stained every inch of it, even the God-awful pixie boots. Looking at it made her sick.

She could not understand why the uniform was on display.

Was this Bruce’s way of humiliating his boys? Or was this uniform — like the gun her father kept — a reminder of his own failures?

She hoped, for her nephews’ sake, that it was the latter.

Batgirl continued to walk down the line of uniforms until she was standing in front of a Batgirl uniform.

It was different from her own. This uniform was as thin as Dick’s, and just as sleek and form-fitting. The designs were black and yellow instead of black and red, and the boots were knee-high rather than ending at mid-calf. The cape was short, barely reaching the hips and even the cowl was different; it allowed hair to flow out from the back of it and did not have a lens that covered the eyes.

This uniform was clearly designed for a woman who liked to be seen.

Batgirl frowned at it, wondering if this was what she would have worn if she grew up in a safer Gotham.

Where she grew up, being seen was as close to being dead as you could get.

And as she thought this, she noticed it: blood.

The uniform had bloodstains right below the navel. Whoever had worn the uniform had gotten shot, and if her estimations were correct, they had gotten shot in the spine.

Despite her determination to remain impartial, worry filtered her thoughts.

Who had worn that uniform? Who had gotten shot? Who had tried to be Batgirl and failed?

Had it been Cassandra?

She quickly shook the thought out of her head. Not only because she simply did not want it to be Cassandra — but also because it didn’t make sense for it to be her. She’d worn Cassandra’s clothes, had felt where the fabric sagged over her body and where it had tightened. The bloody uniform in front of her was made for a woman curvier than Cassandra, with wider hips and a larger chest. 

And, judging from how many t-shirts and sweats her niece owned, Cassandra was unlikely to wear the feminine style of the uniform in front of her.

Cassandra was fine.

With that self-assurance in mind, Batgirl kept walking through the Cave — pocketing a few things she knew would come in handy like pain medication, sleeping pills, lock pick tools, and a domino mask — until she saw where non-bloody spare uniforms were kept. She looked through them, unhappy with the sizing and styles, before deciding that protection was most important.

She chose a purple and black uniform since it had the most armor, and secretly hoped that this was the uniform her Cassandra wore, before making her way over to the changing room.

She had just made it to the doors when they swung open.

Batman stood on the other side, fully dressed in his cape and cowl and armor. It took only a second for him to notice her — and a millisecond for him to start glaring.

His white eyes cast a haunting glow in the dull light of the Cave. Not a word was said as he took one step toward her, and then another, and then another, and then another until Batgirl started backing up to keep them from colliding.

“What,” Batman growled in a voice that crept like a chill through the Cave, “are you doing here?”

She’d thought he had already left, but now she could see that his uniform was more complicated than their father’s. His cape was detachable, his armor more flexible and layered, and throughout his gloves and boots she could see small pockets as if weapons were hiding beneath every inch of the material.

He was still walking toward her, looming like a beast ready to go in for the kill.

She hid the purple and black uniform behind her back. “Nothing.”

The white lens of the cowl quickly narrowed. “Give that to me.”

Her back hit a few metal bars. Batman had her cornered near the edges of the Cave cliff. If there hadn’t been safety railings installed, then she would have fallen into the rocky pit below. 

Her fingers curled into the fabric of the black and purple uniform, gathering strength from the kevlar.

“I won’t,” she said, and was proud of the steadiness of her voice. “I told you when we first met that I earned Batgirl. So if I want to wear the cowl, then I will. You can’t stop me.”

An armored hand moved quickly in her direction. Batgirl gasped and closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable pain, but felt the uniform get torn from her tight grip instead.

“There,” Batman said through gritted teeth. “I stopped you. Now go to bed.”

He turned his back on her and walked away, as if she were nothing but a misbehaving dog. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment at the thought.

She dug in her pockets for something to throw and then launched it at the back of his head. The half-empty pill bottle hit one of his pointy ears with a dull thud before spilling onto the stone floor.

He stopped walking.

“No,” Batgirl said angrily.

Batman looked down at the open pill bottle and then up at her, perplexed.

“What else have you stolen?” He asked.

“You’re the one stealing,” she snapped. “Pick your weapon.”

She passed by him toward the training mat. A wall of weapons stood beside it, holding supplies like nunchucks, swords, sabers, and staff.

Batgirl grabbed a staff, balancing it in her hand. It had been difficult to hold when she was eight and first training with her father, but now it fit into the grooves of her palm like it was a part of her.

And it was.

Batgirl was born the moment a staff cracked against the skin of her face.

She turned toward her brother, who was watching her silently from where she left him.

“When I first got here, you said you wanted proof that I could handle Batgirl,” she said. “So I’m going to give you proof. And when we’re done, you’re going to give me that uniform.”

He still wasn’t saying anything. He hardly ever had anything to say unless he was trying to give her orders.

She felt her hands tighten around the staff.

“Stop ignoring me!” She shouted.

Her anger echoed around the Cave, finally drawing a reaction from her brother.

He straightened his spine and approached the training mat. His cape billowed like a sentient shadow around him, covering and uncovering the bulk of his muscles with every movement, making him look less like a man and more like a demon of the dark.

She tried not to move the closer he got to her, but with every step his heavy boots took in her direction, the tighter she held the staff.

He stopped right in front of her, as silent as a panther on a hunt.

Batgirl waited for him to say something, to do something, but he wasn’t. She forced herself to crane her neck back so she could meet his eyes, to gauge what he was thinking —

Thomas Wayne’s red-rimmed eyes glared back at her.

Batgirl’s entire body flinched.

She hurriedly bowed her head, keeping her eyes on the staff in her hands. He looked… he looked so much like their father. Even with the different uniform, it was like Thomas Wayne had come back to life and was making her re-do everything to get the cowl.

And if that were the case, then she was willing. She needed Batgirl. She was her strength, her companion — her own hero.

She’d do anything for her. 

She hesitated only once before lifting the staff up to Batman like an offering.

“Please,” she said, “let me earn Batgirl again.”

She hated how much he watched her. It was like he was waiting to see her crack. Like he knew that somewhere inside her, there was still that scared little girl trying to hide from her father whenever he told her it was time to train.

The longer he watched her, the more the staff in her hands began to tremble. Until, finally, he reached forward and grabbed it from her.

Batgirl raised her chin, bracing herself for the impact. This was it — Batgirl would be born once again.

The wood rattled as it hit the floor.

“Go to bed,” Batman repeated quietly. “Dick and I will see you in the morning. We can have breakfast in your new garden.”

Her heart hardened. He wasn’t done trying to trick her.

All of her earlier embarrassment and anger returned with full-force.

“If you don’t want to fight with a staff, then we can fight with a different weapon,” she said as she turned back to the wall.

“Cordelia,” he sighed.

“Batgirl,” she corrected.

“No,” he said. “Cordelia. You are no longer Batgirl. And you will never be Batgirl again.”

He sounded so sure of his own power over her. And with everything she knew about Batman, maybe he was right to be so sure.

But then…

She thought about what it would be like if she gave up Batgirl for good.

What if Batgirl ended right here? Right now?

What would happen to Cordelia? There wasn’t much of her to begin with. Before her father handed her the cowl, she’d been nothing but a skinny little girl wandering around an empty mansion with tears in her eyes and a heart so broken that she hardly remembered what it felt like to have it whole.

Batgirl’s birth had been painful and bloody, but it had given her life.

Purpose.

Something to do.

She couldn’t give that up. She couldn’t let Batgirl die, not if it meant dying herself.

“I didn’t come down here for your approval, Batman,” Batgirl said darkly. She kept her face turned from him, not wanting fear to chase her anger away again. “I wanted it. Badly. But I want Batgirl more.”

He took a step closer to her, his shadow darkening her world. “You promised me that you wouldn’t leave the manor without my permission. I have not given you my permission, Cordelia.”

The bats were beginning to screech furiously again, voicing their agreements with their master.

“You made me promises, too,” Batgirl said. “That I would wear the cowl again. Remember?”

“That was a promise I could no longer keep,” he replied.

“Then I can’t keep mine.”

His armored hand landed on her shoulder and forced her to turn around. He was looming again, his body promising a threat that his lips hadn’t spoken yet.

“That’s not how this works,” he said firmly. “I’m your guardian. You have to respect the rules I make for you.”

She’d been concerned that seeing him would make her lose her nerve, but Batgirl was stronger than she imagined. She used to believe that Batman was her leader, but in that moment — he was an obstacle.

“I’m Batgirl,” she said with all the confidence she’d have facing down a criminal. “The only thing I’m going to respect from now on is the mission.”

There was a subtle, cautious stiffening of his body. “What do you mean by that?”

She looked at him narrowly. “I mean: if you’re not going to give me the uniform, then I’ll just have to take it from you.”

Batman had once told Barry that he didn’t control the shadows. But that could not be fully true. Because once his expression began to darken at her words, so too did the already dim lights of the Cave.

“Don’t do this,” Batman said warningly.

His fingers were curling into fists.

Good. His fatherly facade was breaking. Batgirl was going to shatter it completely, the same way she shattered the portraits of Thomas Wayne.

Without any warning, she struck out at his ribs.

Batman blocked the hit with practiced ease.

She quickly sent a follow up toward his ear.

He blocked that one, too.

There was a flurry of movement as Batgirl struck out at any opening she could find, only for Batman to intercept her punches before they could make contact.

She needed to change her strategy. She backed away from him, giving herself room to think of a new technique in case he decided to lean into the offensive. Her father had been a brilliant fighter, but he had also been a drunk. That usually gave her an advantage in the training sessions because her reflexes were naturally quicker than his. But, so far, Batgirl had not seen Bruce drink even a drop of alcohol.

That was fine. Batgirl hadn’t fought with anyone who offered her a challenge in over a month. Maybe she did need to train more often.

She analyzed Batman and his stance. He was still on the defensive; still playing a part. If he continued to preserve his energy by focusing only on blocking hits, then Batgirl would tire out quickly and he would have the advantage.

She couldn’t let that happen.

“Don’t just stand there,” Batgirl said. “You wanted to see if I was capable. You won’t be able to tell from just blocking.”

“I am not going to hurt you, Cordelia,” Batman said.

She growled and charged at him.

Batgirl sent punch after punch, kick after kick, but her brother kept blocking every single one. He steadily backed up until they were both on the training mat, their feet making indents into the soft black material. 

“Hit me!” She shouted after he blocked yet another punch. He was annoyingly calm against her rage. “Throw a punch!”

“I’m not going to do that, Cordelia. I don’t want to hurt you. I care about you.”

She hissed as if she’d been stabbed.

“No, you don’t,” she snarled. His form was perfect, which was unusual for a man so tall. Usually, people with his height and his muscle mass were so sure of their own strength that they didn’t bother to properly protect themselves. But Batman was nothing if not cautious. “You care about controlling me. That’s what that garden was about. All you want to do is trick and hurt me. Well, you don’t have to be so sneaky about it anymore. Hit me, already. Hit me!”

“I’m your brother, Cordelia,” Batman said.

“So?”

He was starting to look frustrated with her. “So I’m not going to hit you.”

Batgirl aimed a kick at his kidney. With the strength she put behind that kick, he would have thrown up all over the mat if he hadn’t blocked it.

“Cordelia, stop.”

“This is what you wanted!” She aimed another kick to the side of his knee. He stepped out of the way. “You’ve wanted to fight me ever since I got here. Why aren’t you taking your chance?”

This time, when she got close enough, he grabbed both her wrists and trapped her in his arms. “This is not what I wanted, Cordelia.”

She used their position to throw him over her shoulder. His back hit the mat heavily, drawing a grunt from him.

Batgirl did not waste time now that she had the advantage. She pounced on him, pinning his arms with her knees so that she could send a punch to his face.

This punch landed, and so did the next one.

Blood trickled down the corner of his mouth.

Batman pushed her off of him before she could get a third punch in, but Batgirl quickly rolled onto her feet and charged at him again. Her hits must have angered him, because Batman seemed no longer interested in acting as the passive, defensive fighter.

He swooped down on her every time she got close, attempting to pin her arms to her sides. But Batgirl knew that the fight would be over if she got pinned. So she did everything she could to avoid that trap: she ducked away when his arms circled her, she bit the weak points in his armor at his wrists when he managed to grab a limb, she leapt away when he cornered her, and she sent aggressive kicks toward his joints when she saw an opening.

Every move she made was vicious and angry and quick.

Batman was not finding an opportunity to get a hold of her. And, since he was less focused on blocking hits, more of her punches and kicks were beginning to land.

Batgirl spun behind him and slammed the heel of her foot into the backs of his knees, sending him to the ground on all fours.

“Cordelia,” he grunted — either from pain or frustration, she couldn’t be sure. “What do you think you’re going to get out of this?”

He lunged in her direction. Batgirl speedily retreated.

“You’re not going to win this fight,” he said. “I won’t allow it.”

A fist was heading straight toward his jaw.

Batman caught it.

He leaned forward and said, with a voice as cold as ice, “All you’re doing is endangering Dick by keeping me here. Do you want him to have no backup?”

Batgirl, about to execute a flip that would twist his arm, startled. The mention of her nephew, and the idea that he might get hurt because of her, was enough to make the trick sloppy.

Batman’s arms clamped around her — and did not give her room to wiggle her way out.

“Let me go!”

“Stop fighting me, Cordelia.”

She continued to fight him. Her arms might have been trapped, but her legs were free to do some damage. Batgirl slammed her foot into her brother’s ankles and felt a vindictive satisfaction once she heard his hiss of pain.

Batman did not let her make the same move twice.

She wasn’t sure how it happened, but at some point during their struggle they had fallen to the floor. Batgirl’s muscles strained as she fought desperately to get out of her brother’s hold. It seemed like every time she freed one limb, it would quickly get captured, not giving her any time at all to strike out with it. And on and on this struggle went until she found herself forced into a tight little ball against Batman’s chest.

Both were breathing heavily from exhaustion.

“The fight is over,” Bruce said. The bottom half of his face was glistening with sweat. “You lose.”

Cordelia was so, so tired. She’d given her all in the fight; she’d even stopped holding back once she realized how much better of a fighter Bruce was compared to their father.

But it still hadn’t been enough.

Bruce had beaten her without throwing a single punch.

She tried again to wiggle out of his hold, determined to find an escape.

And that was how Alfred found them: Cordelia weakly struggling and Bruce grimacing as he tried to keep her curled up against his chest.

The old butler was rightfully alarmed.

“Master Bruce,” he said, a touch angry. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Alfred,” Bruce said. There was a hint of relief in his voice. “Get the sedative.”

That sentence gave Cordelia a surge of startled energy — energy that Bruce clearly hadn’t expected. She ripped one of her wrists out of his hold and sent her fist straight into his jaw.

Bruce’s head whipped to the side.

“Miss Cordelia!” Alfred said, appalled.

“Alfred,” Bruce coughed. Blood speckled the stone floor next to them. “The sedative.”

Cordelia didn’t turn to see if the butler followed her brother’s orders. Now that one of her limbs were free, she was eager to make good use of it. She blindly grabbed onto the first thing she could — one of Bruce’s bat ears — and started to yank at it ferociously, banging his head against the wall behind him.

Bruce caught her wrist, his jaw clenched, and pried her fingers away from his cowl.

But Cordelia was only disappointed for a second. To grab her fist, Bruce had let go over her ankles.

She kicked her way out of his arms and scrambled away.

“Cordelia!"

She reached the edge of the mat when a heavy weight bore down on her. A knee pressed into the small of her back as two large hands locked her own to the ground on either side of her head.

The vulnerable position instantly threw the young girl into a panic. She could not move at all. And to make matters worse: she could not even see the person keeping her down.

“GET OFF OF ME!” She shrieked.

She could hear the flap of wings as her screams disturbed the bats from their slumber.

“Calm down,” a deep, rumbling voice said.

But Cordelia couldn’t be calm. The weight holding her down wasn’t allowing her to move a single inch, no matter how much she yanked at her own hands or kicked her feet.

A terrible helplessness overcame her. 

This was it; this was the end of Batgirl. She was going to die, Bruce was going to kill her, Alfred would watch, her father’s final wish for her to fade from existence would come true.

A long, angry, sorrowful cry tore through the air and filled her own eardrums.

The knee on her back eased just a bit.

“Get off of me!” She screamed.

Footsteps were approaching her. The clunky sound of dress shoes on stone.

“Is that really necessary, Sir?”

A comforting, familiar voice — Alfred.

Alfred had betrayed her before, but he would help her now. He would never let Bruce treat her like this.

“Alfred, please, tell him to get off,” she said, “I can’t move!”

The hands holding hers flat against the mat began to rub circles into her palms; threatening, silently telling her to be quiet.

“I don’t like this anymore than you do,” Bruce lied. “But she’s trained, and she’s trained well. Nothing else has worked.”

“Alfred,” Cordelia implored. “Don’t listen to him! He’s trying to take Batgirl away from me. Please, Alfred, she’s all I have left!"

There were more footsteps, and then Cordelia could see her butler. The old man knelt down in front of her with a soft look of sympathy.

“My poor dear,” he said gently, and tucked a sweaty strand of hair behind her ear. “What has your father done to you?”

But she was barely listening to him. Her eyes had caught sight of the syringe he was holding at his side — the syringe filled with the sedative Bruce had asked for.

The sedative Cordelia did not want.

Wildly, she bit his hand at her ear.

Alfred pulled back, startled.

“Cordelia,” the deep voice snapped. His hands stopped rubbing circles into her palms. “You’ve taken this too far.”

“It’s quite alright, Master Bruce,” Alfred said. “She has every right to feel threatened.”

The old butler was looking down at her like she was a sick dog they were about to put down.

She couldn’t bear it. The Alfred she had known had only looked at her fondly.

“Get off me,” she said again and again and again. “Get off me, get off me, get off me!”

Her words started to blur together. But it didn’t matter, because what she really wanted to say was: Why are you doing this to me, Bruce? Why are you letting him do this to me, Alfred? I just want to help. I just want to protect you. I just want to be Batgirl and do good.

But Alfred wasn’t hearing her silent questions. All he was doing was following her brother’s orders. It was as if all the time he spent with Cordelia — all the hugs he gave her and all the gentle looks he sent her way — meant absolutely nothing.

He brought the syringe back to her neck, pointing the sharp needle towards her vein.

Cordelia started to kick her feet uselessly. This was a horror show. It was bad enough learning that Alfred helped her brother keep Batgirl away from her, but now he was helping Bruce take her down like she was some common Arkham criminal.

He was a traitor.

A manipulative, awful traitor.

Cordelia sunk her teeth into his hand when it got too close. Blood spilled into her mouth. He shouted with pain and dropped the syringe.

The world blurred as the weight on top of her lifted and her body was spun around. One moment she was on her stomach, and the next her back was being pressed against a cushioned wall.

Cordelia fought against the strong, muscular body pushing at her. Her arms and legs screamed in pain at being overused. Then — a gloved hand gripped her by the jaw and forced her head still.

Through her angry tears, she could see two narrow white eyes.

“Master Bruce, calm down,” someone said sharply, “You’re scaring her even more.”

“Her being scared doesn’t give her the right to —“

Cordelia’s knee jerked forward, hitting Bruce in the groin.

He grunted painfully through clenched teeth, but didn’t loosen his hold on her. If anything, it made him grab her jaw tighter, forcing her chin up.

Bruce was furious. She could see it in every muscle of his face; could feel it in the tenseness of his palm. 

He never looked more like their father.

That’s what she was thinking as he leaned in close and said: “Cordelia. ENOUGH.”

Cordelia’s eyes were blown wide. The deep Batman growl rattled her very bones. Every muscle in her body went limp so that the only thing keeping her up was Bruce’s hand on her chin.

Even the bats, who rarely stopped screeching, were silent in the ceilings.

“You need to snap out of it,” Bruce said harshly. “You’re not being hurt. You’re not being threatened. We just want you to calm down. Got it?”

She was frozen. Completely frozen.

“Master Bruce —“

Bruce didn’t even look at Alfred as he held his hand up to silence him.

Cordelia’s eyes followed that open-palmed hand, wondering if the next time it moved, it would smack against her face.

“You will not be Batgirl,” Bruce was saying. “You will not be training with me. And the next time you are out in the city with Dick and he tells you to hide from an attack, you will do as he says. Am I clear?”

He waited for her agreement, but Cordelia wasn’t saying anything.

“I said, am I clear?”

Her entire body was starting to shake. She swallowed. Her mouth was dry.

“…But I want to be Batgirl,” Cordelia whispered.

Bruce slammed his fist into the wall next to her head.

A small, pathetic sound escaped Cordelia’s lips.

“Cordelia,” Bruce snapped. “You. Will. Not. Be. Batgirl. You are not arguing your way out of this. You are not fighting your way out of this. You are not crying your way out of this. You are going to listen to me, accept my decision, and do as I say. That is final.”

Beside him, Alfred was watching the exchange with open disapproval. “Master Bruce, that was a bit much.”

Bruce did not appear to care what Alfred thought. He just held out his hand and said, “Give me the sedative.”

Cordelia chanced a glance over at Alfred.

He wouldn’t give Bruce the sedative, not after seeing how aggressive Bruce was with her. Her Alfred would approach her, wrap her in his arms, and tell her that she will be okay.

That’s what her Alfred would do.

This Alfred gave her one sad, long look before pressing the syringe into his employer’s hand.

Chapter 42: Batgirl's Last Chance

Summary:

“Then what do you think will work?” Cordelia asked. “What can I do to get Batgirl back?”

“Nothing… Miss Cordelia.” Alfred’s eyes were drooping as he leaned back against the chair. In just a few moments, he would be gone to the world. “Batgirl is gone… forever.”

Bruce stabbed the syringe into her arm.

Cordelia couldn’t even wince. That’s how tightly he held her jaw.

Not that Cordelia would have dared to move a muscle. She was all too aware of how much strength the hand holding her jaw had. She’d seen Batman snap necks with unnatural ease, and had seen him do it more than enough times to have nightmares that one day her neck would be the next to be snapped.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Bruce said. His thumb went to the top of the syringe’s plunger.

Cordelia let out a wordless whine at that promise.

Wasn’t it enough that she stopped fighting back? Wasn’t it enough that she stopped talking? She was following orders now — why was he saying that to her if she was already following orders?

Bruce’s head had been bowed, his attention on the syringe. But at the noise, she could see the white lens glare snap up in her direction. He pressed two bleeding lips together, displeased at what he saw. “This is for your own good, Cordelia.”

She felt her own lips begin to tremble, but she didn’t say anything to disagree with him.

Cordelia knew that she’d finally pushed him to his limit and that — if she decided to choose this moment to speak out of turn — then he would punch her hard. And now that she was pinned, she would have no way to defend herself.

But just looking at her seemed to upset him, too. His hold on the syringe tightened as he said, in a firm voice, “I already told you that you can’t cry your way out of this.”

Cordelia tried to get her lips to stop trembling, but his anger was causing her entire body to quiver uncontrollably.

He still wasn’t injecting her with the sedative.

“Dick told me all about the stunt that you pulled before handcuffing him,” he said. “It won’t work on me.”

Her eyes darted around the Cave, trying to look anywhere but at that narrowed glare.

Why was he telling her this? She already knew that Batman couldn’t be manipulated; just like she knew that the sun would come up tomorrow and that her father liked to drink wine with his breakfast and whisky with his dinner.

These were all factual truths.

There was no tricking Batman. There was no lying to Batman. There was no beating Batman in a fight so she didn’t even know why she bothered to try —

“Your behavior today has been inexcusable,” Bruce continued harshly, unknowingly cutting off her spiral into regret. “You’ve directly disobeyed Dick’s orders, ran into an active Joker attack without a uniform, almost compromised the entire family’s secret identities, and then tried to sneak out with Spoiler’s uniform after I specifically told you that you are no longer Batgirl. Tell me what you expected me to do after all of that?”

The white lens glare seemed so close to her face all of a sudden. She would give anything to be able to back away from him, but her head was already smushed against the cushioned wall.

Trapped, trapped, trapped, she thought frantically.

There was no escape. There never had been.

Barry might have taken her away from one Batman, but he delivered her almost immediately into the arms of another. And now he wasn’t here; he wasn’t going to save her.

Maybe he wouldn’t care enough to try.

Still, Cordelia’s eyes looked around the Cave desperately, wanting so badly for that red and yellow uniform to appear. But all she saw was Alfred standing a few feet away, watching the exchange with that sad, haunted look that he’d used the first night they met.

Bruce’s angered voice shook her out of that memory.

“Well?” He demanded.

Cordelia felt faint. Had he asked her something? Was that why they were standing in this long, suffocating, expectant silence? Was that why he wasn’t injecting her with the sedative?

Batman’s mask didn’t offer her much of an answer. It was extremely limited when it came to facial expressions. Most of the fabric was stiff and immovable — all except the eyes. The eyes were given the freedom to widen, narrow, and glare whenever they liked.

And that’s what they were doing: glaring.

Cordelia nervously licked her lips. When she spoke, her voice was meek and respectful. “I’m sorry, Sir. What —“

He leaned forward so suddenly that Cordelia’s entire vision turned black for a moment. “I am not my father!”

“Master Bruce!”

Alfred was by their sides now. He laid one hand on Cordelia’s shoulder and another on Bruce’s arm. She knew which Wayne he was truly trying to restrain, but she did not need anymore encouragement to play the limp doll.

“This is highly inappropriate,” Alfred was saying. His voice sounded far away, as if he were shouting through a tunnel. “It is imperative that you calm down or else you’re going to cause her to have another panic attack.”

Bruce turned his glare from Cordelia to the old butler.

Cordelia’s own focus slid away from him and settled on the empty space just above his shoulder.

She felt frightened. She felt….

Like she was eight years-old again. Eight years-old and alone in the Cave with her father. Eight years-old and being slammed into a wall. Eight years-old and wishing that someone would come to save her.

But she wasn’t eight years-old anymore. Her eight year-old self had been so innocent. She’d known pain, but she hadn’t known just how crushing it would be to experience it year after year.

Cordelia was fifteen years-old now. And she knew that she was about to experience that pain once again.

Only, this time, she would not be given Batgirl as a consolation prize.

A giant tear trickled down her cheek at the thought. She could feel it fall past her cheekbone, make a trail down her cheek, and soak into Bruce’s gloved thumb.

The Cave had gotten so quiet.

Cordelia did nothing as the hand on her jaw gently turned her head so that she could focus on the Batman mask once again. She stared into the eyes of it; the only part that had any soul.

They were different now. They were no longer glaring or narrow, but direct.

Searching.

She did not know what he was hoping to find in her, but she hoped he found something that pleased him. This Batman was unpredictable and disturbing, not allowing her to know what would make him happy and what would make him upset.

Her father had always been so clear.

Right now, she didn’t know whether Bruce wanted to strangle her or cradle her cheek.

Another tear escaped her eyes. She watched her brother frown as he wiped it away with his thumb.

“I’m not my father,” he said again. His voice was soft and gentle. Cordelia’s eyelashes were wet as she blinked up at him. “…Cordelia?”

He was behaving as if he wanted her to talk again. But the last two times she’d opened her mouth, she had infuriated him.

So Cordelia chose to stay silent and wait to see what those consequences would be.

The white eyes bore into her own. The frown deepened and deepened.

Alfred was watching her, too. And once the silence became too long and unbearable, he spoke up, “I don’t think the sedative is necessary anymore, Sir.”

Bruce looked down at the syringe in her arm as if he’d forgotten it was there. He took the needle out swiftly.

Cordelia didn’t wince at the sting. She’d prepared herself for pain worse than that.

“I would suggest giving her some space, too, Master Bruce,” Alfred said.

Bruce’s movements had become robotic. The hand at her jaw disappeared before she could blink — and since it had been the only thing holding her up, Cordelia fell on her knees in front of him.

For a moment, all Cordelia could see were his black boots before he hurriedly retreated a few steps backward. And then Alfred was kneeling beside her with a hand on her shoulder.

“Miss Cordelia?” He asked, voice gentle. “Are you alright?”

Cordelia didn’t respond. She just kept staring at the training mat in front of her.

Alfred turned to look at wherever Bruce had retreated to.

“This will not do,” he said. “She is not getting better, Master Bruce. I will make us all a pot of tea so we can discuss our next steps forward. I fear if we delay this conversation, then the situation will only get worse.”

“I…” Bruce no longer sounded like Batman. He barely sounded like himself. “I can’t do that right now, Alfred. Dick needs my help.”

“So does Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said reproachfully.

Bruce’s next words were stiff. “I can’t be two places at once, Alfred. You know that.”

“I do not expect you to, Sir,” Alfred said. There was a touch of anger in his tone. “But your son is fully capable of handling himself. Meanwhile, your sister has been struggling ever since she got here.”

There was a tense silence as Bruce reacted to what Alfred was saying. All the while, Cordelia stayed where she was, as solemn as if she were waiting for the swing of an executioner’s ax.

But pain didn’t arrive for her — at least, not for tonight. Because Bruce was walking away.

“Dick might be in danger right now,” he said shortly. “I have to be there for him.”

“Master Bruce, I do not believe you are making the right decision,” Alfred said sharply.

The next thing Cordelia heard was not Bruce’s verbal response, but the slam of a car door as it closed. Both Cordelia and Alfred sat in silence as Bruce drove away, the tires near quiet as they rolled over the paved driveway through the Cave’s tunnel.

Cordelia barely felt any relief. If there was one thing Batman was capable of: it was holding a grudge.

He would be back. And he would be just as angry as he was before.

She closed her eyes, forcing herself to accept that truth. And just when she was about to slump forward onto the training mat, she felt the hand on her shoulder give her a squeeze. “Miss Cordelia?”

That voice — the voice of a man that she used to trust — made her shudder. Cordelia might have escaped Batman for the next few hours, but he’d left his lackey behind with her.

The same lackey who had helped Bruce bully her into submission.

Alfred could pretend to be a kindly old man all he wanted, but his actions tonight showed where his true loyalties lied. And how willing he was to harm her.

Cordelia shuddered again. She was truly, truly alone.

“I know you’ve had quite a scare,” the traitor said with false gentleness. “Would you like to talk about it?”

A scare? Cordelia had everything she ever cared about stripped from her. And then when she tried to fight for what she wanted, she’d been pinned to the floor, thrown against a wall, and terrorized into submission. 

She still felt jumpy from what had happened — she still believed that if she looked hard enough, she would see Batman bleeding out of the shadows like a living nightmare.

Meanwhile, the man beside her was minimizing everything she went through by saying it was just a scare.

Cordelia peeked over at him from the corner of her eye, feeling some of her fear warp into bitter resentment. She thought of how much she’d told him, how much he knew. Cordelia had trusted him more than she’d trusted anybody else in her life. Yet that had meant absolutely nothing to him as he’d watched her get subdued by a violent killer.

She would have never let Bruce do that to Alfred.

She would have died before she let anyone treat him the way that she’d been treated.

But the traitor was rubbing her upper back like it was all fine and swell. “Miss Cordelia, please talk to me. You are beginning to worry me.”

The words would have pulled on her heartstrings once. But not now. Not after she’d watched him hand a sedative over to her abuser.

Not after discovering how he helped Bruce take Batgirl away from her.

That was the sort of cruelty she expected from Batman. But Cordelia never would have suspected that Alfred was capable of the same level of cruelty as his employer.

He seemed to know that his sweet words were not working on her anymore, because he suddenly pulled her into his arms and guided her head into resting on his skinny shoulder.

“You are alright, my dear,” the traitor said. “You will be alright.”

Cordelia was stiff, mind racing as the tears dried on her cheeks.

A lot had happened to her in the last hour, but it wouldn’t be wise to give in to her exhaustion and fear. There was a plot occurring around her, and the more time she spent doing nothing, the more their trap would ensnare her in its vines.

But, first, she had to ask herself a very important question: was Batgirl worth it? Was Batgirl worth getting pinned to the floor for? Was she worth getting sedated? Was she worth reliving her trauma over and over again?

If Cordelia had asked herself this a day ago, she believed that the answer would have been a very defeated no. 

But a day ago, she had a family.

Today she had no one.

And if she let Batgirl go, then she wouldn’t even have herself.

So Cordelia swallowed the lingering fear that still had her arms shaking at her sides, and quickly came up with her own plan. 

If she was reading Alfred correctly, then Bruce and his lackeys were still going to try the same trick. They were going to keep trying to convince Cordelia that they cared about her. And as they patted her on the back with one hand, they would always have a sedative ready in the other just in case she ever stepped out of line.

The very thought made her shiver.

But it also gave her an idea.

If Alfred wanted to be deceptive, then she would give him a taste of his own medicine.

“I’m sorry, Alfred,” Cordelia said. Her body relaxed into his embrace, even though her eyes were stone cold and dry. “This is all my fault.”

The traitor responded predictably. “It is not, Miss Cordelia. Do not blame yourself.”

“It is,” she said. She forced her voice to be as soft as a whisper; as broken as shattered glass. “I told Bruce that he could hurt me. Before we fought. I went into his office and said Batgirl was made for pain. But after what happened, all I want to do is take it all back. To… to not be Batgirl anymore.”

The butler froze.

She could feel his heart thumping in his chest, could practically hear him thinking through this new turn of events. But she knew that he’d accept her words — Batman was terrifying enough to frighten anyone away from their chosen career.

Anyone except Batgirl.

“Are you sure, my dear?” The traitor asked hesitantly.

She nodded timidly, making herself burrow beneath his chin like she used to do when they hugged. “This Cave… it holds too many memories. I don’t want to see it again.”

That, at least, was the truth.

Cordelia could not give up Batgirl, but she was completely done being Batman’s sidekick. It came with too many mood swings and screeching bats and bruised skin. And now it came with cruel manipulation and lying butlers.

All of it together was too much.

She’d thought she could handle it: the pain.

But she had overestimated herself. She couldn’t go through that again. She did not want to be told that she was safe one second and then have a fist flying toward her the next. She wanted a simpler life. She wanted to put on an armored uniform and do what she was created to do: beat up criminals.

And if it cost her this family…. 

Well. They had never been hers in the first place.

The thought hurt like a punch to the face. Cordelia grimaced as she tried to take the punch as well as she used to.

“If you’re sure,” Alfred said, “then I will support you.”

What a fraud.

“How about we go upstairs and I’ll make you some hot chocolate?” He asked.

It didn’t take much acting to make her eyes water as she drew back to look at his face. “Can you make two cups? I don’t want to drink alone.”

His smile was soft and affectionate. “I would be happy to, my dear.”

They both slowly got up from the training mat. Cordelia let Alfred do most of the work, playing the helpless, defeated teenaged girl. And then allowed herself to be led to the stone passageway.

Cordelia took one last look around the Cave. There was so much to explore that she would never be able to — so many tools and weapons that she’d never be able to get her hands on. But Batgirl never relied too much on weapons, anyway, so she knew that she’d do just fine without them.

Once they reached the back of the grandfather clock that opened to Bruce’s office, Alfred reached forward to move it aside. Cordelia blinked against the bright lights that flared in her vision when the doorway was opened. And then she quietly inspected the wreckage that used to be a very clean office.

The photographs of Thomas Wayne were unsalvageable. 

Bruce would never be able to repair them.

“I will clean this up before Master Bruce gets back,” Alfred said gently, as if he were capable of soothing her fears anymore. “You just focus on feeling better.”

Cordelia nodded. Silently, she enjoyed the crunch of the glass as she stepped on it — and enjoyed even more the way her sneakers smudged the old paper that showed her father’s stoic, aristocratic features.

Alfred led her to the kitchen as if she’d never been there before, likely suspecting that her silence meant she was in shock.

But she wasn’t.

Cordelia was planning.

Getting past Alfred would be easy. Not only was he weaker than her, but he was also completely unaware that she discovered the truth of his act. 

But being Batgirl in Batman’s city was another battle entirely.

He would know that it was her no matter what uniform she wore. There was no way she’d be able to sneak out for the next three years without him detecting her absence at the manor. So her only option was to prove her worth in the field.

Maybe… once he saw how useful she could be to Gotham, he would stop trying to keep her away from it.

After all, Batman cared more about Gotham than he cared about getting revenge on little sisters. Didn’t he?

She supposed she would discover that answer soon.

Alfred opened the door to the kitchen and helped her into a seat. When he saw that she was completely settled, he walked over to the pantry and began to grab the necessary ingredients. 

Cordelia watched him work silently, barely moving a muscle until the sweet smell of hot chocolate filled the air.

“Which mug would you like, Miss Cordelia?” Alfred asked.

The cabinet door that stored the mugs was wide open, showing the vast collection that Dick had created over the years. She’d once obsessed over those mugs — she’d once been convinced that they were just props that Alfred had put together to make her believe that this Batman was different.

She should have listened to her first instinct.

“It doesn’t matter,” Cordelia said softly.

Alfred frowned before plucking two mugs from the shelves and closing the cabinet doors. A few minutes later, he was placing her hot chocolate down in front of her.

He’d chosen to give her the Flash mug.

The Flash. Another man who had deceived her.

Cordelia took a sip of the hot chocolate so that Alfred couldn’t see her lips twist with distaste.

He put his own mug on the table across from her, and almost sat down before she said, “Do we have cookies?”

Eager to keep her happy, Alfred said, “Of course! I will be right back with a plate.”

She waited for him to turn his back before calmly taking the sleeping pill bottle from her pocket, unlocking the cap, and shaking two of them into her palm. Alfred made it to the pantry by the time Cordelia started to crush the pills into dust. And by the time he got back to the table with a plate full of chocolate chip cookies, the crushed pills had dissolved in his drink.

She took a sip of her hot chocolate.

“This is good,” she said quietly. “I like your hot chocolate.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Alfred said warmly. He took a sip of his own. “It was a recipe given to me by my father.”

Cordelia hummed and took another sip. 

The room smelled entirely of chocolate and was so warm that if she closed her eyes, she could imagine that she was sitting next to a warm fireplace wrapped in blankets. But she kept her eyes open, not wanting Alfred to have any advantage over her.

“Miss Cordelia,” he said hesitantly. “I was wondering if you would like to take a trip with me.”

Cordelia blinked at him slowly. “…What?”

“A trip,” he repeated. “Perhaps to Europe. I think it will be good for you to get out of this city for a while. We can sight-see, prepare some activities, and attend some events. I’m sure Master Bruce would agree.”

The resentment in her bubbled like boiling water. “I… don’t think so.”

Alfred was too stoic to jolt — but he almost did. “Would you prefer a different destination?”

No, Cordelia thought angrily. I don’t want to go anywhere with you.

“I want to stay in Gotham,” she said out loud.

“We would not leave forever,” Alfred said. “Master Bruce is your guardian, after all. We could return within a few weeks.”

Cordelia’s nail tapped against the side of the Flash mug. Alfred wasn’t drinking from his cup fast enough. And she would prefer that he drank all of the sleeping pills before he passed out.

It would keep him out longer.

“Did Bruce put you up to this?” Cordelia asked.

“He didn’t,” Alfred said. “The idea is entirely my own.”

She let the silence drag, knowing that Alfred would drink from his cup to have something to do other than wait for her to respond. And then she said, “I don’t care about any other city but Gotham.”

“Have you ever been to other cities?” Alfred asked.

“Yes,” was her simple reply.

She’d been to plenty of cities with her mother. They were all as lonely and depressing as the rest.

Alfred took another sip of his hot chocolate.

The silence stretched on and on until his cup was nearly empty and Cordelia’s was only half. Despite her earlier compliments, the drink tasted like nothing but ash in her mouth. And the whipped cream at the top felt thick and sticky against her tongue.

She glanced at the clock, counting down the minutes until Alfred lost consciousness.

“Are you angry with me, Miss Cordelia?” 

Her eyes snapped toward his. Alfred looked tired — but overall alright. Except for the deep wrinkles around his eyebrows that formed when he was behaving in a concerned way.

“You are not behaving like yourself,” he continued. He reached forward and held her hand. She pressed her lips together, wanting to rip her hand away. “Are you angry that I didn’t get Master Bruce off of you when you asked?”

Cordelia chewed on the inside of her cheek, calculating how much time Alfred had before he went to sleep and whether having this conversation with him would throw a wrench in her plans.

If she spoke too soon, then Alfred might find a way to alert Bruce that she was planning on sneaking out. Bruce would come back and stop her before she had a chance to prove herself. And then…

He’d send her to boarding school. Far away from Gotham and far away from Batgirl.

But… she was so angry at Alfred. So betrayed. 

In the end, her anger made the decision for her.

“I’m mad at you because you’re a liar.”

Alfred straightened in surprise, dropping her hand. “I beg your pardon?”

“I called you a liar, Alfred,” Cordelia said. “Or do you prefer ‘actor?’”

She’d never seen him so shocked before. He was staring at her like he didn’t even recognize her.

But that was fine. Because she didn’t recognize him, either.

“What is this about?” Alfred asked.

“Batgirl.”

Realization dawned on his face and then — frustratingly — sympathy. “Miss Cordelia… I’m sorry I was keeping Master Bruce’s plans for Batgirl away from you. I assure you, I tried to argue with him against it.”

“That doesn’t mean much,” she said, “considering you still helped him follow through with it.”

His look of sympathy strengthened. It made Cordelia bristle. He’d just been called out, and instead of dropping the act, he’d decided to double down on it.

“My poor dear,” Alfred said. He was looking at her the same way he’d looked at her before he tried to stab her with a syringe. Cordelia’s eyes flickered down to his hand, which was still red and bleeding from her bites. “Master Bruce is your guardian. I have to respect the decisions that he makes for you, whether I agree with them or not.”

“Noted.”

Her snappish, disrespectful tone caused both of his eyebrows to raise up into the air. “Miss Cordelia, I am sorry if what we did hurt you —“

“You’re not,” she said. “You’re not sorry. That’s the problem.”

“I am very much sorry,” Alfred said. There was a hint of disapproval in his voice as he spoke to her, most likely unhappy with being called out. “Especially now that I know that it cost me your trust. Your trust is invaluable to me.”

Cordelia looked away. She did not believe that for a second.

If her trust had been so invaluable, then he would have taken better care to keep it.

“I can see that I caused you pain,” Alfred’s voice was painfully gentle again. It was reminiscent of the voice he’d used when she was sick with the flu and he’d taken care of her. It was… so cruel to use that tone now that she knew the truth. It was evil. “That was never my intention. I think that you have experienced enough pain to last a lifetime —“

“Stop it,” Cordelia said.

Her eyes stung. She never should have started this conversation.

It would have been better if she’d just let the silence in the kitchen drag, if she’d just let Alfred lose consciousness without ever knowing why the girl he’d spent almost every hour of the day with no longer wished to speak with him.

“Miss Cordelia —“

“Stop,” she said again, voice hard. “Stop pretending like you care. I know the truth now. You’re just like everyone else who turned their backs on me when — when….” Cordelia cursed herself a thousand times because the tears that were coming to her eyes were one hundred percent real. “When Bruce was hurting me, you ignored my cries for help. I will never forget that, Alfred. Never.”

“But, my dear,” Alfred said. He tried to grab her hand but she tore her hand away as if his were on fire. “I was watching very closely. Master Bruce was not hurting you.”

She was shaking her head before he finished his last sentence. Batman was not gentle. He was skillfully vicious and brutal. And, tonight, he had pressed a knee to her back and ignored her screams of fear.

So what if he hadn’t hurt her physically? He hadn’t needed to. But the threat that he could was always there.

“Miss Cordelia,” Alfred began reassuringly, “he was being very gentle with you the entire time. You were never in any danger.”

She opened her mouth to argue, and was horrified to hear herself choke on a sob. “But he — he hurt my feelings, Alfred.”

The second hand on the wall clock was ticking away at an alarming speed. The old butler should be feeling drowsy by now, but when Cordelia looked at him, all she saw was her own heartbreak reflected back at her.

Cordelia wiped at the tears pooling down her eyes. “All I wanted to do was protect Dick. I’m not bad.”

Her voice cracked at the end. It was like a switch for Alfred; one moment he was across the table, and then next he was by her side and wrapping his arms around her, completely ignoring the sound of protest she made.

“I know you aren’t, my sweet child,” he said. “That’s not why Master Bruce wants you to retire Batgirl.”

Cordelia made half-hearted attempts to get out of his embrace, but they both knew that if she really wanted out, then Alfred would have no choice but to let her go. The hand on her back began to rub circles into it, warming her cold skin.

Cordelia pressed her face against the soft fabric of Alfred’s tuxedo, greedily soaking in the last fragments of his affection before everything was taken away from her for good.

“I know,” she said, voice thick. “He’s taking her away because he hates me.”

“That is not true.”

“He wants me to be miserable,” Cordelia said. Her tears were creating a wet patch on the chest of Alfred’s tux. “He wants me to feel alone. That’s why he included everyone in betraying me. That’s why he asked you to get the sedative instead of getting it himself. He wanted me to see that you would betray me in a second if he asked you to. And you played right into his trick.”

Alfred dug into his breast pocket for a handkerchief before he started to softly dab it beneath her eyes. Cordelia hated herself for not standing her ground and remaining impartial. But she couldn’t help the way her heart ached longingly at the gesture.

He doesn't love you, her brain tried to warn her heart.

What is love, anyway? Don’t the books describe it as painful? Her heart hoped. Maybe I’m supposed to feel this terrible.

Alfred spoke as her heart and mind raged at one another. “I would never betray you, Miss Cordelia.”

“But… you chose him over me,” Cordelia said.

Another tear formed at the corner of her eye. Alfred diligently brushed it away.

“You were hitting him,” Alfred said. There was a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. “You began to bite —“

She hummed in anger, defensive. “And he slammed me into a wall!"

And now that she thought about it — wasn’t it such a coincidence that she’d been almost entirely subdued up until the point Alfred had walked into the Cave? Once they heard the click of Alfred’s shoes on stone floor, Bruce’s hold on her had mysteriously lightened enough for her to pull free and throw a punch at his face.

He must have waited until Alfred came in. Then he’d mentioned the sedative because he knew it would send her into a frenzy.

In a way, she couldn’t even blame Alfred for being so easily coerced. Because even with all her knowledge, she’d still not seen the trap that she’d fallen directly into.

“Him pushing you against the wall was extreme,” the old butler allowed.

Cordelia pulled away to glare up at him. “It was mean.”

Weirdly, that made Alfred’s expression of soft affection return in full force. He gently reached up and smoothed back her sweaty black hair. “It was indeed. When he gets back, I will make sure that he offers you a sincere apology.”

He smoothed back more of her hair before gently guiding her back into the hug. Cordelia held onto her bitterness even as she allowed the comfort.

“It won’t be honest,” she said into his shoulder. “He doesn’t care about me. And… I’m not sure if you care about me, either.”

His response was immediate. “Of course I do. Never doubt that.”

She scowled. All she did was doubt it.

“What can I do to prove it to you?” Alfred asked.

“You can’t,” she said. “I know the truth now.”

But even as she said that, she leaned into his hug and closed her eyes at the feeling of his fingers lightly dragging through her hair. In the background, she could hear the seconds on the clock tick, tick, ticking away.

That is, until Alfred’s voice drowned it out.

“You are cared for, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said. “I care for you. Master Bruce cares for you. Even Masters Dick and Jason care for you. This family is a strange one. We have never found it easy to express ourselves. But Master Bruce and I are trying to change that. For you. Because we know how much it would mean to you. And it breaks my heart to see that we have not been doing enough.”

Cordelia sniffled.

Alfred continued to dab her tears away.

And with each press of the handkerchief against her cheek, Cordelia could feel herself soften to him again. 

It wasn’t fair. She felt like she deserved her anger, but it was slipping away from her and leaving her with her less desirable emotions: confusion, doubt, sadness, and isolation.

She reached up and tugged the handkerchief away from Alfred. The old butler let her take it away, going back to hugging her as she fiddled with the wet cloth on her lap.

“How…” she began. “How can you say that you care about me when all of you were tricking me into forgetting Batgirl?”

There was a slight desperation to her tone that she wished she could bury. But… she wanted to believe the lie again. Life had been so much better when she believed that Alfred was on her side.

“You know how much she means to me,” Cordelia said. “One of our first conversations was about Batgirl and how much she meant to me. Yet you still tried to steal her away.”

“I…” A yawn cut Alfred’s sentence off. “Pardon me, Miss Cordelia. I have not slept well for the past few nights.”

Cordelia glanced at the clock. It was around that time where he would lose consciousness.

She tried not to let guilt join the rest of her terrible mixture of emotions.

“As I was saying,” Alfred sounded flustered by his own exhaustion. “I did not agree with Master Bruce’s plans simply because he told me to. A part of me felt… relieved that one of you children would live a normal life. That there would be one less child I didn’t have to sit awake all night for, worrying what condition you came home in — or if you would even come back home at all. That… one of you children would always be safe with me under this roof. I try not to be selfish, Miss Cordelia, but that is one dream I was willing to lie for.”

The words sounded too good to be true. And since they did, she continued to question them. “Is that why you were helping Bruce sedate me? You wanted me to be safe?”

“I wanted you and Master Bruce to stop fighting. It seemed like the only way at the time.” His blunt fingernails scraped on her scalp, unknowingly mimicking the way her mother used to pet her hair. When Cordelia automatically burrowed under his chin, the action was not at all fake. “If it frightened you that much, then we will not do it again.”

Alfred once again scraped her scalp, this time purposefully. And continued to do that until Cordelia was relaxed in his arms, her eyes half-closed and her tears slowing to a stop.

It was a nice change to being pinned to the floor or against the wall.

His voice was certainly a nice change to Batman’s growl.

Maybe she had it all wrong. Maybe Alfred wasn’t purposefully going against her for Bruce. Like her, he might just be a victim of his circumstance — another soldier in Batman’s army.

She could forgive him if that was the case.

“I’m sorry I bit you, Alfred,” she said softly. “Twice.”

Amazingly, he kissed her on the forehead. “You were forgiven the moment it happened.”

He looked so sincere.

Cordelia glanced down at his near empty mug of hot chocolate.

Would he be as forgiving once he found out that she drugged him?

“Will you forgive me for my misdeeds?” Alfred asked.

Could she forgive him for choosing Bruce when he needed him to choose her? Yes, she could. But she didn’t think she could ever trust him again.

“Yes,” she said softly. And then: “Alfred?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“Will you always choose Bruce?” She asked. “When it comes down to it? Will he always be the first person you listen to and protect?”

Alfred took a while to answer those questions. Cordelia leaned back, wanting to read his facial expressions for any sign of dishonesty.

His pale eyes looked back at her, flickering over her face as if assessing her worth.

“Master Bruce will always be the first person I listen to,” he said. Cordelia’s heart ached painfully at the honesty she saw and heard. Then, he continued: “But you, Miss Cordelia, will always be the first person I protect.”

She could… 

She could live with that.

Cordelia had a lot of experience protecting people. It had begun with protecting her father, and had turned into her wanting to protect Bruce and his entire family. Which was why she knew that protection was the ultimate form of love.

It was someone willing to put themselves in the line of fire so that the person they loved could survive. It was someone willing to give their all for another person’s happiness.

It was love in the form of action.

She knew this because she felt it when she looked at the people she wanted to protect. So even though Cordelia would never again ask Alfred for help… she was honored that he would be willing to provide it.

“Alfred, I have to tell you something,” she said quietly.

The second hand on the clock was letting her know that this conversation — this moment — was drawing to a close. And before it did, she had to get one thing off her chest.

“Yes, Miss Cordelia?” He asked.

“I… I drugged you, Alfred.”

The old butler, who looked pale with exhaustion, blinked slowly. “…Pardon?”

“I put sleeping pills in your hot chocolate,” Cordelia said. “When you were getting us cookies. I’m going to sneak out tonight and I didn’t want you to alert Batman. That’s why you’re feeling so tired.”

His arms slowly dropped from around her. He took a shaky step back. “Miss Cordelia….”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and she meant it. “I do forgive you, Alfred. But I can’t trust you when it comes to Batgirl. This is my only chance to get her back, to prove my worth to Batman. And I can’t have you getting in the way of that.”

Alfred wearily sat in the chair closest to him. Exhaustion was hitting him all at once. “Miss Cordelia, this plan will not work. Master Bruce does not —“ he yawned heavily “ — does not care how good you are as Batgirl. I must insist that you stay home and stay safe.”

“Then what do you think will work?” Cordelia asked. “What can I do to get Batgirl back?”

“Nothing… Miss Cordelia.” Alfred’s eyes were drooping as he leaned back against the chair. In just a few moments, he would be gone to the world. “Batgirl is gone… forever.”

His eyes closed, the pale lashes quivering as the man tried to fight against the drugs affecting his old body. Cordelia sat there and waited to see if the eyes would open again, but in a few seconds, she heard him begin to gently snore.

Cordelia slowly got to her feet, staring down at him.

Batgirl was gone forever.

He’d sounded so convinced that it was true. 

Cordelia thought back to their conversation, his insistence that Bruce cared about her. Yet if Bruce did care about her, then Batgirl could not be gone for good — not when she meant so much to her.

This family was so confusing.

But Cordelia could not let her confusion get in the way of her plan.

So she approached the aging butler, carefully placed one of his arms over her shoulder, wrapped her arm around his waist, and lifted him from his seat. His head lolled to the side, looking painfully unnatural, but there was nothing she could do about it as she half carried, half dragged him out of the kitchen and toward the stairs.

As their butler, Cordelia knew that Alfred did not sleep in the family wing. He slept in the floor above them, where the rest of the hired staff was supposed to rest.

Cordelia had never personally visited that area of the house. But she’d heard Alfred’s footsteps as he walked through it. And she believed that she would be able to find his bedroom based on that small hint alone.

The staff quarters were surprisingly barren compared to the rest of the mansion. The walls held no pictures, there were no trinkets or vases decorating the hallways — there was nothing but a line of identical brown doors with identical brown door knobs.

Cordelia walked past them until she made it to the section of the hallway she suspected Alfred’s room was in.

Most of the doors led into empty, blank bedrooms with white sheets and drawn curtains. All of them except one.

Alfred’s room was wide and spacious, with very little decorating it. His bed was a thin one with comfortable looking pillows but plain white sheets; there was a small table beside it with only a thick book lying atop it and an armchair next to the window with a modest bookshelf across from it.

Cordelia looked around curiously as she carried Alfred to his bed and laid him onto the blankets.

His room looked like hers before he had changed it.

Alfred let out a snore, demanding her attention again.

Cordelia got to work making him comfortable; fluffing the pillows before propping his head on them, grabbing a blanket from his closet and lying it over his still body, and then throwing wood in the fireplace so she could start a warm fire for him.

Gotham got really cold at night.

It took Cordelia a couple of tries before the flames caught, but when they did she stood up to admire her work.

Alfred would be angry with her, but he would be comfortable.

The butler himself had stopped snoring, and his face was smooth of all the anxieties that had plagued him right before losing consciousness. She took one last look at him and wondered….

Was she bad?

This was bad.

She’d drugged Alfred. While he had been getting her cookies. All because she wanted revenge on him for trying to sedate her.

She was bad.

He might not forgive her for this one.

Cordelia shook her head. What was done was done. Besides, this was for Batgirl. She needed Batgirl.

Still, Cordelia made sure to close the window curtains before she left so that the sun wouldn’t bother Alfred in the morning. And if she kissed his forehead before tucking him in, well… she was the only one who knew that.

Chapter 43: A Sequel

Summary:

The gun started to poke her cheek roughly, forcing her nose into the mud.

“Why so silent?” Joker pouted. “Are you shy?”

Notes:

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Attempted Sexual Assault, Violence, Guns, Death

A month ago, Barry saved Cordelia from a dying timeline.

That timeline had been horrible and wretched. It decayed as the people who lived on it began to go half-crazy from fear — fear that they would be the next to die, the next to be tortured, and the next to be discarded.

As a result of all that fear, Cordelia had been forced to grow up seeing the very worst of humanity.

Mothers would leave their children for dead in the gutters of Gotham; husbands would come home to their families and strangle them to death; children would seek out a small portion of power by slaughtering their defenseless pets.

But the absolute worst — the most depraved and the most desperate — were the people who looked for God in the Joker’s maniacal speeches.

When everything fell apart, the person who appeared the most comfortable in the chaos turned into the leader that everyone yearned for. They thought that, by following the Joker into the darkness, she would be able to teach them her secret to surviving in a dying world. And so they did everything she told them to: they burned down the schools, set up explosives in government buildings, gassed their neighbors with Joker Venom — all in the name of Chaos.

But it was all in vain. Because, in the end, no one survived.

No one except Cordelia.

The rain in Gotham was so heavy and thick that it fell like a curtain outside the garage doors. Cordelia sat down on Bruce’s smallest motorcycle, the one with the plush black seats and silver handles.

She’d meant what she told Alfred about the Cave — she was never going back there again.

So she made her uniform out of things she found in her wardrobe. Instead of her thick armor, she wore the padded oversized jacket Jason had given her; instead of her heavy boots, she wore the platform shoes Alfred had bought her; and instead of her kevlar pants, she wore black athletic tights.

Her weapons, too, had to be scavenged from things she found around the house. Like a pocket knife she saw in Bruce’s office desk and Jerome’s gun she kept hidden in her room.

Lightning flashed in the distance. Cordelia put on her helmet and tightened the clasp beneath her chin.

She hasn’t been on a mission in a month. She hasn’t been Batgirl in a month.

Her gloved fingers lovingly curled around the motorcycle’s silver handles. The bike purred back at her, the revving sound familiar and comforting.

Cordelia’s feet lifted onto the pegs before she shot out of the parking garage and into the rain. It was like driving through an endless waterfall, but she wasn’t scared. The tires rolled smoothly over the paved road, the gates creaked as they swung open, and Gotham City gleamed up ahead like a lighthouse guiding her to shore.

The speed of the bike was otherworldly. Cordelia had never been able to drive this fast on her old motorcycle. It was silent, too, allowing her to slip through the night like a dark ghost in the shadows. Cordelia kept driving and driving and driving, and — once she made it to the city — she felt like she wanted to keep driving right through it.

The manor was supposed to be home, but it wasn’t really. There weren’t many places that could truly fit that description for her. But sitting there, on that bike going above traffic laws, she felt like there could be.

A shouted insult pulled her away from her internal peace.

Gotham City was dark and gloomy and smelled like blood and urine. The cars she easily weaved through pumped out black gas that quickly polluted the already grey atmosphere. The people that were shouting at her threw up violent, shaking fists in her direction.

Cordelia fought down a grin.

It had been a long time since she’d seen her city like this. Right now, she was not the bare-faced civilian eating ice cream with her nephew or a half-naked teenage girl sneaking into a nightclub.

She was a vigilante: untouchable and in power.

Cordelia had tried to be something else. A sister; an aunt. But that blew up in her face. The requirements were too confusing, the expectations were not written in stone. Cordelia had no clue where she’d failed and where she’d succeeded, but she did know that whatever trait Bruce had that made the family love him so much was not a trait that she’d inherited.

There were moments she thought… maybe she did. Moments when Alfred would smile at her or Dick would laugh at something she said. But then she would say something else or do something else, and then she was back to square one making the people around her disappointed and upset and angry.

Cordelia would never tell Barry any of this. She would not want him to feel like he’d sacrificed his mother for a girl who was failing at every turn to find a way to be happy. But ever since he’d saved her, she’s felt… lost.

Like she was walking down a foreign street wearing someone else’s shoes.

There were parts of her that everyone was expecting her to leave behind in the other timeline. More than just Batgirl, they wanted her to give up her entire life. Everything she prioritized — everything that her father had told her to prioritize — was being nudged into the garbage disposal.

Her daily schedule, her responsibilities, her cases, the future she’d envisioned for herself….

Gone. All of it.

Gone.

And to be replaced with nothing other than uncertainty, gardens, questions, and confusing relationships.

The bike tore down the streets, turning each corner sharply. Normally, Cordelia would know exactly where the trouble was. Her comms would relay every message the police sent to each other, alerting her when the Bats were needed. Or she would sit up on a gargoyle and see with her own eyes who was breaking the law.

But, tonight, Cordelia could not take to the rooftops. Because she knew all too well that Batman was up there himself.

Unwillingly, her eyes flickered upward.

She saw nothing but falling rain and grey fog.

Cordelia drove even faster.

There was nothing to note at first. Just a bunch of people hurrying home from a late day at work — but then, cutting through the night rain like a knife — Cordelia heard a scream.

The bike slid from how abruptly she’d hit the breaks. Cordelia expertly angled her body to keep it from rolling and then shot back in the direction of the scream.

She knew from the pitch that it was a woman and, once she made it to the location, she could see why the civilian had been so frightened. Two snickering, big-bellied men were crowding her into the dark alley and tugging mockingly at her clothes.

They laughed even louder when the tugging caused the woman to shriek.

By the time Cordelia got there, the men were shoving the female civilian against the wall and pushing up her skirt. They only stopped once they heard Cordelia’s shoes scrap against the concrete sidewalk as she slid off the bike.

“Look, Reg, another one,” the taller man slurred.

They were drunk. That would make this even easier.

Cordelia walked silently into the darkness of the alley and toward the group.

“I love when there’s two of them.” Reg’s laugh sounded like the snort of a hog. “Come here, honey. Reggie will take care of ya.”

He made a beckoning gesture as if she were a stray cat. The female civilian tried to use this distraction to run away, but the other man grabbed her by the throat and wrestled her back into the wall.

Cordelia took the invitation and approached him. He did not have any weapons from what she could see, but she would not give him the opportunity to grab one if he did.

Reggie seemed surprised and delighted to see her follow his orders. His meaty hand reached forward to grab the front of her jacket but, before he could touched her, she swung her leg out. The bottom of her platform shoe slammed into the spot right between his legs. Reggie’s following screamed caused everyone in the alley but her to flinch back in alarm.

Cordelia did not waste time. She spun around and grabbed the other man by the back of the jacket and, using his surprise, tore him from the female civilian.

The man stumbled back, trying to regain his footing, but Cordelia shoved at his chest. He fell and cracked his head against the other brick wall. Dazed, he wasn’t prepared for Cordelia’s final blow. She clenched her right hand into a fist and swung as hard as she could toward his face.

He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

The female civilian whimpered in fear behind her.

But Cordelia was not paying attention to her. The other man, Reggie, was attempting to crawl away with his hand cradling his crotch.

Cordelia kicked his head and watched him lose consciousness, too.

Satisfied with her two easy takedowns, Cordelia fixed the sleeves over her large jacket and started to walk back to the bike.

That is, until she heard the sound of fists pounding against flesh behind her.

Curious, Cordelia turned. She’d almost expected one of the men to still be awake, but it wasn’t them doing the punching — it was the civilian.

She had moved away from her place by the wall and was now on her knees in front of Reggie, sobbing hysterically as she beat her fist into his thick chest. The technique behind her punches were sloppy and her hits were almost soft, but that was not what caused Cordelia to stop and stare.

It was — it was how sad she looked.

Even with all her anger and hysteria, the civilian looked so sad and defeated.

It reminded Cordelia, uncomfortably, of how she had felt after being held at gunpoint by Jerome.

It was more than just residual fear from what could have happened; it was remembering it all, blaming herself for every decision she should have done differently, and then hating the attacker for ever making her feel that weak and helpless.

Cordelia stood at the opening of the alley, silently watching the woman experience the same emotions she had experienced just a few weeks ago.

Except that they weren’t exactly the same. Cordelia hadn’t had to deal with her emotions alone. She’d first had Jason to distract her, and then she had Alfred to comfort her.

This civilian — this woman — was alone.

Cordelia quietly approached her until she was standing above her and the woman had tired of throwing punches. “Would you like me to give you a ride home?”

She’d given this invitation before. It was a familiar line. Most denied it, of course, once they saw Batgirl’s glowing red eyes and demon-like mask — but it was necessary to ask in cases like these when the victim didn’t run away the moment they could. Otherwise they might go into shock and find themselves a victim of yet another crime.

Her question caused the crying woman in front of her to lift her head. She was beautiful; around forty years-old, her skin dark, her eyes hazel. The outfit she wore told Cordelia that she worked as a maid and was likely walking home from a late night shift.

Cordelia waited for her face to pinch and her pupils to dilate with fear. To be looked at like a monster.

But when the woman’s quivering lips opened, she did not scream. Instead, she said, “Y-you saved me. Thank you.”

Cordelia started. A civilian had never thanked her before. They’d either run away screaming, begged for their lives, or sealed their mouths shut in terror that speaking would cause her to kill them.

Her reputation as Batman’s deadly soldier and Gotham’s bone breaker did not just spread amongst the criminals. The civilians knew about her, too.

But this was a new timeline. She did not have that reputation anymore. She didn’t even have her Batgirl uniform anymore.

To this woman, Cordelia was nothing but a strange girl who went out of her way to save her.

For some reason, this made Cordelia feel a little awkward. She picked at the material of her athletic tights and said, “So… the ride?”

The woman wiped the tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. “Please.”

Cordelia nodded sharply and took off her helmet.

The rain quickly fell onto her face and wet her hair, but Cordelia ignored this feeling to offer up the protective gear to the crying woman. “You should wear this, then. It will protect you.”

The crying woman shakily grabbed the helmet. Her fingers were so stiff and cold that Cordelia bent down to help her with the clasp underneath her chin.

“Thank you,” the woman whispered again.

The rain made it almost impossible for Cordelia to hear, but she nodded to show that she did.

Beside them, Reggie started to groan as if waking up, causing the woman to flinch away violently.

“Don’t worry,” Cordelia said. She punched him hard in the forehead, quietening him. “I’m not going to let him hurt you.”

The woman did not have the reaction that Cordelia was expecting. She’d thought that her words would be met with a nod or another expression of gratitude. But when Cordelia began to stand up, she felt the woman’s soft body barrel into her own.

Cordelia breathed in a startled gasp, mind racing. But the woman was not attacking her.

It was just a hug. A strong, desperate one that involved plump arms wrapping around her neck and a large helmet settling uncomfortably on her shoulder — but a hug all the same.

Cordelia, so used to Alfred’s hugs now, automatically returned it.

“I was so scared,” the woman confessed. Her voice was muffled inside the helmet, but Cordelia could still hear how sad she sounded. “Oh my God. They were going to — to —“

She didn’t finish her sentence. Just trying to made her dissolve into terrible, heart-wrenching sobs.

Cordelia tightened her hold on her, not knowing what else to do.

This was not what Batman had trained her for. She’d never been called to comfort the civilians after an attack. People did not go to her to feel good. People did not go to her at all. And, because of that, Cordelia was starting to feel that sense of misplacement yet again.

But… Cordelia wanted to comfort this woman. She did not like the sound of her sobs and the empathetic ache that they caused. She did not like the idea of this woman going through what she went through all alone.

And, adding to that, this woman had chosen Cordelia to be the person to comfort her. Similar to how Cordelia always sought out Alfred from comfort.

It felt… kind of nice to be the person that someone chose.

Cordelia closed her eyes and tried to think about what she would need in a situation like this. What would Alfred do in a situation like this?

Memories of him pulling her close until she stopped crying filled her mind. It always seemed to do the trick, no matter how scared or angry or sad she was. Alfred’s hugs were like a cure for her.

Cordelia knew that she would never be able to completely replicate them. For one, she did not think that her presence was as calming as Alfred’s. For another, the large helmet the woman was wearing made it impossible for Cordelia to set her chin on top of the woman’s head. But she could rub circles into the woman’s back as she cried, and she could wait until her cries subsided into little hiccups and sniffles.

It took a while for the woman to stop crying, but Cordelia was patient. This was not something that Alfred ever rushed.

“I’m sorry,” the woman eventually said, pulling away. “I shouldn’t have cried on you like that.”

“It’s okay,” Cordelia said after a pause. “I… I know how you feel.”

The woman had nothing to say to that. Her hands had fallen onto her lap; her shoulders were drooped. Cordelia glanced around, wondering what else she could do, before remembering what Jason had done immediately after saving her.

“Here,” Cordelia said, unzipping her coat. “You shouldn’t be out in the rain without a coat. You’ll get the flu.”

The woman was not responding to her. Cordelia hesitated before wrapping the coat over her shoulders and zipping it up herself. A part of her hurt — letting go of the one thing she had of Jason’s — but a larger part of her hoped that Jason would be happy with how she was paying his kindness forward.

Besides, she could always find out where Jason lived and steal a few more coats from him. Bruce had revealed that his home was located somewhere in Gotham.

With that plan in mind, Cordelia finally got to her feet and held out her hand to help the woman up.

The woman was a head taller than Cordelia, something that caused the civilian to reel back in surprise. Cordelia could feel the woman’s eyes on her even though she couldn’t see through the helmet’s face shield.

“You’re…” the woman’s entire body shuddered. “You’re just a kid.”

She sounded so horrified about that. Cordelia raised her chin to peer up into the shield, trying to read the expression hiding behind it.

Cordelia did not know what to say to that besides, “I’m strong.”

The woman was not moving, but the helmet was angled down toward Cordelia, letting the vigilante know that she was still being stared at. Cordelia waited for her to say something else as the rain poured down on them both. She continued to wait even as the freezing temperature began to leak through her now-soaked shirt.

The woman must be in shock. The silence was beginning to stretch on for too long and she was showing no sign of moving from the dark, dangerous alley.

Cordelia opened her mouth, ready to tell the woman that she would have to touch her to lead her out of the alley, when the civilian finally began to move.

But she wasn’t running away or even going in for another hug — she was pushing her arms through the jacket sleeves before trying to tug the zipper back down.

“You need this more than I do,” the woman was saying. She made an attempt to sound firm, but her voice was still a shaky rasp. “Oh my God, you’re just a kid. What are you doing out here on your own?”

“Protecting Gotham,” Cordelia said. She pointed at her domino mask. “I’m a vigilante.”

The jacket was unzipped all the way. The woman was hurriedly shrugging it off her shoulders when she realized what Cordelia had said. “You’re one of Batman’s people?”

Cordelia almost said yes. Then remembered that no, she wasn’t.

“I work alone,” she said instead.

The woman shuddered again and finished taking the jacket off her shoulders — the jacket that had been so hard to give away was now being wrapped back over Cordelia’s shoulders.

“You need to go home,” the woman said. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is out here? Those men could have hurt you and me.”

“I’m not in any danger,” Cordelia said. She was beginning to feel disgruntled. This was not how civilians were supposed to talk to her. “I knew I could handle them.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” the woman said. She zipped the jacket up to Cordelia’s chin, ignoring her grimace. “I’m so grateful that you stopped to help me. Not many would have. But I have a daughter around your age and if I knew that she was running around Gotham at night, playing at being Batgirl, I would hope that she runs across someone with enough sense to tell her to go home.”

Cordelia took a step back, stiff. “I’m not playing at being Batgirl. I am Batgirl. Please don’t insult me.”

“I’m —“ the woman stopped herself to take a shaky breath. When she started talking again, her voice was low and gentle. “I’m not, sweetheart. I’m sorry that it sounded like I was. I’m just worried for your safety. And I — I guess it’s not my place to tell you what to do, especially after you saved me from…. But you’re so young. You should not be seeing this, let alone getting involved in it. Don’t you have someone looking out for you?”

Cordelia thought of Alfred and took another step back.

The woman took off the helmet. Her forehead was crinkled like Alfred’s sometimes was.

“Sweetheart?” She said. The way she said ‘sweetheart’ sounded so much like Alfred’s my dear. “Where is your mother?”

“She’s dead,” Cordelia said.

The woman’s expression softened considerably. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Cordelia wondered what was wrong with this timeline that made everyone treat her like a child and not a capable soldier. “Thank you for your concern, but this is my job. Follow me. My bike is right outside this alley.”

Cordelia turned abruptly and walked up the dark alley and into the dimly lit sidewalk. She could hear the woman’s sneakers scraping on the sidewalk behind her until they both were standing next to the small bike.

“Put your helmet back on,” Cordelia ordered.

But the woman pushed it into her hands. “You wear it, sweetheart.”

“It was for you,” Cordelia protested. “In case we get into an accident.”

“I’m older than you,” the woman shook her head, her curly hair bouncing around her slightly wrinkled face. “If we get into an accident, you should be the one wearing it.”

Her voice had gotten more and more firm as their conversation went on. Cordelia, tired of arguing with people about her duties as Batgirl, gave in.

The woman gave her the address to her apartment as she settled into the seat behind her. Cordelia waited until the plump arms had secured themselves around her waist before taking off at a significantly slower pace than before.

The woman’s apartment wasn’t that far away. It was just three blocks down from where she’d been attacked. But from the amount of dark alleys and drunken idiots they drove past, Cordelia was glad that she’d accepted her offer to drive her home.

“Do you want me to walk you up?” Cordelia asked after parking in front of the apartment door.

She saw the woman shake her head as she stepped off the bike. “No, thank you. You’ve done so much already.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I know you don’t,” the woman’s smile was brittle. “Will you think about what I said?”

Cordelia would not. But she said, “Yes.”

The woman did not look like she believed her. “Can you at least tell me that you have someone taking care of you? A father? An aunt? A foster parent?”

Again, her mind went to Alfred and how she left him drugged in his bed. She had someone who was taking care of her. And, because of her anger, she might have lost him.

She didn’t realize that she’d started to fidget with her jacket sleeve until the woman’s cold hands settled over her fingers.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said again. Her voice held a different type of sadness than before. “Would you like to come upstairs with me? I can make you hot chocolate and introduce you to my cat. Miss Whiskers always helps my daughter with her anxiety.”

Cordelia’s eyebrows crinkled, confused. “I don’t have anxiety.”

“Ah,” the woman said. “Well, if you did, Miss Whiskers would know how to calm you down quickly. She sheds a lot and costs way too much to keep, but when it comes to snuggles she’s the perfect companion.”

“I don’t,” Cordelia said. She let her eyes travel away from the woman’s worried face to take in their surroundings. The woman lived in a decent part of Gotham. She would be safe for now. “I have to go. There are other people who need my help.”

The woman’s full lips pursed in displeasure. “Okay. But... please take care of yourself.”

Cordelia nodded as she put her feet up on the pedals. “I always do.”

Then she was off, racing up the street and disappearing from the woman and her worried gaze.

What a strange civilian. What a strange Gotham.

What a strange timeline.

Since when did kind people survive in a city as horrifying as this one?

Cordelia swerved around traffic as she pondered this. Maybe Bruce was doing a much better job at being Batman than her father had. This idea was proven to her after a half an hour of her driving through the city and hearing no other cries for help. 

Gotham was surprisingly silent — she couldn’t hear screams, she couldn’t see car chases, and the drunken hooligans that loitered around the sidewalks and streets were not causing as much damage as they should have been.

Cordelia frowned and slowed her bike down, wondering if maybe she was driving too quickly to notice the signs of danger.

It was on her third pass through the Bowery that she finally saw something suspicious: semi trucks.

The trucks themselves looked harmless. They were plain white and their driver’s looked characteristically bored. But the more she drove around the city, the more she realized that there was way too many of them — and that they were all heading in the same direction.

Not a lot of companies in Gotham could afford as many trucks as she was seeing. Bruce most likely could, as could a handful of other wealthy elites, but it was unlikely that they would. Investing in three dozen semi trucks in Gotham was as risky as throwing money into a crowd and expecting them to hand the wads of cash back. 

It wasn’t much of a lead, but it was all Cordelia had.

So she kept driving until she spotted another truck, drove up ahead of it, parked her bike in a deserted alley, and then jumped onto the back of the semi.

Her gloves fibers closed around the back door handles and started to unlock it. The truck rattled on the broken streets, jostling the young girl as she tried to open the door with one hand and keep a hold of the truck with the other.

Once the right door swung open, Cordelia slipped inside and let the door hang open behind her.

She shouldn’t be here that long.

The inside of the truck’s trailer was full of large wooden crates. None of them were marked, but they also weren’t nailed shut, letting her know that whoever was getting them delivered were not corporate professionals.

Cordelia felt a shiver of excitement.

This could be it. This could be her lead into what the Joker was planning.

She went over to the closest crate and lifted the lid, holding her breath in anticipation.

Her eyes squinted, confused.

The crate was full of plain silver crowbars.

Cordelia reached inside and picked one up, holding it close to her eyes. But she’d been right — these crowbars were the very description of plain. There was nothing special about them at all; they were not painted green, they did not have hidden buttons, and they did not unfold into a secret sword or gun.

She frowned and opened the next crate. But that one held crowbars, too. And so did the next one and the next one and the next one.

Someone had ordered five crates full of crowbars.

Cordelia could not help but feel disappointed. Her plan for tonight had been to prove to Batman that she would make a useful soldier, but here she was standing in the back of a semi truck staring at a bunch of crowbars.

What a waste of time.

And to make matters worse, she’d have to walk all the way back to her bike.

Cordelia moved toward the door, ready to crawl out and lock it behind her, when the floor lurched beneath her. Her lips pressed together, muffling the startled yelp that jumped from her throat, as darkness settled around her.

The light that had filtered through the open door was all but gone. And when Cordelia moved toward it to peer outside, she found out why.

Whoever was driving the semi had gone into a tunnel and — judging from the way all the crates slid toward the front — the tunnel was heading underground.

Cordelia’s hands tightened around the crowbar she stole on instinct.

There weren’t many companies that had underground storage. There weren't many underground storage spaces at all in Gotham. The city’s terrible sewage system scared away most people who would ever want to build something similar to it. And, since Batman was extremely protective of his Cave being discovered, he rarely ever gave anyone the opportunity to try.

Cordelia looked around at the tunnel floors and walls. Everything was wet and molded; the ground was covered with dirty puddles.

The tunnel smelled like the harbor.

She hummed, a smile pulling at her lips. Maybe this wouldn’t be a waste of time after all.

The young vigilante slipped out of the semi and locked the door behind her. She did not want to be caught inside no matter how many weapons she’d have at her disposal. Now that she had no armor to protect her, all it would take was one lucky stray bullet and she’d be dead.

Cordelia would have to remind herself of this. She was not wearing armor, and that changed everything.

She clung to the back of the truck, waiting for it to take her to its destination. It took a while before it started slowing down. And, by that time, the ground was no longer scattered with puddles. Instead, it was completely covered in fuzzy black patches and filthy thick mud. Cordelia had to cringe away every time the truck rolled over a hidden pothole, because the resulting splash caused all the filth to fly up toward her and cling to her already wet legs.

Cordelia was only freed from her misery when the truck drove into a dimly lit bunker-styled room.

It was wide from what she could see on her end of the truck, but the ceilings were low and every noise made seemed to echo eerily around. She had the strangest sense that they were directly below the harbor.

The bunker was full of crates similar to the one the semi was delivering. They lined the walls and created rows and columns around her. She wondered if they were all holding an abnormally large amount of crowbars, or if they were holding other strange tools and weapons.

Cordelia had just been about to jump off the semi to inspect them when she heard….

That laugh.

The Joker’s laugh.

It was different. Deeper. But the foundation of it was the same — hysterical, mean, chaotic, and full of insanity. It grated on Cordelia’s nerves even as it dug up a whole bunch of her most traumatic, most horrifying memories.

She’d been right to jump onto this semi truck. This had been a lead to the Joker. And now that she had that confirmed, she needed to take him down.

Not just for Batman or Batgirl or Gotham.

But for Alfred.

Her Alfred. The one who had shown her what it was like to be truly cared for. The one who snuck her cookies and treats behind her father’s back. The one who gave her forehead kisses right before bedtime.

The one that Martha Wayne had murdered in cold blood right in front of Cordelia when she was just five years-old.

Father had never allowed Cordelia to seriously hurt his ex-wife. Even after all the terrible things the Joker had done, even after she murdered Alfred and killed a bunch of kids, his love for her never died. 

But Father was no longer around to stop her.

Cordelia waited for the right moment — and then hopped off the truck.

The mud was deeper than she thought it’d be. The murky, gushy fluid went up past her ankles and caused her to shiver in disgust. She hated how much sound she made, too. She could hear the splash echo in her ears so loudly that she was half convinced that the Joker would have heard it, too.

But the Joker wasn’t paying attention to any sound she made. He was talking with his henchmen, giving them orders on where to put the crates and muttering indecipherable words to himself when he could.

Cordelia’s next movements were slow and careful.

Most people assumed that the Joker was dangerous because she was insane, but Cordelia knew better. What made Joker so dangerous was her intelligence. She was one of the few criminals in Gotham who was able to go head to head with Batman when it came to intelligence. And that was mostly because she had a penchant for thinking ahead.

If this Joker was anything like Martha, he was not someone that Cordelia should underestimate.

So Cordelia’s every step was thought through and, once she made it to the nearest crate, she made sure to check it for any traps or alarm systems.

“You’re here early, you idiot!”

Cordelia froze, her hands on the lid of a crate, but the Joker was not talking to her.

“I gave you each a schedule,” the Joker snapped. “Do you think I did that for no reason?”

“I-I’m sorry, boss,” the henchman said. “I wasn’t thinking —“

A gunshot was fired. A body splashed to the muddy ground.

“Idiot,” the Joker’s dark tone sent a shiver up Cordelia’s spine, but she quickly brought her focus back to the crate and lifted the lid.

This time, she was not staring at a crate full of crowbars. Instead, the crate held one single, large silver explosive device with a timer attached to the top of it.

She pressed her lips together and trudged over to the next crate. It held an identical explosive.

Cordelia let her eyes travel up and down the bunker, staring at all the crates and how they filled up the room, then thought about all the trucks she saw in Gotham City and how they each must be carrying at least five other crates like these.

Crowbars and explosives. 

Were they all filled with crowbars and explosives?

She started to walk around, opening as many crates as she could. She must have opened twenty before she forced herself to accept the fact that the Joker had managed to find an idiot dumb enough to sell him a bunch of bombs.

Almost as if he read her thoughts, the Joker began to laugh loudly, his hahaha bouncing around the walls and attacking her eardrums.

Memories of Martha Wayne laughing the same way as she tried to kill Cordelia forced their way into her mind before Cordelia shook them out. She wanted to run up to the back of the bunker and put a bullet to that laughing face. But there were other voices besides the Joker, too. And those voices outnumbered Cordelia by far. 

This was not a battle that Batgirl would be able to fight her way out of. If she wanted to stop Joker’s plans, then she would need to lean on her detective skills.

First, she needed to disable the explosives.

Cordelia opened the crate closest to her and pulled out her pocket knife. Despite this Joker being different, he had the same taste in bombs as Martha did. And while that could be unsettling, it also gave Cordelia the experience to know exactly which wires to cut to make sure that these explosives never went off.

Over and over she did this: opened lids and cut a few wires and ignored the nervous sweat that was trickling down the back of her neck the entire time.

There was always a risk that the bomb would not disable — and would actually go off.

Cordelia tried to reassure herself that, if it did, then it was better for the bomb to go off now when it was just her, the Joker, and the henchmen who were near it. But that thought was not as reassuring as she’d like it to be.

“Oh no, Sir,” a henchman was saying as she let her pocket knife slice through a wire, “we haven’t seen Batman work with anyone all summer. In fact, our guys are saying that they only see Nightwing fighting up in the City!”

There was an uncomfortable silence following that statement. Cordelia was extra careful to be quiet as she snuck over to the next crate. She’d already disabled about a quarter of the bombs in the bunker.

Then, as she was about to open the next crate, she heard the Joker screech: “WHAT?”

Cordelia stilled at the sound.

“What do you mean the Bat’s brats haven’t been seen all Summer?” The Joker snarled.

She shivered. The manic laugh was obnoxious, but there was nothing more unsettling than a Joker who was completely serious. 

“Why didn’t you tell me that when you broke me out of Arkham?” His voice was echoing dangerously around the bunker, low and chilled.

The henchman started stuttering. “I-I-I’m sorry, Sir. I assumed you knew —“

“You assumed I knew?” The Joker mocked. “Are you a simpleton? Why would I waste all my time creating a plan to get rid of Batman pesky partners permanently if I knew that they weren’t in the City?”

Cordelia’s blood ran cold. 

She looked down at the bomb hiding underneath the lid in front of her. She’d disabled around thirty of them, but there were many, many more to go. And they were all for her niece and nephews.

The floor tilted underneath her. The bunker walls and all the crates they contained spun in front of her eyes.

Fear — real, true fear like nothing she’d ever experienced before — slowly crawled into her skin and took over her mind.

His plan wasn’t to attack the City. His plan was to attack her family.

She had to get out of here. She had to warn Batman. Tell him to send Dick packing back to Bludhaven, tell him to cancel her introduction to society party so that none of his other children would think to come back.

She needed him and all his Batman tools to take the Joker down before it was too late.

Cordelia slowly put the lid back onto the crate. All her movements felt sluggish.

Oh my God, she thought, Dick is in Gotham because of me.

She swallowed the vile that rushed up her throat at the realization. All day she’d been worried about keeping Dick safe, yet she was the reason that he was in danger.

Cordelia ducked down into the mud, more determined than ever to get out of the bunker without being noticed.

All the way on the other side of the room, she could hear another gunshot go off and another body fall to the ground.

“Does anybody have anything else they’d like to tell me?” The Joker said.

“No, Sir,” two dozen voices said back.

“Nothing?” The Joker said coldly. Cordelia could hear a few metallic clicks that sounded like a gun being reloaded. “Is there nothing at all swimming around in your brainless heads?”

Cordelia kept moving toward the tunnel.

She was about halfway there when another henchman cleared his throat.

“Yes?” Joker prompted.

“Er — I thought I heard a splash earlier? Over there by the tunnel.” 

Cordelia froze. She could practically feel the blood leave her face. So she had been heard.

“But it might have been… a… fish…?” His voice petered out as his unease grew.

Cordelia’s hold at the crowbar tightened when she heard another gunshot go off and yet another body fall. In the past hour, Joker had killed three of his men with little to no hesitation. She felt like she had to throw up; this Joker was just as careless with life as Martha had been.

“Oopsie, my finger slipped,” Joker cackled. “You three block the exit. The rest of you — spread out! Looks like we’re playing hide-and-seek with an intruder! Haha!”

Cordelia took off toward the exit, not bothering to stay quiet anymore. If the exit got blocked, she was as good as dead. Behind her, she could hear dozens of heavy feet start running in her direction.

But Cordelia was fast. She would make it.

At least, she would have if a semi truck wasn’t driving into the bunker at the same time she’d been about to exit it.

Cordelia dove out of the way before it could hit her, landing on her hands and knees. The mud and grime was slippery beneath her fingers and splashed up to meet her face, but Cordelia was barely paying attention to that.

The semi truck had squealed to a stop behind her, and the henchman driving it was gawking down at her from the window in surprise.

“Boss —!” He began.

Cordelia threw her pocket knife. The sharp blade soared through the open window and embedded itself into the center of the henchman’s throat. His eyes bulged out of their sockets as his hands flew to his throat, trying desperately to stop the bleeding before slumping forward — dead.

The other henchmen were turning the corner created by the crates. Cordelia scurried to hide before they could spot her. 

“Hmm,” Joker hummed. He was close. Just on the other side of the crate Cordelia was hiding behind. “Guess it’s not Batsy.”

Cordelia held perfectly still. She needed a plan. She might have stopped the driver from giving up her direct location, but the knife let them all know which side of the bunker she had thrown it from.

She heard the splash of the mud as someone walked in her direction.

Cordelia drew her gun quietly.

When she saw the black booted foot, she aimed upward and shot a bullet into their skull. A large, muscular body fell at her side. The face was unrecognizable, but — unfortunately — it was not the Joker.

“Well? What are you boys waiting for?” Joker snapped.

Cordelia knew that she wasn’t going to wait to get caught. She took off into the forest of crates, trying not to be intimidated by the amount of footsteps that were following her, and trying not to acknowledge the fact that there was no way out of this situation alive.

They could not see her, but the splashing mud beneath her shoes was broadcasting her position to the entire bunker.

The henchmen were surrounding her, running ahead where she planned to hide and closing in behind her. Cordelia looked down at her gun, a weapon she’d collected during her first attack in this new timeline. Her fingers curled around the trigger. It was almost poetic that it would be the last weapon she fought with before she died.

She shot the first henchman she saw in the forehead and ran over his prone body without pausing for a second.

There weren’t many bullets left in her gun. Only four. 

She needed to make them count.

The henchmen were on all sides of her. In a few seconds, they would be able to see her.

Cordelia didn’t wait around to be found. She jumped on top of the crate closest to her and glared down at the crowd that had been chasing her like a rabbit among dogs.

The henchmen’s faces all blurred together into a non-distinct, irrelevant smudge. The only face that mattered, the only face she noticed, was the white one staring up at her with that disgusting, red-lipped smile.

The Joker.

Cordelia pointed her gun at her — him — and fired.

He moved. The bullet hit his shoulder. It should have caused him unbearable pain, but all he did was open his too-large mouth and start cackling.

Cordelia, not wanting to be a standing target for all the henchmen, jumped over to the next crates above a few henchmen’s heads, and hopped back to the ground. And just as she’d been about to hide again, she heard a gun go off.

And then she felt pain.

A scream ripped through her gritted teeth as she fell to the ground, her hand pressing against the bleeding wound on her calf. Her speed had been her greatest advantage to get out of this situation alive, and now her leg muscles were compromised.

Another gunshot went off. She felt a bullet graze her arm.

Cordelia rolled behind another crate, heart thumping wildly in her chest.

Oh God. She was going to die.

The reality was becoming more and more real to her. She was going to die in an underground bunker with stinking mud covering her face and arms. Would anyone ever find her body? Would anyone ever care if they did?

Cordelia gulped back her building panic. 

She’d made a mistake. She should have stayed at the manor with Alfred. She should have told him that she would go on a trip with him. At least that way she could have spent a couple more months with him.

But she’d told him no. She’d drugged him. And now she was never going to see him again.

Cordelia’s eyes zeroed in on the exit tunnel, which was partially covered by the semi truck.

She really did not want to die. 

Cordelia ignored the pain in her calf and raced toward the exit. Bullets whizzed by her; some missed entirely and some grazed her. But adrenaline was helping her forget the pain, forget anything but that tunnel that would lead her back to her butler.

That is, until she felt a bullet hit her other leg.

Cordelia could not hold back the scream that tore through her throat this time. Her entire body collapsed into the mug in front of the semi truck. Her own gun and crowbar flew out of her hands and out of her reach.

“I win!” The Joker began to laugh wildly.

Blearily, Cordelia rolled over to see him and his henchmen slowly approaching her fallen form.

The Joker was holding a gun himself. It was long and purple, and was being waved around merrily as he laughed at her.

The henchmen behind him all trained their weapons on her, waiting for instruction.

“There you are!” Joker squatted down to get a better look at her. “Hmm, I don’t recognize you, do I? I get so mixed up nowadays. Personally, I blame the shock treatments!”

He laughed again and fired a bullet at her.

But the shot was just to scare her. The bullet missed, hitting the floor by her head. Her flinch made him cackle even harder.

“Say, you look sort of familiar,” Joker continued. He used his gun to force Cordelia’s head to the side, looking closely at her profile. “Maybe we have met before. Oh, I know. Were you having a trip to the looney bin at the same time I was back in January? Or — no, no, no — maybe I met you when I was trying to kidnap the Mayor? Or maybe it was when I was trying to kidnap billionaire Bruce Wayne.”

Cordelia’s body was beginning to shake. It took everything in her not to move, even as the pain from all the gunshot wounds began to catch up to her.

She closed her eyes. Oh God. 

She really wanted Alfred.

The gun started to poke her cheek roughly, forcing her nose into the mud.

“Why so silent?” Joker pouted. “Are you shy?”

Cordelia couldn’t say anything. All she could think was that, soon, there would be a bullet in her brain. But he didn’t seem interested in killing her just yet. In fact, her silence was beginning to irritate him. Cordelia felt her hair get grabbed roughly at the top, silently demanding that she speak up.

“What?” Joker said. His lips were blood red and stretched so wide that they could have touched his ears. But the smile was deceiving; his eyes told the true story: he was angry with her. “Don’t like my hospitality? I knew I should have used my Venom, instead. That always puts a smile on my guests’ faces.”

Cordelia’s eyes unwillingly flickered down to the flower on the Joker’s chest, the one that held his Venom. Would that be the way that she died?

Her continued silence made Joker grumble. “Where are your manners? Don’t you know that you’re supposed to beg for your life when someone is pointing a gun at you?”

He pressed the barrel to the bridge of her nose, as if she’d forget that he was holding it if it wasn’t directly in her line of sight. She could smell the toxic chemicals and gunpowder on the skin of his hands.

“Who are you?” He finally asked.

Cordelia thought quickly. What could she say? Would it matter?

If she said that she was no one, then he would kill her instantly. If she said that she was Batgirl, then he would still kill her instantly.

She swallowed down her fear of death, not wanting to appear scared in front of all these criminals, and said with a false sense of bravado, “I’m Batgirl.”

That statement caused Joker to blink owlishly down at her for one long, tense moment.

And then he threw his head back to start laughing.

And laughing.

And laughing.

Until Cordelia’s fear had melted away into offended anger that yet another person was implying that she wasn’t good enough to be Batgirl. She twisted in his hold and bit the hand gripping her hair. Her teeth clenched down savagely, breaking a few bones between them.

The Joker howled with pain and dropped his gun beside her.

“Boss, should we —“

The Joker didn’t wait to give anyone else any orders. His free hand grabbed Cordelia by the throat and squeezed. She had to let go of his hand so she could try to breath, but the Joker didn’t stop there. Cordelia felt herself being pushed into the mud, and then her face being grabbed so that he could force her mouth and nose down under the murky, gushy water.

Cordelia’s hands flew up to the ones drowning and choking her. But it was no use trying to get him off her like that. He had the position of power — and trying to wrestle it away from him would not work.

Through the panicked haze, she remembered the gun that he dropped beside her, picked it up, and shot blindly upward.

A pained grunt. She’d hit something.

Cordelia was being pulled back up from the mud, choking out dirt and gasping wetly for air.

The Joker was hideous. Martha had retained her beauty over the years; her bone structure and luscious hair was notable even under all the white and red face paint. But this Joker had none of her natural beauty. He was a pointed face, entirely crazy, murdering lunatic who was smiling down at Cordelia so fiercely that she knew whatever he had planned as revenge was going to make her regret every single action she took that day.

“Maybe you are Batgirl after all,” he said slowly. His other hand ripped the gun away from her and tossed it away. “But you aren’t dressed as Batgirl. Why? Is Batman getting greedy with his toys? Does he not want to share them with you?”

Cordelia could still taste dirt on her tongue. She tried to remember that; tried not to say anything that would cause her to die drowning in mud. Her next words were raspy: “Are you going to kill me?”

Joker tilted his head, smile widening. “Oh, how surprising, you’re cutting right to the chase!”

“Are you?” Cordelia asked again.

The henchmen were all watching with interest, their eyes gleaming in the darkness.

“Not so fast!” Joker said. “You’re taking all the excitement away, Boringgirl. At least let me have fun with you first.”

Cordelia did not want to know what that meant, but she had no choice. Joker stood up quickly, giving her no warning as he dragged her upward by the throat.

Cordelia’s feet kicked out under her, feeling for the ground but only finding air.

“Let — go!” She gasped.

“No can do, Bratgirl!” Joker said joyously. “Boys, I’ll be in my office. Bring me a crowbar.”

He was freakishly strong, Cordelia found out. A man of his thinness — a man as malnourished as him — should not have been able to carry Cordelia by the throat all the way to the back of the bunker. But that was exactly what he did. Cordelia gasped and spluttered the entire way, her gloved fingers uselessly scratching at the hand choking her.

The back of the bunker was a lot more dry than the front. And emptier, too. While the front was surrounded by crates, the back only had a single wooden table and a small splattering of chairs.

Once they got to the table, Joker dropped her onto the hard floor next to it.

Cordelia, partially unconscious from lack of oxygen, could not stop her head from smacking into the stone floor.

She groaned in pain. Her head felt so heavy; her arms felt so weak. And the bullet wounds in her legs were beginning to burn terribly.

And just when she thought that it couldn’t get any worse, she felt something hard and solid crack against the back of her head.

Agony.

That single hit felt like an explosion underneath her skin. The pain bloomed all over her body, forcing her to feel everything: the wound on her ear, her tired muscles from fighting with Bruce, the two bullets in her legs, and all the rest of the wounds she’d gathered down here in the bunker.

It was too much. It was too much.

The Joker was pacing around her body, whistling happily as the girl at his feet tried to handle all the pain he was causing.

“Yeah, that looked like it hurt,” he said cheerily. “But while you were so rudely bleeding all over my office floor, I realized something. Would you like to know what I realized?”

Cordelia ignored him. Her limbs had begun to tremble uncontrollably, both from the sudden cold she was experiencing and the hurt.

Joker continued to talk as Cordelia stared at the wall through half-closed eyelids, her cheek lying on the floor.

“I realized why you look so familiar!” She felt the hard, solid object smash into her skull again. Cordelia twitched violently, but otherwise stayed limp. “You’re related to him, aren’t you? You’re related to Batman.”

He grabbed her shoulder and forced her onto her back. She blinked up at him blearily, still shaking. In his hand was a crowbar.

He’d been hitting her with a crowbar.

Joker tapped the end of it against her forehead. “Hell-oooo? Is anybody there? Geez, don’t tell me you’re already dying. The last time I did this, the bird didn’t go down until I blew him to smithereens! And now that I think about it — that still didn’t take him down! Haha!”

Cordelia had no idea what he was talking about. But she got the gist: the Joker had done this before to one of her nephews and now he wanted to do the same to her.

“Oh, are you finally paying attention?” Joker’s teeth were yellow behind his gleeful smile. “Good. I was getting the idea that I was talking to myself. That’s enough to make a poor guy like me feel crazy!”

“Who…” she groaned. Talking made her throat ache. “Did you… hurt?”

Joker’s eyes got misty with nostalgia. “Aw, are you feeling protective of your predecessors? Don’t worry, he’s back and better than ever!”

Cordelia tried to swallow the vile in her throat. Her entire chest was hurting. “…Who?”

“Ah ah ah,” he shook his finger at her disapprovingly. “Answer my question first.”

She fought to remember what it had been. And then lied, “No… not… related.”

Joker peered down at her, assessing. Cordelia tried to stay awake, trying to appear as honest as possible. If he unmasked her, then at least she wouldn’t take Bruce’s identity down with her. Even now, after their horrible fight, her learned loyalty to Batman won out.

“Good,” Joker said, pleased. “I would hate to find out that my Batsy was keeping a secret love child from me. The betrayal would be unimaginable.”

Cordelia’s nose wrinkled once those words processed in her brain. Was Bruce… involved with the Joker?

“Don’t make that face,” Joker said. “It hurts my feelings.”

Cordelia didn’t have the energy to move her face muscles, anyway. She let the expression drop, and then she let her head fall back to the floor. “Tell… me….”

For a moment, it looked like there were three of them. And then she blinked and there was only one.

“The second Robin,” the Joker was saying with relish. “Or was it the third? My memory is hazy. All I know is that killing Robin was one of my greatest hits! HAHA! So I was thinking it’s about time I made a sequel. Don’t you agree?”

He lovingly stroked his crowbar as if it was a pet cat. He looked every bit like the Arkham Asylum resident he was supposed to be.

Joker sighed happily. “You know, beating the lights out of you is really reminding me of those good old days. Back when it was just me, the Bats, one boy blunder in an ugly little leotard, and a nice strong crowbar.”

Cordelia closed her eyes, defeated. So she was in the same position that Jason or Tim had been in. At some point, they had experienced this type of pain.

And if they could do it, then so could she.

Cordelia wrapped her arms around herself, wanting her last moments to be spent hugging the jacket that Jason had given her. She never forgot what it felt like sitting in Alfred’s car and having Jason talk to her so sweetly about motorcycles. Even though she was nothing but a stranger to him, he’d spoke to her like she was family.

Cordelia wished she’d told him how much that meant to her.

She was going to die with so many regrets.

Beside her, Joker had gone from reminiscing about the past to whining about the present.

“Now Bats has a whole posse,” he complained. “And don’t get me started on all his new gadgets. Do you know how hard it’s become to raise funds to fight against Batman? It’s like he doesn’t even care how much financial strain he’s putting on me!”

Moodily, he stood at full height and glared down at her as if it was her fault that Bruce was rich.

“It all used to be so much fun,” Joker said. “Until he started to adopt kids without my permission. I told him to get rid of his new baggage, but my Batsy is old and sappy. He forces me to do all the dirty work.”

So quickly that Cordelia didn’t have time to prepare for it, he hit her. 

Cordelia was sure that she lost consciousness for a few moments. But when she blinked herself awake, the Joker was still talking to her as if nothing had changed. “I guess you will never know what it’s like to be in a relationship with someone who makes you do all the housework. But let me tell you, it gets so tiresome.”

He stomped on her hand. Cordelia choked out a pained scream.

The second his foot eased from her hand, she snatched it away from the floor and curled up inside Jason’s sweater, letting it hide her limbs like a leather blanket.

“As I was saying,” Joker said. He was picking at his ear as if her scream had bothered him. “Once you start to have kids in a relationship oh — everything becomes ten times harder. They’re always crying and getting in the way.”

He bent down to theatrically whisper into the girl’s ear.

“Also, night time adventures stop being fun when the kids are always barging into Mommy and Daddy’s room.”

Cordelia let out a broken sound as the crowbar slammed against her face.

She was going to die hearing about Bruce’s sex life with the Joker. She was starting to wish, more than anything, that he would just take out the gun and shoot her in the head.

But he didn’t. The crowbar kept cracking down on her — hitting her face, her ribs, her arms, her stomach.

Cordelia eventually stopped having enough energy inside of her to scream anymore. Every hit could only be followed by a weak gasp, a small twitch, a pathetic whimper, or a soft grunt.

Then… she stopped making sounds all together.

Joker hit her three more times for good measure, as if testing to see if she was truly done expressing her pain. When all Cordelia could do was blink tearily into space, he put the curve of the crowbar under her chin, tilting it up toward him.

His face was blurred, but she could see the paleness of it and the red lips that split it in half.

“Going to sleep in the middle of a conversation,” he sighed. His words sounded like they were coming from underwater. “How rude.”

Cordelia blinked one more time. And then, when the next hit came, she knew no more.

Chapter 44: INTERLUDE: Bruce's POV

Summary:

“You should have seen her, Batman!” The Joker was buzzing with excitement, now deliciously aware of the pain he’d caused. “She came waltzing in here with no armor and called herself Batgirl! Haha! Honestly, Batsy, if you really cared about her, you would have at least given her a better uniform. It was almost like you wanted me to kill her.”

Notes:

TRIGGER WARNING: Violence, Gunshots, Explosives, and Mentions of Child Abuse

“Took you long enough.”

Dick did a somersault before kicking two criminals in the face at once mid-air. He stuck the landing with a large grin on his face and his hands on his hips.

A performer to his core.

“Did you talk to your sister?” Dick asked. “I hope you told her that handcuffs are only for criminals and for — well, she might learn the second thing when she’s older.”

Bruce grimaced. He was having a bad enough day without having to think about that.

“Don’t speak that way around her,” Bruce said sternly. “She’s impressionable.”

Dick looked deeply amused. “Those big brother instincts kicked in quick, huh?”

Bruce frowned at him. “I was not joking.”

“Yeah, I know, B.” Dick’s eyes couldn’t be seen behind the white film of his domino mask, but Bruce felt like his son was rolling his eyes. “Don’t worry. The jokes go over her head, anyways. She’s as innocent as Robin.”

Bruce thought about how Cordelia snuck out to have sex with a boy she’d only met once and hoped that Damian was much more innocent than that. If not, then he would need to add having a very uncomfortable conversation to his schedule immediately — or else he’d become a grandfather at forty.

“Give me a report,” Bruce said, quickly changing the subject.

Oracle had given Bruce a quick update on what was happening as he followed Dick’s tracker to a small town on the outskirts of Gotham. So, by the time Bruce joined Dick in the field, he already had an overview of the situation: the Joker had launched three attacks in the last three hours, the henchmen were targeting small areas near the Gotham border, and Dick was relatively unharmed.

Bruce did not believe the third one until he saw the man for himself.

But Dick looked to be fine apart from the reddened mark on his jawline and a small, bleeding scratch right about his eyebrow.

The one good thing about the barely-armored Nightwing uniform: it didn’t hide injuries well.

“You were right in thinking that this was a distraction,” Dick said. Although his tone was lighthearted, his movements were sharp and quick. In a move that was barely discernible to the eye, he managed to sweep a brawny man’s feet out from under him, and then forced him into unconsciousness with three strong punches. “These are Joker’s D-List henchmen.”

Hm. That did not bode well.

The Joker was one of the more hands-on rogues that frequented Arkham Asylum. While he never turned away hired help, he also didn’t rely on them in the same way someone like the Penguin would. The Joker liked to be the person doing the most damage, causing the most deaths, and spreading the most fear.

In other words: if there was chaos happening, then the Joker would be at its very center.

So if the Joker didn’t consider these three attacks in three hours the real chaos, then what did he consider the real chaos?

What should Bruce expect to happen to his city?

“Deaths?” He asked Dick.

Behind his son, he could see one of the henchmen raising their guns. His batarang sliced through the thin muscles of the gunman’s hands. The gun slipped through the man’s fingers as he gasped in pain.

Dick, who’d seen the batarang head in his direction and had heard the gasp, turned around to finish the job in subduing the criminal.

“A few,” Dick said, no longer smiling. “But not as much as you would expect from a Joker attack.”

“I expect there to be none,” Bruce responded sharply.

He didn’t mean to be so short with him, but Bruce was painfully aware that it was his fault that people had died. If he had known how his conversation with Cordelia would have gone, then he would have slipped a sedative in a drink and handed it to her the moment she walked through the door.

Instead, he’d let himself get pulled into an hour-long fight that kept him away from his son and all the other people that needed him.

As he cursed his own lack of foresight, Bruce continued to fight alongside Dick and the GCPD. The henchmen were going down one-by-one, sometimes even three-by-three, as both experienced vigilantes worked their way through the abandoned civilian area.

Bruce was sure that the Joker’s men had come to the small town with the hopes of causing harm but, unfortunately for them, Bruce had anticipated that this would be the next area that the Joker targeted. He had (as Batman) sent out the tip to the GCPD over an hour ago — and the GCPD had used that heads up to help evacuate the town.

This had been a good call for the civilians who lived there. But it had also meant that the henchmen’s focus would be entirely on Dick and the GCPD until Bruce joined their ranks.

To see that Dick had made it through the attacks okay was excellent. To hear that some civilians died because of Bruce’s absence was not.

“I wasn’t prepared,” Dick said. 

It sounded like he was speaking through gritted teeth.

It was getting more difficult to see him through the heavy rain, the darkness, and the flashing lights of the GCPD cars. So Bruce had to rely on the sounds of scraping feet and deep grunts to know where his son was.

“I don’t have my motorcycle, my birdarangs, or my Escrima sticks,” Dick continued. “By the time I got to the last attack, five people were already shot.”

Bruce did not like excuses. He grabbed a henchman by the neck, picked him up with one hand, and then slammed him into the ground. “You know better than to come into Gotham unprepared, Nightwing.”

The sound of pained grunts echoed up the nearly barren street. When Bruce got off the henchmen and turned around, he could see a dark shadow punching excessively at a face on the ground.

“Nightwing. Enough.”

The dark shadow turned to him sharply.

Through the flashing lights of the police cars, he could see the outline of high cheekbones and a head of wet curls.

“What about you?” Dick demanded. “What’s your excuse for getting here so late?”

Bruce didn’t have an excuse. 

When Cordelia asked him if he would stay at the house to speak with her, he should have told her no and that Gotham needed him. But he hadn’t wanted to tell her no.

He’d wanted to tell her that he would be there for her. If she needed it. 

But he wouldn’t be. He couldn’t be. He had five children, a city, and an entire world that would need him. And, like today, he’d have to choose them.

He and Dick had just finished rounding up the last of the henchmen when their comms crackled to life. Both straightened up instantly.

“Batman, Nightwing,” it was Barbara Gordon. Her electronic, Oracle voice filtered through the tiny speakers in their ears. “The Joker hasn’t been seen on any of our cameras, so I’m sending you locations of our blind spots that he might be using as a hideout.”

Bruce grunted his approval.

“Thanks, O,” Dick verbalized.

“Thank me after we take that psychopath back to Arkham.”

“She’s right,” Bruce said. “We don’t have time to talk with the GCPD, either. Let’s go.”

The police were blurred figures in the distance, leaning down to look over and handcuff the henchmen that the vigilantes left unconscious on the street. Usually, one of them would stick behind to compare notes with Commissioner Gordon, but Bruce was impatient.

The sooner the Joker was in Arkham, the less he had to worry.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Dick said. He walked lightly, but the splash of his feet in the growing puddles was unavoidable. Bruce could hear him rushing up behind him. “What kept you away?”

“I had to take care of something first,” Bruce said.

Dick caught up to him. The white lens of his domino mask glowed like two dim headlights as they both turned the corner into an alley. To the casual stroller, the alley would have looked empty — maybe even ominous. But to Bruce, who had improved night vision through his cowl, the alley was hiding something extremely important: the BatMobile.

Bruce had a talent for finding the darkest corners of the world. This mostly helped him when he was listening in on conversations no one wanted him to overhear, but it also helped him find where was the best place to park his car.

Meeting Jason had taught him that even having protection built into his cars could not keep them totally safe from the determined thief.

Meeting Jason had taught him a lot of things.

Bruce unlocked the BatMobile and slipped into the driver’s seat. He was already turning on the mini BatComputer he had installed into the dashboard by the time Dick had dropped into the seat next to him.

“Taking care of some things,” Dick repeated. “You mean your sister? Why would that take an hour?”

A map of Gotham lit up the mini BatComputer screen along with possible locations where the Joker might be hiding out.

Bruce’s continued silence was making Dick suspicious. His son looked at him narrowly. “What happened?”

He would find out eventually. Most likely, he would find out the moment they went back to Wayne Manor. If Alfred did not immediately start lecturing Bruce about what he’d done, then the empty look that he’d left in Cordelia’s eyes would give it away.

So Bruce shoved his guilt aside and said, “She was trying to get back in the field, so I had to tell her that she could never be Batgirl again. She did not take it well.”

This was an understatement. While he had seen Cordelia angry before, he never would have expected that she had such a violent streak to her. Throughout his time watching her, she had always appeared to be… gentle.

Sweet.

Nothing like the quick little terror that had almost broken his jaw with one frenzied punch.

Dick was frowning at him. Bruce didn’t know why until he noticed that Dick’s focus was on his lips.

Bruce’s bleeding lips.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dick said with building horror. “You fought her?”

His tone prodded at the guilt Bruce was trying so hard to get rid of. “She attacked me.”

“She attacked you?” Dick said doubtfully.

He could not entirely fault Dick for his disbelief. Bruce would hardly have believed it himself if he hadn’t been on the receiving end of all those jabs, kicks, and bites.

Unconsciously, his hand went to his wrist, where he could still feel where her surprisingly strong teeth had managed to tear through the weak fabric and catch at the skin.

Dick’s eyes followed the movement and then widened when they saw the marks.

“Tell me everything,” he demanded.

Bruce was already shaking his head and starting the car. “We don’t have time for this.”

“B, you called me here to help you with her,” Dick said firmly. “I can’t help with only half the story.”

Bruce disagreed. He’d worked on enough teams to know that not everyone had to know everything in order to be effective. In fact, sometimes telling one person everything ended up being disastrous for the mission.

But Dick would find out anyway.

So Bruce backed out of the alley, shot off in the direction of the nearest possible Joker hideout, and told Dick everything that had happened in his office — and then in the BatCave.

He was done telling the story halfway to the location.

By then, Dick was glaring at the side of his head and Bruce was trying his best to ignore him.

“You punched a wall…” Dick said slowly, “next to her face?”

“It was unavoidable,” Bruce said. “She was going to sneak out otherwise —“

A motorcyclist cut in front of the BatMobile at an alarming speed. Bruce slammed on the breaks to avoid hitting them, and watched in disbelief as the motorcycle cut through the street without a care in the world.

“That motorcyclist is going to get themselves killed driving like that in this weather,” Bruce said.

“We’re not the traffic police,” Dick snapped. “Don’t try to change the subject.”

Bruce glared at him.

He’d hoped that Dick was going to be more sympathetic to his situation considering the handcuff still attached to his wrist, but he should have known better than to hope. His son was looking at him like he wanted to kick him out of the car.

“This is serious,” he said. Dick pointed angrily at Bruce, and the handcuff jingled like a gaudy bracelet. “You need to apologize to her when we get back to the manor.”

“I won’t apologize,” Bruce said. “I had to do it. It was the only way I could get her to listen.”

“I’m sure that’s what your father told himself when he was abusing her.”

Bruce felt his jaw clench and his hands tighten around the steering wheel, but he did his best not to rise to the bait.

There was a time when parents used to be a sacred subject between him and his eldest son. They’d both grown up believing that their parents were perfect. It had been one of the things that truly connected them back in the beginning. But ever since Bruce told Dick the truth about his father… that changed between them.

Thomas Wayne was no longer that respected yet unknown figure in Dick's life.

He was the enemy.

Dick spoke about him similar to how they spoke about David Cain.

An abuser. A monster.

And, despite all the proof that this was true, it cut like a knife to the heart every time — that the same person who read him his favorite bedtime story on late nights, the same person who would let him play hooky on bad days, was the same person who caused all those nightmares he heard Cordelia scream herself awake to.

Bruce turned away from Dick. Away from the truth.

“I didn’t hit her,” he said shortly. “What I did was make sure that she would be too scared to leave the house without my permission. For now, she is safe.”

“I’m so glad you found a way to use her trauma to your advantage, Batman.”

Don’t rise to the bait, Bruce told himself.

Out loud, he said, “It was to her advantage.”

He almost expected Dick to punch him for that. But all he did was point his finger in his face and say, “Do you not understand how serious this is, Batman? Your sister is barely hanging on by a thread. And you think the best way to help her is to make her relive her worst moments? You know that’s not right. Deep down, under all that annoying Batman apathy, you know it’s not right.”

Bruce pressed his lips together.

Dick could be so infuriating sometimes.

He was one of the few people brave enough to challenge Bruce — and he knew it. This could be excellent when Bruce was in the wrong (after all, everyone needed to be challenged every once in a while), but it became a significant obstacle during the times Bruce was right.

And this happened to be one of those times.

Dick had only spent a few hours with Cordelia. He did not know her in the same way Bruce knew her. What he saw was a scared little kid, but she was more than that.

Cordelia was a problem.

Her recklessness, her stubbornness, her inability to trust Batman — it would get her into trouble. If he let her go out as Batgirl, he knew…. He knew he would lose her just like he lost Jason.

He couldn’t lose another kid.

He’d barely survived it the first time.

So Cordelia would have to do what he said. Whether she liked it or not. Whether Dick liked it or not. Whether any God damn person on this entire planet liked it or not.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe,” Bruce said coldly. He turned the last corner into a barren parking lot outside an old shoe factory. He really hoped that the Joker was hiding in there — not just because he wanted to send him back to Arkham, but because he really wanted something to punch. “And I’m getting tired of you and Alfred lecturing me on how to handle my own ward. Neither of you have experience raising abused kids who want to be vigilantes. Neither of you have lost a child to this life.”

Dick’s lips thinned. “You’re right. I don’t know what that’s like. But I do know what it’s like to suddenly become responsible for a reckless, traumatized, and abused younger sibling who would do anything to fight crime with Batman. Or have you forgotten that your new Robin was my Robin first?”

“I asked for you to come to Gotham because Co — my sister was feeling lonely, not so you could give me parenting tips,” Bruce said, almost revealing her name to possible listening ears. “If you’re having trouble making that distinction, then go back to Bludhaven.”

He got out of the BatMobile and slammed the door behind him.

Let the Joker hear him coming. Let the fear of Batman creep up on him.

“Dammit, Batman, why do you have to be like this?” Dick exploded. He was out of the car, too, and circling it to where Bruce was walking away. “I’m trying to help you both, yet neither of you are listening to me! It’s like trying to communicate with two brick walls!”

“Keep your voice down,” Bruce said. “You’re spiraling.”

He felt Dick grab him by the arm and yank at him.

Bruce could have shouldered him away. He could have ignored him and kept walking to the factory, which he was almost certain was empty considering no one had attacked them yet. But he knew that letting Dick simmer in his anger would only result in a larger fight. So he turned around —

And got punched in the face.

He was sure that his bruising would be extensive tomorrow. The fact that most of them would come from his family added an extra sting.

Bruce put his hand to his lip, feeling it swell.

Dick was glaring at him. The rain fell over his face and ran down his cheeks like tears.

“Go back to Bludhaven,” Bruce said shortly. “You’re done here.”

“Let me train her,” Dick said.

Unbelievable.

“No,” Bruce said.

This caused a frustrated, exasperated look to mix in with his already furious face. “You can’t just say no.”

Dick had some gall trying to order Bruce around after punching him in the face. “I can and I will. She’s my ward. My sister. My responsibility. Not yours, Nightwing. Now go home.”

Dick crossed his arms, unintimidated. “Give me one good reason why not. It’s what she wants, it’s what we all do. And I’ve watched her fight, Batman. She’s good. Better than good. We could use her in the field.”

He didn’t mean anything by it.

Bruce shouldn’t have gotten angry.

But somewhere in the back of his mind he could hear his fifteen year-old sister saying: Batgirl was made to get hurt to keep Batman safe. It’s part of my training. You can use me, Bruce.

And then… the images those words created. Of the Batgirls getting hurt. Of Cordelia getting hurt. 

For him.

Bruce was in Dick’s face before either of them could blink and said in one cold, vicious snarl: “You will not use her.”

If it wasn’t for the rain hitting the pavement and the BatMobile not too far behind, then Bruce’s words would have silenced the entire parking lot.

Dick was staring at him, but Bruce was not seeing him. He was seeing Cordelia sitting across from him in his office, saying with so much confidence that she was something to be used, that her pain didn’t matter, that she didn’t think she was worth protecting.

The way she’d said it, too… like a child reciting the alphabet: calmly, confidently, and with little to no thought.

Like it was something that had been repeated to her for years.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Batman,” Dick said slowly. Whatever he saw on Bruce’s face must have shocked the anger out of him, because his hands were held up, palms out, as if wanting to placate him instead of rile him up. “I just meant that she isn’t as helpless as you made her out to be. Her fighting style was almost flawless.”

Yes. It was.

But it was all wrong.

The fight with Cordelia had been both eye-opening and disturbing. When Bruce first saw her attack, he’d expected her fighting style to be a near replica of Damian’s. They were both short and slim, after all, and Damian’s fighting style was the most effective and safe for people with builds similar to theirs.

Except, that hadn’t been the case.

Instead, Cordelia fought the way Batman fought: direct, brutal, and up close. Which meant that she had to find some way to make up for her lack of height and strength — and her way to do that had been to not waste time by aiming directly toward the most breakable parts of the body.

Bruce had spent the better part of that fight blocking hits that would have taken him down for weeks if they’d landed. Some of them could have even killed him.

If Cordelia had been anyone else, Bruce would have assumed that she was being brutal for the sake of pleasure. But any suspicion he might have started to develop disappeared the moment he pinned her to the ground.

Her frightened screams told him all he needed to know: Cordelia was terrified of pain.

She’d wanted to take him down quickly so that he didn’t have an opportunity to throw his own punches.

Bruce grimaced. Her wrists had felt so small in his hands. Her back had felt so skinny beneath his knee.

But, even then, she should have been able to get out of that pin.

The pin had been a simple one. He hadn’t had time — or energy so soon after the fight — to perform a more complex one.

Any of his children would have scoffed at it and kicked him off. Dick, at nine years-old, would have been able to easily throw Bruce off of his back the moment he felt his knee press into him.

The fact that Cordelia had only struggled and cried, and the fact that she was using a fighting style so clearly unfit for her, made Bruce realize that….

His father hadn’t trained her at all.

Alfred had told Bruce enough about Cordelia’s experience with Batman for him to know what kind of trauma she’d faced on the training mat. His father had used that time as an opportunity to brutalize her. But, secretly, Bruce had hoped that she was also learning something during those times — similar to how David Cain had taught Cass how to fight in between abusing her.

Tonight showed Bruce that his father had not been as… productive as Cain.

He’d simply brought her to the training mat and beat her.

That’s why her fighting style was so reminiscent of Batman: she was mimicking the style that was used on her most often.

Her fighting style wasn’t learned. It was born from survival.

And if that wasn’t bad enough — his father hadn’t even bothered to teach her how to get out of simple pins. 

Bruce’s mind raced with all the ways she could get hurt in the field. All the ways that gap in her knowledge could end up with her getting killed or —

“Batman,” Dick said, unknowingly yanking Bruce away from his own internal spiral. His eyes were direct as he continued: “I know losing your second Robin affected you. But you can’t punish your sister for something that happened years ago to someone else. I’ve only spent a couple of hours with her and I already know that there’s nothing she wants more than to be Batgirl. And now I know she’s capable. Holding her back is only going to make it harder for her to trust you.”

Bruce shook his head, frustrated. “What she wants and what she needs are two separate things, Nightwing. I’m not going to give her a cowl just because she asked for one after seeing her break down in the BatCave twice.”

“That’s not a good reason,” Dick shrugged. “Which of us hasn’t had a mental breakdown? It’s basically a rite of passage in this family.”

Bruce grunted. Dick was not going to let this go. “She’s too scared of getting hurt to train with you.”

Dick moved his head as if he were rolling his eyes. “I’m not going to hurt your little sister, B. I have sparred with people without hurting them, you know.”

“I’m not scared of you hurting her,” Bruce said, and meant it. He could still feel how tender his ribs were. “I’m scared about her hurting you.”

“I doubt she’d hurt me,” Dick said. “The way she looks at me….”

Yes. Bruce saw the way she looked at Dick. Like he was a celebrity movie star.

Meanwhile, she looked at Bruce like he was the monster that crawled out from under people’s beds at night.

But that didn’t change the fact that Cordelia’s fear of getting hurt made her dangerous. Her fighting style was too instinctual and reckless; and, mentally, she would be too focused on keeping herself safe to consider holding back.

“I would have thought the same thing,” Bruce said bitterly. “Until I saw her bite Penny-One. Twice.”

This surprised Dick. “Really? But they seemed so close.”

“They are,” Bruce said flatly.

Alfred would have never promised to leave Bruce and take Cordelia away if they hadn’t been close. The hurt at that realization still rubbed Bruce the wrong way. More than feeling… abandoned by the closest thing he had to a father since Thomas Wayne, he felt a deep-rooted fear of that actually happening.

Of having to live in Wayne Manor all alone.

Bruce looked down at his son, who was taking a while to process this information.

It had only taken Dick a few short years to pack his things and leave the manor forever. He’d soared since then, but Bruce still….

Still missed him. Sometimes. When the manor became too much of a dark place.

When the bats in the BatCave stopped feeling familiar and started to feel haunting.

Bruce gave his son another once-over. It had been hard to see injuries while they’d been fighting; and it had been especially hard to see him through all the rain. But the rain was not so heavy anymore and Dick was only standing a few feet in front of him.

His earlier assessment had been correct. Dick was okay. But, oddly, the silver cuff around his wrist was still glinting from the dim streetlights.

“Why haven’t you taken that off yet?” Bruce asked. 

As he spoke, he dug into his utility belt for the tools necessary to release his son from the cuff.

“I forgot to ask Commissioner Gordon,” Dick looked briefly surprised by the abrupt change in subject. But, after a moment of hesitation, he shrugged and held out his wrist for Bruce to take. “I tried to ask some of his men for help, but they just laughed and took a picture.”

Bruce pressed his lips together. “We’ll delete them.”

“The pictures or the men?” Dick asked with a half-hearted smile.

Bruce hummed. He heard something click in the cuff, and then the metal fell apart between them.

Dick was rubbing his wrist. “Serves me right. I should have known better than to hug a W — someone with your genes so many times in one day. Your type seems to react to affection differently than us normals.”

Bruce had no clue what he was talking about, but Dick appeared no longer angry with him, so he didn’t say anything to interrupt his senseless monologue.

“You know, it’s kind of funny when you think about it,” Dick went on. He flicked a small piece of metal off his wrist bone and flexed his hand. “You and your sister are so different, but you love the same. Overprotective behavior and all. Although, no offense, it’s cuter with her. Like a fluffy little puppy trying to be Cerberus.”

Bruce thought that the puppy would be a lot cuter if she stopped trying to chew through her leash. He put his tools back in his utility belt and started walking back to the car.

“Aren’t we going to check the factory?” Dick asked.

Bruce gave him a look over his shoulder. “With all the noise, the Joker wouldn’t have been able to resist joining the fray.”

“Good point. But I —“

Their comms crackled to life. Once again, both vigilantes stood tall.

“If you two are done not investigating the locations I sent to you,” Barbara began, “then I have some news for you: another Joker attack. In the Diamond District. You need to drive fast.”

Bruce and Dick were already in the car and speeding out of the parking lot before she could finish.

Gothamites littered the streets between the shoe factory and the Diamond District, but Bruce knew the streets of Gotham so well that any time he was confronted with traffic or a block party, he had an alternative road he could whip the BatMobile through.

The Diamond District was not as vacant as the rest of the towns that were under attack, but it was still on the borders of Gotham, near the water.

Bruce grit his teeth. It was becoming more and more obvious that the Joker was hiding out at the center of the city — and that these distractions needed to be dealt with in a more remote way so that he and Dick could deal with the real problem.

But, for now, people were dying.

The Diamond District was on fire.

Every building they passed was emitting terrible smoke. Some of the windows were wide open, letting the flames lick at the air and the brick, darkening it and causing a horrible smell to fill their nostrils.

Firefighters would be arriving soon — but, by then, it would be too late.

Dick jumped out of the BatMobile, not waiting for Bruce to find a place to park. 

Bruce appreciated this. He would have told him to jump out anyway.

Joker’s men were everywhere. Their masks were charred black, but the bloody grin on each of them was stark in the night. People were screaming; men, women, children — even dogs were barking in fear.

Bruce slammed on the breaks of his car, abandoning the idea of hiding it, and jumped into the fight.

The energy instantly changed once he did.

After many years of being the Batman, Bruce had been able to cultivate a careful reputation amongst the people of Gotham. For some, he was a beacon of hope. They did not focus on his brutality, but his keen intelligence and his ability to always outwit his opponents. For others, he was a vision of terror. They did focus on his brutality — and it made them second guess the things that they planned on doing.

As Bruce began to fight, he could see both reactions.

The civilians cried with relief. And the criminals started to back away.

But fear did not always make the criminals give up instantly. Sometimes, it made them even more volatile. Which was why he was not surprised to see their guns turn on him.

He could hear gunshots ring out. These sounds didn’t scare him anymore.

Bruce was by no means bullet proof, but he made sure that his uniform was as close to bullet proof as possible. His kevlar ensured that most guns would not be able to do any real damage on him — most of the bullets would either embed into the fabric or ricochet off of him.

It still hurt. But Bruce was used to pain.

He wasn’t scared of it.

It took thirty-seven minutes since Dick jumped out of the BatMobile for the firefighters to arrive. It took another three for the GCPD to arrive.

That was the point when the tides began to turn. The Joker’s henchmen were losing their upper hand as, altogether, the vigilantes and the firefighters and the GCPD were able to calm the fires, help the civilians escape, and take down much of the Joker’s men.

Bruce was just pushing a small girl out of the way of a stray bullet when he wished, not for the first time, that his city could do better. And just after he handed the girl off to her crying father, he heard — for the third time that night — his comm link crackle to life.

“Batman, I have news that you might not like,” Barbara said.

His aching muscles stiffened. “What is it.”

“I was checking the historical footage to see if I was missing something with the Joker, when I saw a girl fighting two men in an alley,” Barbara said. “The girl’s moves were too practiced for her to be an amateur, so I followed my hunch and hacked into the cameras you have surrounding your house. 

"That girl was your sister, Batman. It looks like she snuck out with one of Tim’s bikes.”

Bruce’s mind was whirling.

She’d… left?

But she could barely move when he last saw her. She could barely look at him.

“Are you sure?” Bruce had to ask.

“Unless you have another five foot two, black-haired girl hiding in your house,” Barbara said, “then I’m pretty sure. A word of advice from a former teenage girl: yelling at them never works. It just makes them sneakier.”

Bruce was barely listening. He kept going back to that moment he decided to leave Cordelia in the BatCave with Alfred — he’d left because he hadn’t wanted to see what he’d done to her, but also because he was sure that his goal had been reached: Cordelia would not sneak out.

Had he terrified her for no reason?

“It couldn’t be her,” Bruce denied. “You’re mistaken. Penny-One would have said something.”

There was a tense pause, and then, “Yeah. I thought that, too. So I tried to call him.”

Bruce did not like where this was heading. Several possibilities swirled in his mind; and then the memory of seeing his sister tear into Alfred’s hands with her teeth; and then worry knowing that she was physically capable of causing Alfred so much more pain.

“He isn’t picking up my calls, Batman,” Barbara said. Her voice filter didn’t allow her to reveal much emotion, but Bruce knew her well enough to know that she was worried, too. “I think she might have done something to him.”

It took a while for that to sink in: the knowledge that someone he’d brought into his home had hurt Alfred.

But when it did sink in….

Bruce looked around himself. Things were beginning to calm down now that the firefighters and GCPD had joined the fight. The fires were beginning to settle; there were less screams and less gunshots. But there was still a lot of work to do and — even worse — the Joker had yet to make an appearance.

Bruce should not abandon these people. He should not pause the mission. But —

“Where is she right now?” Bruce asked, low and angry.

“I don’t know,” Barbara said.

Bruce growled. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean that she hasn’t been seen on a camera for the past two hours,” Barbara explained. “All I know is that she jumped into the back of an unmarked semi truck, and that the semi truck drove into one of our blind spots near the Harbor.”

Two hours. She’d been missing for two hours.

Whatever she’d done to Alfred made sure that he wasn’t able to contact Bruce for more than two hours.

Bruce clicked his comm, making sure that his son could hear him, “Nightwing.”

“I heard everything, B,” Dick said immediately. He sounded disturbed. “Take the BatMobile. I’ll finish up here and find my own way home.”

Bruce hummed shortly, then said, “Oracle. Send me the exact location my sister was last seen.”

“You got it, Batman,” Barbara said. “Keep us posted on Penny-One.”

Bruce ignored her and clicked his comm off.

He could feel his anger and frustration and exhaustion build with every step he took away from his work and toward his BatMobile. Cordelia had gone too far this time. Fighting Bruce was one thing — turning on Alfred, hurting Alfred, was too far.

She had to go. Bruce had to send her to boarding school.

After what happened today, Alfred would understand.

Bruce wrenched the door to his BatMobile open, got inside, and slammed the door behind him.

It had been fine when Bruce was the only target for her fear and anger — fine, even, when her fear had caused her to hold Dick back in the field. He did not like it, but he knew that they were both able to get through it for her sake.

But Alfred couldn’t defend himself against someone like her.

Alfred shouldn’t have to defend himself against someone like her.

Wayne Manor was supposed to be his home. A place where he could be safe from all the craziness of Gotham.

And it had been. Until Bruce had left him with Cordelia.

The GPS on his dashboard lit up. A blinking light showed Bruce where his sister was last seen on Oracle’s street cameras.

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

Cordelia had chosen a dangerous place to run away to. Every structure built on that side of the Harbor was flooded and unstable and molded from lack of maintenance. It made no sense to Bruce why she’d want to visit a place like that — unless she knew that all the cameras on that side of Gotham were broken.

He brought his gloved hand to the gear, but hesitated.

Who should he check on first?

On one hand, he knew that something was wrong with Alfred. The old and reliable butler would not be so silent otherwise. But…

That area of Gotham was extremely dangerous.

Not even the criminals or the homeless liked to go over there in fear that the ground would break apart under them and sink.

With great reluctance, Bruce pressed his comm link again to speak with Barbara.

“Was she wearing a uniform?” Bruce asked.

Barbara seemed to know what he was really asking. “No. Just a jacket and a motorcycle helmet.”

He pressed his lips together.

So he hadn’t scared her into staying home. He’d simply scared her away from wearing a uniform.

Now she was in Gotham. Unprotected.

“You’re wondering who you should check on first,” Barbara surmised.

Bruce grunted.

“Well, from the file you created on her and the video footage I’ve watched,” Barbara said. “I don’t think she would do anything to seriously hurt Penny-One. He should be fine, Batman.”

“You don’t know that,” Bruce snapped. “He could be needing my help right now.”

“You’re not the only one who cares about Penny-One, Batman, but I’m trying to be sensible. Your sister hasn’t been seen in two hours after jumping into the back of a mysterious truck. She could be in serious trouble right now and, legally, she is the one that you decided to be responsible for.”

Bruce closed his eyes and swore.

The decision was not that easy.

Alfred had taken care of him since he was a boy. And now, because Bruce hadn’t went with his gut and sent Cordelia away, he could be in trouble.

What if, by choosing Cordelia again, he put Alfred in danger again?

“I’m contacting Leslie Thompkins,” Barbara decided abruptly. “I’ll have her drive to Wayne Manor. If something is wrong with Penny-One, then she will be the best person to find him.”

Bruce opened his eyes.

Yes.

That was a good idea.

One he should have thought of immediately.

“Good work, Oracle,” Bruce said.

“Your approval is appreciated but unnecessary,” Barbara responded readily. “Go save your sister, Batman.”

This time, it was Barbara who shut off the link between their comms.

Bruce put the BatMobile into drive and took off at break-neck speed. The city became a blur around him as his eyes stayed trained on the road ahead. Cars honked at him as he swerved around them, too quick for them to realize that it was the BatMobile and that he was Batman.

If they had little sisters who kept putting themselves into danger, then they would understand.

Bruce did not pause or slow down the entire way there, treating stop signs and traffic lights like suggestions rather than rules. Later, he would likely get a lecture from Commissioner Gordon about his reckless driving, but right now all he could think was: make sure Cordelia is okay and then ground her for the rest of her life.

There would be no in-between. This time, he would not cave the second he saw her tears.

Because, sometimes, being a parent required being the bad guy.

Bruce made it to the Harbor in under five minutes. The moment he saw the water rippling against the rain drops, he slammed his foot on the breaks and let his car drift into the empty area beside the railing before stopping completely.

He wasted no time in stepping out of the BatMobile and looking around.

The area looked just as abandoned as it had been when he first started to map out all of Gotham. There were only three major structures still standing: a half-made parking garage, a broken boating ramp, and an underground tunnel that led to a large storage unit.

Everything else was empty, dark, and damp.

Bruce touched the comm link at his ear and said, “You said that my sister hasn’t been seen on camera. What about the unmarked semi truck?”

“The truck hasn’t been seen, either,” Barbara said. “Your sister is most likely near it or in it.”

The sound of typing filled his ears — and then he saw a light blue ripple of blue over the lens of his cowl.

Barbara had hacked into his uniform’s eye cameras.

“Oh God,” she murmured, noting the emptiness and (more importantly) the lack of any visible semi trucks. “Tell me she didn’t go underground.”

Bruce couldn’t tell her that. Because the only place where an entire semi truck could hide would be in the underground storage unit.

“Your sister really has a knack for finding trouble,” Barbara said.

He hummed as he walked toward the old tunnel that led underground.

Years ago, the storage unit had been owned by a boating company. The company had been successful by Gotham’s standards, up until the lack of maintenance made to the tunnel caused it to be filled with leaks and mold. Eventually, the mold made the air in the storage unit too toxic for the workers to breathe — not that the company heads cared.

It wasn’t until the workers began to drop dead that the very few Gothamite activists began to campaign to get the place shut down.

With Bruce’s money and support (and a few threats from Batman himself), the campaign worked.

The storage unit was abandoned and, with no one around to take care of it, it eventually became too unstable to step into at all.

It was only a matter of time before the thing collapsed under the weight of the Harbor.

If Cordelia was down there, then she was going to be in even bigger trouble than she already was.

At least when Damian ran away, he ran away to nice, clean skyscrapers and surrounded himself with other young heroes. He didn’t find the dirtiest place in Gotham and squatted there.

Bruce was just about to step into the tunnel to find his sister and drag her out of there, when Barbara spoke up, “Batman, I think your sister found the Joker.”

Bruce was going to need an aspirin.

“You ‘think’ or you ‘know?’” He asked.

“I’m almost positive,” Barbara said. “I was trying to figure out why she jumped into the back of that semi truck when she already had a motorcycle. Then I noticed that Gotham is filled with identical unmarked semi trucks that are just… driving around aimlessly. At least, that’s what it looked like at first. But there’s a pattern: every thirty minutes, one of those trucks drives toward the Harbor. I think your sister noticed something odd about the trucks before I did and went to investigate.

“Batman… she’s not running away or being mindlessly reckless. She’s being Batgirl.”

Bruce was standing at the edge of the tunnel, staring down into the murky darkness of it. Barbara was clearly impressed, but….

Bruce could not be.

Because this was not some amateur case that he’d let any of his children take on to show him what they could do.

This was the Joker.

Cordelia had gone after the Joker. Alone.

And she wasn’t wearing an armored uniform.

“You said she’d been missing for two hours?” Bruce asked.

He could hear the hollowness of his own voice as it echoed through the tunnel and back toward him.

Bruce stared into the darkness. It felt like he was staring into a memory.

“…Yes,” Barbara said. This time, she spoke more hesitantly, so unused to hearing Bruce like that. “She should be fine, Batman. You said that she’s been Batgirl since she was nine years-old. She’s probably laying low, gathering intel, being smart…. Do you need backup?”

Bruce felt himself stepping forward into the tunnel. His heavy boots sunk into a murky puddle.

“…Batman?”

His throat was dry. But he swallowed and said, “No. This storage unit is too unstable for a large fight.”

He took a few more steps in. The silence around him felt like a bad omen.

“Oracle,” he said quietly.

“Yes, Batman?”

“Tell Leslie to have the medical equipment ready.”

“You got it.”

He walked through the quiet tunnel and counted each step forward.

He felt drained, but he didn’t have the luxury of feeling drained. If Barbara’s suspicions were true, and Cordelia did find the Joker, then she would need Bruce to be at the top of his game.

If Barbara’s suspicions weren’t true, and Cordelia was simply hiding away, then Cordelia was going to be grounded for the rest of her life for putting him through all this stress.

Bruce was used to worrying about his children. They all had followed him into the vigilante life and, as a consequence, they had all faced life-threatening dangers. But not a single one of them walked around as if their lives and well-being didn’t matter to anyone.

Cordelia did.

Cordelia, out of all the children, needed the most guidance. 

Because, when he didn’t give it to her, she apparently decided that it was a good idea to follow the Joker into a tunnel with not a shred of armor on her body.

The tunnel floor became covered with mud and fuzzy black patches of mold.

Bruce hoped she was at least wearing thick boots that would keep that mold away from her skin.

But he doubted it. Because Cordelia needed to be told to eat three times a day; she needed to be told not to jump into the back of a stranger’s car; she needed to be told to wear a jacket when it rained.

Cordelia needed him. Back in the BatCave. And he’d turned his back on her.

“Batman,” Barbara said in his ear. “Your heart rate is spiking.”

He hated when she hacked his suit vitals.

“You’re thinking the worst,” she continued. “But there’s no need to. You’re forgetting that she’s Batgirl.”

“She’s fifteen.”

His own voice surprised him. It was gruff with emotion. Memories of another fifteen year-old he failed filled his vision as he continued to step forward.

“She’s Batgirl. We’re not so helpless. And if you don’t believe me, I can easily show you the footage of her kicking your ass in the BatCave.”

Bruce could see a light up ahead. This all but confirmed their suspicions — but if they still had any doubt, the Joker’s maniacal laugh started to echo as it bounced off the walls.

He felt a pit form in his stomach.

The Joker laughed like that after he’d murdered someone.

“She cries when I don’t spend enough time with her,” Bruce said.

The emptiness in his voice made Barbara hesitate. “I… I didn’t know that, Batman. But you’re getting ahead of yourself. Don’t go into this situation thinking the worst.”

Barbara was right. He knew that.

There were multiple possibilities, and he was letting his past experience erase the rest.

Cordelia could be fine. She could be within that storage unit hiding and waiting for a chance to escape. She could be trying to discreetly put a stop to Joker’s plans.

There was even the possibility that she wasn’t in the storage unit at all. Maybe she’d jumped out of the semi truck before it rolled through the tunnel and was now camping out near the Harbor.

But something in his gut was telling him that none of this was true.

The Joker laughed again, mocking Bruce without even realizing it.

The tunnel was coming to an end. Up ahead, he could see the inside of the storage unit. It held rows upon rows of crates made of plain brown wood, and parked near them were a few white semi trucks.

“Those are the ones,” Barbara said into the comm.

Bruce stood at the entrance of the storage unit in plain sight. The henchmen had not noticed him yet, but Bruce was not worried about them. His eyes travelled around the room, searching for ink black hair and ice blue eyes.

He did not see a trace of it.

But what he did see was green.

Green hair and a white face and a bleeding red smile.

A smile that was slowly turning into a shocked O. “Batman?”

Bruce charged forward.

Predictably, the henchmen resorted to trying to shoot him. But Bruce had been expecting that. He threw his batarangs out toward them, cutting fingers and causing several guns to fall into the muddy floors. The bullets he could not dodge were unable to penetrate his thick kevlar body armor and cape.

The Joker was retreating to the back of the bunker.

Bruce took his time.

Henchmen were getting in his way, carrying heavy guns that were easily ripped from their hands and thrown across the room. He felt a nose crunch underneath his fist when he struck out. And then, when two henchmen tried to jump him, he picked them both up by their necks and slammed their skulls together.

It was as if all the anger that he’d had to suppress for the past month was finally escaping him in one violent, furious wave. Bruce was leaving broken, bleeding bodies in his wake as he travelled across the room to that laughing — disgusting — face.

And when he finally reached it….

He blacked out.

Bruce only became aware of his surroundings when he heard Barbara’s usually calm voice screaming at him from inside the comms.

“Batman! You’re killing him!”

He blinked the red away. 

Bruce had the Joker by the throat with one hand. His other hand was raised behind him, ready to land another punch onto that still-cackling face that did not seem to care that its nose and cheekbones were shattered.

“We need answers from him, Batman,” Barbara said firmly. “Look at his hand.”

It took everything — everything — in Bruce to pause long enough to look down at Joker’s hands, which were gripping the glove at his throat. 

Someone had bitten him.

The teeth marks were the exact same ones that had been left on Alfred’s hands and Bruce’s wrists.

The Joker followed his line of sight and started to giggle. “Ooh, look Batsy! We’re matching!”

He put his bleeding bite mark next to Bruce’s wrist like he was showing off matching friendship bracelets.

Bruce squeezed his fist around his throat and felt no small amount of satisfaction watching the Arkham patient choke.

“Batman,” Barbara said.

Bruce hadn’t planned on choking him to death, but he knew that Barbara was worried he’d be tempted to — so he released the Joker and watched the thin man stumble away.

“Where is she?” Bruce said quietly.

His throat felt raw, as if he’d been screaming.

“Hmm,” the Joker tapped his pointed chin thoughtfully. “Who?”

He was still stumbling backwards, both his hands out in front of him as he tried to put distance between himself and Bruce by circling around an old wooden table. But Bruce was not concerned about the Joker getting away. The only exit in the bunker was the tunnel — and Bruce would not let the Joker get that far.

“The girl who bit you,” Bruce snapped.

The Joker giggled again. “Oh, Batman, are you planning on getting revenge for me? My hero!”

Bruce, impatient, grabbed the wooden table and shoved it away. It skidded across the stone floor before slamming against the wall. But neither man paid it any attention — the Joker was too busy getting lifted in the air by his throat.

“Ack!” Joker choked. “Getting — rough — Batsy. You know just the — ack — way I like it!”

Bruce hated him.

He hated him so much that the vow he made all those years ago became harder and harder to keep every time this insane piece of filth escaped Arkham.

“WHERE IS SHE?” Bruce snarled.

“I — ” 

Joker was struggling to breathe. Bruce knew he had to let him go, but his little sister was missing and his son had died and his friend’s daughter was paralyzed for life and he had the person responsible right there in his hand. 

“Batman,” Barbara said. “I understand. But let him go.”

He had to let him go.

He really, really had to let him go.

“Your sister is missing. Let him go.”

Bruce let him go.

This time, Joker was too weak to hold himself up. He crumpled to the floor with his hand at his throat. For a moment, he wasn’t laughing — but that was just for a moment.

“Batsy, I’m shocked!” Joker said with glee. “If I’d known you cared so much about that little brat, I would have made her beating last longer! Haha!”

Bruce’s fists were clenched beside him, but he didn’t rise to the bait. 

The Joker and Cordelia had crossed paths. The Joker was bleeding, but fine. Cordelia had been hit, and was missing.

He’d gotten some answers. He needed more.

“It’s over, Joker,” Bruce said in his Batman growl. “You’re caught. Now tell me where she is.”

The Joker turned his head to spit out some blood. When he looked back up at Bruce, he was chuckling deeply, his voice rough from getting strangled. “Would you believe me if I told you that I didn’t know? Or would you think I was telling you a joke?”

Bruce looked between the Joker’s insane eyes.

He spent a good part of his career as Batman trying to understand his rogues and the criminals that littered the streets of Gotham. He created files upon files of information on each of them. The Joker must have had over thirty files by now.

So, sometimes, when he looked into the Joker’s eyes. He could see what he was truly feeling under all that insanity. And, at that moment, the Joker looked… honest.

“She’s — alive?” Bruce said.

He wished he didn’t sound so rough and unsure. But if the Joker really didn’t know where Cordelia was, then there was a chance that she’d managed to escape.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Bruce’s obvious distress was causing Joker’s smile to become impossibly wide. “She looked pretty dead to me!”

“Oh, Batman….” Barbara’s voice was filled with the sadness that Bruce could not express.

“Especially after that last hit,” Joker said proudly. “It got a little boring after she stopped responding. But watching her lips turn blue was the bomb on top of the ice cream cake!”

Bruce’s insides felt hollow. There was an ache in his chest that felt both familiar and out of place.

He stepped away from the Joker and his mocking laugh.

Oh God.

Oh God.

Cordelia was dead.

His hands were shaking at his sides.

Just a few hours ago, he’d told her that he wanted her to be happy and she’d practically glowed with joy at those words.

Just a few hours ago, he’d pinned her to the ground and ignored her screams of terror.

“You should have seen her, Batman!” The Joker was buzzing with excitement, now deliciously aware of the pain he’d caused. “She came waltzing in here with no armor and called herself Batgirl! Haha! Honestly, Batsy, if you really cared about her, you would have at least given her a better uniform. It was almost like you wanted me to kill her.”

Bruce’s chest was rising and falling heavily.

The Joker was right.

He looked down at his fists and recalled how one of them had shot forward and punched the wall next to Cordelia’s face. She’d looked so defeated when he let her go. She hadn’t even lifted her head to watch him leave.

“This is my fault,” Bruce whispered.

“I’ll say!” Joker agreed.

“Batman, don’t listen to him,” Barbara urged. “He’s a disgusting, evil psychopath.”

Bruce lifted his head to stare down at the clown. The Joker was now sitting cross-legged in front of him with his head tilted to the side, intrigued as if waiting to see what Bruce would do next.

Bruce did not know what he was going to do next.

Barbara spoke. She seemed like the only person left with a shred of sanity to her. “Batman, you have to handcuff him and then look for your sister. She’s still somewhere in that storage unit.”

He followed her instructions jerkily.

The Joker tried to put up a fight, tried to escape, but any restraint Bruce had before was all gone. In three short seconds, the Joker was left unconscious and handcuffed on the ground with blood trailing down the side of his mouth and onto the floor.

Bruce looked around, trying to sink into his detective persona and far away from the part of him that was a brother and a father.

It hurt like trying to tear a limb from his body.

He’d only been a brother for a month. Would that feeling end so soon? Right when it was beginning to feel like as much a part of him as Batman and Father?

Bruce had barely let himself enjoy it. He’d been too focused on how Cordelia had changed the way he viewed Thomas Wayne — how Cordelia had changed the way he viewed himself.

He shouldn’t have focused so much on trying to erase that trauma. He should have tried to get to know her as she was.

Clearly, who she was had been enough to make Alfred fall in love with her.

Oh God. What was he going to tell Alfred?

“Batman, there’s blood on the floor,” Barbara said, still looking through his cowl cameras. “It looks new.”

Bruce blinked away his own horror to see what Barbara was seeing. There was blood on the floor.

He walked over and leaned down to touch it. The red smeared on his gloved fingers, letting him know that it was only a few hours old.

Bruce looked around the area and almost threw up.

There was a crowbar lying next to the blood.

He picked it up before getting to his feet. The blood was mostly in front of him, but he could see a lighter trail leading away from it.

Cordelia had crawled away.

He followed the trail to the rows of crates before it disappeared amongst the mud and the mold. He kept walking, letting his feet splash now that anyone who might try and shoot at him were either unconscious or had run away.

He didn’t stop walking until he made it to the fourth row.

There was a body lying at the foot of one of the crates. 

It was small and slim, and mostly submerged in a large leather jacket that he recognized as Jason’s.

Bruce could not feel anything.

He couldn’t even feel his feet move the rest of the way toward Cordelia’s still form. But he knew that he must have been moving because, eventually, he was standing over her and staring down.

He stood over her like this not so long ago. She’d been pale and scared back then. And he’d thought… she was scared, but she would listen. That’s what was most important. And then he’d left, even though Alfred had told him that he should stay.

And now he was facing the direct consequences of his actions.

Cordelia’s face and neck were covered almost completely in dried dirt and blood. There was a deep gash in her cheek and her bottom lip was split open. 

She was wearing a broken domino mask.

Bruce dropped to his knees beside her, letting go of the crowbar. The mud splashed to his thighs and dirtied his cape.

Again, he moved without really feeling as he reached down and pressed his fingers against her neck. 

He closed his eyes and waited.

Soft, steady heartbeats met his fingertips like gentle assurances that his little sister was alive.

Bruce broke down in tears. No one would ever see them from beyond his mask, but they flooded the inside of his lens and left his vision blurry as he leaned forward and carefully gathered Cordelia in his arms.

His heart broke at how limp and broken she felt.

The Cordelia of just a few hours ago would have tensed up if he tried to hold her like this, but the Cordelia in front of him let her head fall back until he caught it.

Bruce positioned her with great care, letting her cheek rest against his armored chest and her back against his arm. With his other hand, he pulled a sanitary wipe from his utility belt and began to clean the skin of her face with it.

The blood and dirt came away from her cheek easily, revealing her alarmingly pale complexion underneath.

He was on his third wipe when Cordelia started to wake up.

A pained moan left her white, still bleeding lips.

“Sssh,” Bruce shushed — even though, internally, he was very happy to hear something from her. “You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”

Through the cracked lens of her domino mask, he could see her eyes flutter open.

Familiar ice blue gazed up at him confusedly.

“Bat…man…?” She whispered.

Bruce couldn’t help it. The sound of her voice, the fact that she was speaking, the knowledge that she would be okay, filled him with so much love and affection that he leaned down to kiss her forehead.

“…Bruce…” Cordelia said, and this time she did not sound as on edge.

“You’re okay,” Bruce said again. “I’m taking you home.”

He stuffed the dirty wipes into his utility belt, not wanting to leave anymore of her DNA around for someone to find, and lifted the rest of her up into his arms.

Cordelia gasped weakly at being moved, her fists clenched where they lied on her stomach.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said. 

He could not hide the urgency from his voice. Cordelia was crying again.

“Where does it hurt?” He asked.

“Ev… every… where,” she forced out.

Bruce felt like he’d been punched in the face again.

“I’m going to make this better,” he promised. “You’re safe now.”

She blinked up at him, nowhere near as comforted by his words as any of his children would have been. “You… have to… leave me.”

“No,” Bruce said immediately.

She was delirious. He had to get her to Leslie.

Bruce was slow as he stood up, trying not to move her as much as possible.

When she spoke again, it was through gritted teeth: “Bomb.”

Bruce would have jolted if he wasn’t trying so hard to stay still. “What?”

“I… set off… a bomb.”

She was glaring up at him with the effort it took to speak. The determination in her eyes was the only reason why Bruce was taking anything she was muttering at the moment seriously. “Where?”

Cordelia lifted one shaky hand enough to point at the crate she’d been lying next to.

Bruce hadn’t noticed it before, too busy worrying that he might have caused his only sister’s death, but the top of the crate was cracked open slightly. With no small amount of dread, he walked toward it and peeked inside.

There was a bomb in there. And it was ticking.

“Three… minutes….” Cordelia murmured, her eyes gaze from pain. “I… will slow… you down.”

Three minutes.

Bruce glanced over his shoulder to where he left the Joker, but the crazed clown was not where he’d left him. 

He’d run.

And now it was Bruce’s turn to run.

Cordelia let out a pained sound as he tightened his hold around her body and took off toward the exit. 

The tunnel was a long one — which was probably why Cordelia thought he’d actually leave her behind. Even without having the extra weight, it would be a close call whether he got out of this alive or not.

But Bruce wouldn’t have left her behind even if they only had one minute left.

“Batman,” Barbara said into the comm.

“Not now,” Bruce growled, and felt Cordelia’s entire body flinch in his arms.

The mud at his feet was making the fabric of his armor and cape heavy, dragging him backwards. Even worse, he was exhausted. The fight with Cordelia had taken a lot out of him — and so had all the fights in the Diamond District and then again inside this storage unit.

His muscles were now depending entirely on the adrenaline in his body. 

“I did the math,” Barbara continued without hesitation. “The explosion is going to hit you.”

A scream of rage left him. It would not. It could not.

His sister would not die in an explosion, bloodied and broken from a crowbar that some psychopathic clown had slammed against her body.

Bruce sped up his pace, trying desperately to ignore the quick pants of pain and fear leaving Cordelia’s lips.

“Your sister doesn’t have armor,” Barbara said hurriedly, as if she were ripping a band-aid off. “She won’t survive it. You might.”

Bruce could barely comprehend what he was hearing. 

His heavy footsteps echoed around the walls of the tunnels like death tolls. His sister’s hands were still clenched over her belly, her face white in the darkness as she stared up at him, afraid.

He couldn’t leave her.

He needed to see her grow up. Needed to see what she could be when fear wasn’t dragging her down.

Needed to bring her back to Alfred, who loved her so much he would have left everything he knew behind just to make her happy.

“I won’t leave her,” Bruce snarled, and hoped that Barbara could hear all the contempt he felt toward her for suggesting it.

“Bruce, she needs armor,” Barbara said, with a hint of desperation. “Wrap her in your cape.”

His cape. His thick, kevlar cape.

Bruce could see the night sky up ahead.

He could hear an explosion behind him.

He could hear the sound of cement cracking and the sound of water caving into a mostly hollow room.

Cordelia must have heard it, too. Her entire body lurched upward so that her face was pressed against his neck and her fingers latched onto the cape at his back. Her body was vibrating with pure, cold terror.

She was no longer asking to be left behind.

Bruce had no time left.

He grabbed her fingers and pried them off of his cape, trying to ignore the look of absolute fear she sent him for doing that, and quickly swiped the cape from off his shoulders.

His foot hit the pavement outside the tunnel. In one movement, he was able to completely enclose Cordelia in his cape.

And then —

The world disappeared around him.

Heat was at his back. The ground was gone from beneath him. He could see nothing but white flashes and red bursts of light that looked both all-consuming and entirely unreal.

For a moment, he had no clue where he was or why he was there.

All he did know for certain was that he was holding something very important in his arms and he could not let it go.

That was the only thing he could think. The only thing he could know. 

Until he felt something rip into his side and then slam into his back.

Bruce curled around the important thing in his arms, determined to keep it safe from the pain he was experiencing, as his body rolled over rough, jagged pavement.

“Batman! Batman!” Someone was screaming.

Bruce held on even tighter.

He did not have enough awareness to know how much time passed. He did not have enough awareness to know, even, that he’d stopped rolling.

Not until the flashes of light dimmed and let the night sky bleed through them.

Stars.

Millions of them.

Gotham didn’t usually have stars.

“Batman, please say something,” someone was crying in his ear.

More of his awareness came back to him slowly. There was a sharp object in his side, causing most of his pain, and he was also forming bruises all over his body and face.

But that wasn’t what was important.

Bruce groaned as he lifted his head to gaze down at the bundled form half on top of him and half beside him.

Distantly, he could hear Barbara saying, “thank God” at seeing him move.

But he ignored it. Because the bundle in his arms was not moving.

His hands were shaking as they reached down and lifted the thick, tattered fabric on his chest where he thought Cordelia’s head might be.

Two bright blue eyes blinked back at him from the darkness.

“Batgirl,” he choked, so relieved that he called her the only code name he could think of.

“Batman,” she said back.

For the very first time, she didn’t say that name with fear.

“You… saved me.”

Bruce nodded. He was finding it difficult to speak with the sharp object in his side, but he did not want to pass out while they were still in Gotham — while she was still in danger.

“You… almost died… saving me.”

That was the difference between her and Jason, Bruce supposed. Jason would have never said something like that. He knew — or, he used to know, that Bruce loved him.

The realization that Cordelia didn’t know that, that she would have died believing that no one cared about her, made his entire chest feel hollowed out.

What a failure he was.

“I love you,” Bruce said, somewhat sadly.

Her eyes widened. Ice blue shining out through the cracked lens of her domino mask.

She was so expressive. It was terrifying how loudly she projected her emotions. How her sadness and joy could blare out at him like a nonverbal scream.

But it was also precious.

He didn’t want that to go away. So many things in Gotham rotted from the inside out. His entire family was hardened; they had to be. They were humans fighting against supervillains. Their ability to hide their emotions was one of their biggest strengths.

This ability also made sure that the people closest to them were always kept at arm's length.

And the result… was this.

Cordelia’s eyes were searching his as they always did, trying to read his expression even though he preferred to keep what he felt hidden. But Cordelia would not be satisfied with just words.

She demanded so much from him.

Jason had once done the same.

But Bruce had so much darkness in him. He did not always want to show his family what he was thinking, because sometimes his thoughts were enough to horrify the entire hero community.

When Jason had been a teenager, it hadn’t been so bad. He hadn’t been as dark back then. But by the time Cordelia had arrived, Bruce had already experienced the death of a son, he’d experienced so much loss, and so much irreverence.

Perhaps that was why she was still so scared of him. She saw that he was hiding something dark, and she did not trust it.

She wouldn’t trust him until he was honest.

So he let his “mask,” as she called it, fall away.

Let her see his love for her, but also his regret and fear. 

His fear that he would not be good enough to raise her. His fear of what she was, of what her past meant for his future. Of losing her. Of losing himself.

Of everything.

Cordelia’s eyes widened further, reading what she could of his emotions and guessing at the rest.

Slowly, as if she wasn’t aware of it, her fingers peeked from the sleeves of her oversized jacket and held fast to his wrist, possessive. He’d seen the look she was giving him. It was the look she gave the family portraits she saw on the walls of the Manor.

It was the look she gave Dick.

Bruce recalled how that resulted in her handcuffing Dick to a car, and felt resigned to his fate.

“R… really?” She asked.

He nodded again. He felt the pain in his side spike.

“I drugged Alfred.”

Bruce frowned. “What.”

“Does that… change… things?”

So that was why Alfred hadn’t answered Barbara’s phone calls. His little sister had drugged his butler.

That was unsettling.

His children had never done something like that to Alfred before.

Cordelia’s face started to crack and crumble against his silence. Tears readily spilled through her mask, down her cheeks, and onto the armor at his chest.

He really hoped none of his children learned this unique form of manipulation.

“It doesn’t change things,” Bruce said. “But you’re grounded.”

“What… does that mean…?” Cordelia’s eyebrows crinkled in worry. “I’m getting… tied to the floor?”

Bruce really hated how he had to relearn parenting every time he took a child in. “Never mind.”

Her eyes were still on him, worried.

“I still love you,” Bruce said, just to be clear.

Cordelia’s responding smile was instant, if not shaky and pained.

“I… love you… too.”

Notes:

You guys are the absolute best 🙏 so I wanted to say thank you for your patience.

I took twice as long to write this chapter because it's twice as long as all the others 😭 and I really didn't want to cut this chapter in half.

Also: for those of you who read the What Was I Made For (Bruce's POV) story I wrote a few days ago, I promise I will post it again! I just wanted to edit it more before I took it off private 🥰

Chapter 45: Dr. Leslie Thompkins

Summary:

“I’m not taking those pills,” Cordelia said quietly.

“If you don’t, then you’re going to have a horrible healing process, Cordelia. Are you prepared for that?”

“Yes,” Cordelia said.

Dr. Thompkins was not pleased with her answer.

Notes:

TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of suicidal thoughts/behavior

The aftermath of the explosion was ringing in Cordelia’s ears.

Gotham wind whistled through the fallen debris, the tunnel was still cracking and crumbling behind her, fire was catching and growing on all sides, and the shockwaves of having an entire underwater bunk cave in was causing large waves to appear in the normally calm Harbor.

But Cordelia wasn’t paying attention to any of that.

Instead, she was focused on Bruce. His lips were bleeding from when she’d punched him and his cowl was torn from the explosion she’d caused. One of the BatEars had even broken clean off — something which likely happened while they were both rolling painfully over the pavement and toward steadier ground. But, most monumentally… he was an open book.

She felt like she could see everything that he was thinking. Not just the anger and not just the discomfort.

Everything.

From his frustration with her for sneaking out to his relief that they’d both made it out of the explosion alive. From his worry about her injuries to his pain over his own. From his concern upon discovering what she’d done to Alfred to his… his love for her.

And that was the most prominent emotion: love.

It shone through the cracked white lens of his eyes and softened the severe lines of his mouth. It hummed in his quiet acceptance of her using his chest as a very large pillow. It resonated in the way his hands shook as he kept his heavy cape from falling back over her head.

It almost made her breathless with joy to witness.

She could not believe that Bruce had been hiding this from her. All this time, she’d believed that there had been something dark and insidious waiting behind his mask — that all she’d needed to do was push him a bit for her father’s hatred to roar through.

But her father would have never ripped his armored cape off his shoulders to give the extra protection to his daughter.

Bruce had.

He’d seen the bomb’s timer counting down and hadn’t hesitated to bring her with him, not even after she gave him permission to leave her behind. And when he knew that their time was over, and had heard the world crack around them and the water and fire rushing to burn and drown them, he’d spent what could have been his very last moments trying to find a way for Cordelia to survive.

That was love. That was the ultimate form of love.

That was everything that Cordelia never had before, not even from her mother who had consistently put herself first.

It was something Cordelia was determined to have for the rest of her life.

Cordelia rested her chin on Bruce’s armored chest and continued to soak in his expression, not wanting to forget a single detail of it. 

The corner of Bruce’s lips quirked up. He moved the cape tighter around her shoulders as if it were a blanket and he was tucking her in.

“You can rest,” he said.

He was still using that new, gentle voice. The one that sounded less like their father and more like Alfred. 

It still rumbled, but in a natural way — not in the way that sounded like a predator growling from the darkness.

“Oracle sent Nightwing our location,” he explained. “He should be here any minute now to take us home.”

The idea of closing her eyes was very unpleasant. Things always seemed to change when the morning came. What if….

What if Bruce’s love was like her mothers? As beautiful and vibrant as the moon, but as inconsistent as a shooting star?

What if falling asleep meant missing the miracle?

“But I don’t… want this… to go away,” Cordelia admitted.

Every word came with a sharp stab of pain in her throat that felt less like she was recovering from strangulation and more like she’d spent the past hour swallowing a sword.

“It won’t go away,” he said, somehow understanding her words completely. He reached forward to smooth out the wrinkle forming between her eyebrows. “It’s always been there.”

“…Promise…?”

There was no hesitation before he nodded. “I promise.”

Cordelia still had a lot of questions, such as why he’d behaved so coldly towards her if he really had loved her all this time, but for now she was content. So with another smile, she hummed happily and laid her cheek on his chest, too exhausted to move away.

This turned out to be the right choice. Bruce’s chest moved up and down beneath her cheek, as steady and rhythmic as his breathing. His cape laid heavily on top of her, warming her chilled skin until she was no longer shivering. And his heartbeat thudding through his armor felt like a constant reminder that they were alive and that they’d survived.

Alive, alive, alive, it told her as her eyes drifted closed and she slowly sunk into a realm of dreams.

---

The world was splitting in half.

Cordelia could hear the earth crack beneath her and gravity shift around her.

The bats up above shrieked in terror, trying to fly away, but there was no escaping something like this. An apocalypse would take everything with it, from the meta humans who caused it to the rodents who had nothing to do with it.

And it would take Cordelia, too. Even though she didn’t want it to.

Another crack echoed around the empty Cave. But, this time, it was right in front of her. The earth opened up just a foot away from where she stood, shaking the ground and causing her to stumble closer to it. 

Fire and billowing black smoke rose out from the abyss. The stench choked her, making her throat flare up with pain.

Distantly, she could also hear the sound of water crashing against the stone walls that surrounded it.

It was always going to end like this, she knew: with fire and water. Wonder Woman’s righteous anger against Aquaman’s cold fury.

Vengeance poisoned everything.

Especially the heroes.

“Cordelia.”

She gasped at hearing someone speak. A memory tugged at her; the memory of someone dressed in red and yellow, offering their help. But when she turned around, it was Bruce who was reaching out.

“Bruce?” Cordelia said, confused. “You shouldn’t be here. Your time is somewhere else.”

“You shouldn’t be here, either,” Bruce said calmly.

Only Batman could be calm at the end of the world.

“Take my hand, Cordelia,” he said. “Alfred has tea waiting.”

Her eyebrows furrowed at this. Alfred was here, too? He couldn’t be — wasn’t he dead?

Weren’t her hands and knees still coated in his blood from when she’d crawled toward his still-warm body?

“Cordelia,” Bruce said, getting her attention. His jaw was clenched, the only sign that he was getting nervous. “Let me take you home.”

The fire from the pit licked at her heels. The black smoke curled around her wrists and ankles like chains. She was sure that she heard her father screaming at her to fall into the pit.

But… there was no reason to stay there, fighting for her life.

There was no reason to look back.

So Cordelia got up slowly, feeling the black smoke slip through her skin like useless shadows, and then ran into Bruce’s arms.

---

The first thing Cordelia noticed when she woke up was that she was no longer lying on armor or rough pavement. Instead, her back was sunken into a fuzzy fleece material and her head was lying on a thickly stuffed pillow. The second thing she noticed was that she was back in the Cave. Hundreds of bat eyes reflected light as they stared down at her, judging her for returning to a place she was neither welcome nor happy in.

And the third thing: that someone was walking near her.

Cordelia froze in alarm. Who —

“Ah, you’re awake,” an unfamiliar voice said.

Cordelia’s eyes snapped in their direction. The person who spoke was a woman around Alfred’s age, with spiky white hair and sharp, hawk-like features. She wore a long white coat, hinting at a profession in the health industry, and was holding a roll of thick white bandages.

“Who are you?” Cordelia demanded.

The old woman smiled a thin, professional smile as she approached the young girl, her heels clicking on the stone Cave floor. “My name is Dr. Leslie Thompkins. I’m here to treat your injuries.”

Well, at least she was forthcoming with information. Cordelia asked her second question: “Who sent you?”

Dr. Thompkins stopped walking next to Cordelia’s cot and began unrolling the bandages, as unintimidated by the young girl as a mountain lion to a kitten. “Bruce, of course. Now, I have to wrap this bandage around your leg, so if you would —“

“I’ll do it,” Cordelia said immediately, cringing away from the hand reaching toward her blankets. “Stay back.”

Dr. Thompkins paused in her movement, some emotion flitting across her old face. “Is there a problem?”

There was a problem. The last thing Cordelia remembered was falling asleep in the middle of Gotham next to Bruce — but now she was back in the Cave, the one place she never wanted to return to, with a stranger standing over her.

To make matters worse: Cordelia’s clothes had changed.

Jason’s jacket had been replaced by a white t-shirt; her torn athletic tights had been replaced by grey shorts.

“You undressed me,” Cordelia said, pulling her blanket up to her chin.

“I had to,” Dr. Thompkins said. “Your wounds were covered in mud when Richard brought you here. If I hadn’t cleaned them quickly, you would have a serious infection right now.”

This made sense. It’s what Cordelia would have done, too. Still… the idea of someone undressing her while she was unconscious made her upset. No one had ever done that in her timeline. How she fell asleep was always how she woke up.

She brought the blankets closer to her body, trying not to feel bitter about how many people she’s had to be vulnerable in front of ever since Barry brought her here.

“Maybe it was necessary in the moment,” Cordelia said, “but I’m awake now. I no longer need your help, so… give me the bandages.”

Dr. Thompkins’s mouth opened, presumably to protest. But whatever look she saw in Cordelia’s eyes must have let her know just how useless protesting would be on her part because, in the next moment, she was silently handing over the bandage roll to Cordelia.

Cordelia set the bandages next to her on the cot and then struggled to sit up.

Every movement felt like a painful, exhausting battle. Her head hurt, her arms hurt, her belly hurt, and even her back was screaming at her to lie back down and save bandaging her wounds for another day. And, if Cordelia was being honest with herself, she would have done just that if she were in the Cave alone.

But she wasn’t alone. Dr. Thompkins hadn’t moved from beside the cot; she was still staring down at Cordelia with her sharp, hawk-like gaze.

Appearing weak under those unfamiliar, watchful eyes would be dangerous.

So Cordelia powered through the pain until she was sitting upright, breathing heavily. Sweat formed at the nape of her neck and trickled down her spine. The droplets burned every cut and scrape that they touched.

Cordelia closed her eyes.

The Joker had truly bested her.

“Would you like some water?” Dr. Thompkins asked quietly.

Cordelia wanted to say no, but she could still taste the dirt on her tongue. “Bottled. And sealed.”

Dr. Thompkins nodded and left to get it. When she returned, she gave the water to Cordelia and asked, “Is there anything else? An extra pillow? An extra blanket?”

Cordelia’s hands shook with the effort it took to bring the water bottle to her lips. The few sips she had enough strength to take were like small bursts of ambrosia.

“I want…” she cleared her throat, forcing authority back into her voice, “I want to know what you know. You can begin with who told you how to get in this Cave.”

Her demand was met with silence at first, and then a small sigh. “If I had any doubt that you were Bruce’s sister, then that would have expelled it immediately.”

Bruce’s —

“So you know my relation to him,” Cordelia surmised, not letting her surprise show. “What else?”

“I know everything,” Dr. Thompkins said. “I know he’s Batman. I know why he’s Batman. I know that your injuries come from a fight with the Joker and the men he employs. And… I know that he cares about you, and that he wouldn’t want me to watch as you struggled to bandage your own wounds.”

Cordelia was gritting her teeth as she threw her blankets off her body and bent one of her legs closer to her chest. Thick black stitching took up about an inch of her calf where the Joker had shot her.

She took a deep breath and began wrapping it in a bandage.

“I’ve always done this for myself,” she said to the doctor. “There’s no need to guilt trip me into stopping.”

“I wasn’t trying to guilt trip you.”

Once the leg was wrapped, Cordelia lowered her head to rip the bandage from the roll with her teeth.

Dr. Thompkins’s pointed nose was slightly wrinkled at the corners, her first sign of displeasure. “You should have asked me for scissors.”

Cordelia bristled. “You should have given them to me with the roll. Now tell me where my brother is. I want to see him.”

The doctor’s eyebrows rose. Her second sign of displeasure. “Young lady, that is no way to speak to someone. I know that Bruce isn’t much of a role model when it comes to manners, but I would expect Alfred to teach you better.”

This reprimand — and the dig at Bruce — grated on Cordelia’s already disoriented nerves.

“This is my Cave,” she said. “If you don’t like the way I speak, then you’re more than welcome to leave.”

“Actually, this ‘cave’ belongs to your brother who I am still treating,” Dr. Thompkins said, "and who will hear all about how you’re behaving once he wakes up.”

The threat would have worked yesterday. It would have terrified her yesterday. But Cordelia knew now that Bruce would forgive her for drugging Alfred.

He wouldn’t care what Dr. Thompkins had to say about her.

“Go ahead,” Cordelia said stiffly. “I’ll tell him that you insulted him.”

The thinly veiled blackmail had Dr. Thompkins folding her arms over her chest, the very picture of disapproval. “I said nothing about Bruce that I wouldn’t have said to his face.”

“We’ll see.”

Cordelia was satisfied with the look of surprise that crossed the older woman’s features.

“You are incredibly ill-mannered,” Dr. Thompkins said. “I never would have expected it —“

“Why would you expect anything from me?” Cordelia said. “You don’t know me.”

“Because Alfred has been telling me stories about you for weeks,” Dr. Thompkins said, causing Cordelia to blink in shock. “He told me that you were a sweet, quiet child and that he was proud of all the progress you’ve made. I’m sure he would be very disappointed if he saw you now.”

It felt like a slap to the face.

She hated when Alfred was disappointed in her. It made her feel about an inch tall every time she saw his eyes dim when she said or did something he didn’t think she should. And here was this woman, who apparently spoke to Alfred frequently, saying that his eyes would be doing just that if he was in the room with them right now.

Cordelia turned away from the doctor, not wanting her to see that the hit landed, and asked, “How do you know Alfred?”

“We’re very good friends.”

“Alfred never mentioned you.”

“I’m not surprised. He’s a private person.”

Cordelia pressed her lips together, unhappy about how accurate that statement was.

Alfred rarely spoke about his personal life, despite how much time he spent with Cordelia, so it wouldn’t surprise her that he had friends she’s never heard about. He was a kind person, and he’d lived a long life. There were bound to be plenty of people around the world who cared about him.

She looked at Dr. Thompkins out of the corner of her eye, taking in her age and her straight back and her intelligent, no-nonsense gaze. The doctor did look like the type of person that Alfred would befriend; someone who had self-confidence like him.

“Oh,” Cordelia said.

“Oh?”

Cordelia did not want to say it, but the idea of Dr. Thompkins telling Alfred about their spat was much more unpleasant than the idea of her telling Bruce. “I’m… sorry.”

This didn’t seem to appease the old woman. “You know that everyone deserves respect, correct? Not just Alfred’s friends?”

Cordelia had to stop her face from scrunching up in frustration. She was still feeling the pains of Joker’s beating, and now she was being spoken down to by a horrible stranger. Thomas Wayne would have at least waited until Cordelia licked her wounds before resuming any lesson he’d wanted to teach her.

“I said I was sorry,” Cordelia spat.

She would give a sincere apology to Alfred later. But, for now, she had no desire to continue this conversation.

Cordelia turned her entire body away from the old woman and her judgmental gaze and started to take in her surroundings.

They were not in the main part of the Cave where Bruce’s large computer and all his cars could be seen, but within the medical wing. This room looked a lot less gloomy than the rest of the space, with its white walls and its gleaming equipment. Every wall had lines of shelves on them, and every shelf was organized with labels, carefully separating the medicine from the tools and the tools from the paperwork.

Unwillingly, Cordelia compared it to her father’s medical wing.

His had not been as… hygienic as Bruce’s. Cleaning was never much of a priority back then, so most of what they owned in the Cave was stained with blood.

As Cordelia continued to look around, taking note of everything, she could hear Dr. Thompkins leave her bedside. There was some rattling and the sounds of drawers opening and closing before the old woman appeared in front of Cordelia again.

“I accept your apology,” she said simply, and then held out a small orange bottle. “Let’s move forward. I need you to take two of these pills, understood? It will help you with the pain.”

Cordelia's neck twinged when she shook her head. “I prefer to go without pain medication.”

This was a lie. She took pain medication any time she could. Which was why she knew that it would make her fall asleep almost instantly — something she did not feel comfortable doing in front of the doctor and inside of this Cave.

“Do you prefer it or is going without medication the only thing you’re used to?” Dr. Thompkins asked.

Cordelia almost jolted. Alfred had told her?

Dr. Thompkins must have seen her close off, because her next words were: “You don’t need to answer that. But you do need to take these pills. I grabbed a sealed bottle for you.”

She held out the bottle again. Cordelia didn’t take it.

Within the first thirty minutes of meeting the doctor, she had stripped Cordelia of her clothes, attempted to guilt trip her, reprimanded her as if she were her child, threatened to tell on her to her brother, and was now demanding that she take drugs. This was way too much — too much familiarity from a complete and total stranger.

In fact, the only thing keeping Cordelia from snatching the bottle and throwing it across the room was the knowledge that Alfred would find out.

“I’m not taking those pills,” Cordelia said quietly.

“If you don’t, then you’re going to have a horrible healing process, Cordelia. Are you prepared for that?”

“Yes,” Cordelia said.

Dr. Thompkins was not pleased with her answer.

Cordelia didn’t care. “Are you going to leave now?”

“I’m not,” Dr. Thompkins said. “I’m waiting for Bruce to wake up so I can give him a rundown on both of your recovery processes and —“

“He’s in the Cave?” Cordelia said, surprised. “Which section?”

The doctor didn’t need to answer verbally. The moment Cordelia asked the question, her eyes flickered over her shoulder to the other side of the wing that she hadn’t inspected yet.

Cordelia was careful with her stiff neck as she turned her body in the cot to see what she’d missed.

There was a huge white curtain on the other side of the room, covering a significant chunk of it. But beneath the curtain, where it didn’t completely touch the floor, Cordelia could see the wheels of another cot peeking through.

“Bruce is hurt,” Cordelia realized.

“His abdomen was punctured during the explosion,” Dr. Thompkins said. “Richard brought him to me in time, but it’s going to take a while for him to fully recover from something like that.”

Punctured?

Cordelia’s mind raced back to the moments after the explosion. He hadn’t shown signs of being seriously hurt. On the contrary, out of the two of them, he’d seemed the most calm and collected.

“Are you lying to me?” Cordelia asked.

“I can show him to you if you like,” Dr. Thompkins asked.

She didn’t wait for an answer. The suspense of the reveal was torturous, but nowhere near as torturous as actually seeing Bruce, once so tall and strong, lying unconscious and broken on the cot across the room.

He looked terrible. His shirtless form showed all the injuries he must have been hiding under his armor; from scrapes to cuts to bruises to stab wounds, some of them old and some of them heartbreakingly new.

Cordelia’s eyes traveled up and down his exposed skin in horror, seeing all the scars that littered his pale skin and wondering how he could have gotten so many.

But nothing — nothing — would have prepared Cordelia for the worst wound of all: the large gash at his side that looked so fresh that she knew it had to come from the explosion. There was no way he would have been able to run as fast as he did out of the bunker with an injury so severe.

“Bruce,” Cordelia choked out.

Without thinking, she threw her legs over the side of the cot and hopped down from it.

Pain consumed her entire body the moment her feet made impact with the floor. She almost fell to the floor with how intense the feeling was, as if she were reliving how she got every cut and scrape and bruise and gunshot wound all at once.

“Cordelia!” Dr. Thompkins said. She sounded vaguely panicked as she rushed to the young girl’s side and put her hands to her shoulders. “You can not be on your feet right now. Your body has gone through too much trauma.”

Cordelia didn’t respond, too busy working through the pain in sharp, hurried breaths.

“Get out… of my way,” she said, and brushed aside her hands so she could keep moving forward.

Fortunately, Dr. Thompkins didn’t put up a fight. Instead, she stepped aside and let Cordelia limp across the room toward Bruce’s cot.

“You’re going to end up pulling your stitches,” the doctor said.

But, to Cordelia, she no longer existed.

The only person who did exist was Bruce. 

He looked even worse up close; the wound red and glaring under the dim light. And while the stitches were expertly done, the fact that they were even necessary had Cordelia’s stomach turning with guilt.

She’d caused this.

She had set off the explosion. She had run into the Joker’s lair. She had weakened Bruce with the fight that she started in the Cave.

This was all her fault.

“Bruce,” Cordelia whispered sadly, her hands gripping the side of his cot, “what have I done?”

He looked so entirely unlike himself when he was sleeping. His features were softened, his stress lines were all but gone.

He looked younger. He looked… less threatening.

Despite herself, Cordelia could not help but feel a spark of curiosity alight inside of her.

It was difficult to see past Bruce’s eyes and square jawline. They were both so prominent on his face; and oftentimes, they were the only features that revealed what the man was thinking on the inside. 

It had made her feel like she was staring into the face of Thomas Wayne every time they spoke.

But now that he was sleeping, and she wasn’t desperately trying to guess at his anger level, she could see the differences. The gentler arch to his eyebrows, the straighter nose, the cheeks that weren’t puffy from alcohol abuse, the thickness to his glossy black hair.

He looked like Brucie. Not father.

Brucie.

Cordelia slowly climbed onto the side of his cot and settled next to his waist, partially to rest her legs and partially to get a closer look.

There was a yellowing bruise beneath his eye, a mark that she’d not seen before tonight. Her gaze danced around his face, taking in all those injuries that she should have noticed before but hadn’t.

He must have been wearing makeup this entire time. But why? When it had only ever been she and Alfred in the house?

Cordelia glanced down at his torso, at all the other injuries he’d hidden from them.

There were so many.

She picked at the hem of her shorts. Behind her, she could hear Dr. Thompkins wheeling her cot next to Bruce’s, her heels pointedly clicking on the floor. “Bruce is going to heal. I’ve helped him through much worse.”

This did not reassure Cordelia. All it did was confirm her suspicions that Bruce got hit a lot — much more than their father did.

“Those scars,” she said softly. “Why is he getting hurt so much?”

“He seeks out fights. Sometimes, he even starts them.”

“Do you heal him every time?”

“No. Being Bruce’s healer would be a full time, and there are a lot of other people in Gotham who need my help. He usually gives me a call when going without treatment is life threatening.”

Cordelia nodded, slowly taking in this information.

So her brother did need her. She just hadn’t known to what extent until now.

She grabbed Bruce’s large hand in both of her own and said, “Thank you, Dr. Thompkins. I can take it from here.”

A deep sigh left Dr. Thompkins’s thin nose. “No, you can’t, Cordelia. You’re just as injured as Bruce. Now come here and lie down before you make yourself worse.”

Cordelia barely spared her a glance. “I’m assuming you took notes on all the things you’ve already done to treat my brother. If you could make me a copy before you leave, I would appreciate it. I’ll make sure that Bruce sends you a check for your services as soon as he’s able.”

Dr. Thompkins set her hands on her narrow hips. “I already told you, Cordelia: I’m not leaving until your brother wakes up so I can have a talk with him.

Cordelia frowned and said, “Fine.”

She turned back to Bruce and poked his shoulder three times.

“Do not wake him up, young lady,” Dr. Thompkins said in a hushed voice. “He needs his rest, too —“

Cordelia kept poking him until his eyebrows began to scrunch together.

“Bruce,” she urged, leaning forward.

Groggy, ice blue eyes blinked open slowly. “Cor… delia?”

“Are you awake?” She asked.

He frowned at her sleepily. “Yes.”

“She said she wouldn’t leave until you woke up,” Cordelia explained. “Can you tell her to go now?”

Bruce’s frown deepened, but he didn’t ask any questions. Instead, he looked past her, taking in their surroundings before noticing the doctor standing next to Cordelia’s cot.

“Leslie,” he said. He glanced between her and his sister, taking in both of their tense expressions. “Tell me what happened.”

“Nothing that I haven’t come to expect from the people you’ve pulled into your line of work, Bruce,” Dr. Thompkins said as she walked to their side. “In the past thirty minutes, she has refused to take pain medication, has refused to let me treat her, and is now refusing to rest.”

Bruce’s exhaustion looked bone deep.

Cordelia rushed to defend herself. “Bruce, she’s been ordering me around since I woke up. And she told me that Alfred would be disappointed in me.”

Both woman and girl waited for Bruce to say something, to choose a side and defend it, but Bruce just closed his eyes and asked, “Where’s Dick?”

“Richard went upstairs to sleep a little under two hours ago,” Dr. Thompkins answered. “Something I wish you and your sister would also try. But no matter, I needed to speak with you anyway, Bruce. I have a few recommendations for your recovery that I hope you will take into your consideration….”

The doctor’s voice turned into a mumbled gargle that blended in well with the scribbling noises she made on her clipboard as she wrote on it.

Cordelia felt the hand in both of her own try to move and looked down at it.

There was a scar on Bruce’s hand, too, although the scar was much thinner than the rest. It created a faint white line near the thumb and up to the knuckles, which were roughened in a way that their father’s weren’t.

Cordelia ran her finger over the knuckle, making sure she wasn’t imagining these differences, but she could feel them, too. The skin’s texture suggested that Bruce fought with his fists much more than their father did, and that he probably didn’t wrap his hands before training with a punching bag.

She wondered why that was. The Cave was full of weapons from what she could see, so there must be a weapon that Bruce favored over his fists, just like her father had always favored guns.

Cordelia turned the hand over, curiously inspecting the palms. There wasn’t much of a difference this time, but palms rarely looked different to the unmagnified eye.

The only difference in the palms that she was certain of was that this one had never been used to slap her.

“I understand, Leslie,” Bruce’s deep, grumbling tone broke through Cordelia’s careful concentration. “Is there anything else?”

Cordelia could feel eyes on her.

Slowly, she looked up to see Bruce watching her closely. His ice blue eyes were narrow as they flickered over her face, taking in every feature with guarded curiosity.

Cordelia’s head tilted to the side.

Was this what she looked like when she was trying to figure out what Bruce was feeling? Did she always look that cautious and stiff when he was around?

If that was the case, then she wouldn’t let him wonder the way she had to.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Cordelia said sincerely. She’d cut off whatever Dr. Thompkins was saying, but neither of them reprimanded her for it. “You are okay, right? Do you need anything?”

She hadn’t realized how tense he was until he relaxed, his head easing into his pillows. The hand she was holding gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll be fine, Cordelia. But you should be resting right now.”

“I will,” Cordelia said. “I wanted to check on you first. You… you were hurt badly, Bruce.”

“You were both hurt badly,” Dr. Thompkins interjected.

Cordelia glanced at her unhappily. Why couldn’t Bruce tell her to leave already?

“I’ve given you my advice, Bruce,” Dr. Thompkins continued. “But that’s all I can do. I hope, one day, that you will choose to listen to it.”

Bruce, surprisingly, turned the corners of his lips up in a fond smile. “One day, Leslie. Maybe. But unlikely.”

The doctor shook her head at him. “I suspected as much. Well, it has gotten very late, and even I need to sleep at some point, so I’ll be on my way out.”

Cordelia smiled brightly.

Dr. Thompkins raised one eyebrow at her. “Take care of yourself, Cordelia. Or, better yet, let other people take care of you. You don’t always have to do things on your own.”

Cordelia scowled and looked at her brother. “See?”

“Leslie,” Bruce said, “let her be.”

More than a little smugness filled Cordelia’s insides at this. Finally, Batman and Batgirl were on the same team.

She scooted closer to Bruce, ignoring Dr. Thompkins as she said her good-byes and packed her things. The click of her heels let Cordelia know where she was at all times, and the sound of shuffling let her know what she was doing. It wasn’t until the sound of the grandfather clock slid back into place all the way up the stone staircase that Cordelia allowed herself to fully relax.

Bruce was still lying down, his eyes raised up to the bat-infested ceiling.

The bats were always at their most calm when Batman was in the Cave. Whenever it was just Cordelia, she would hear them screech and fly and stir restlessly. But, with Batman, they settled

It was like they knew who their master was, even though their master very rarely acknowledged their presence beyond a glance or two.

Cordelia wondered if Bruce knew about this, or if he was so used to their silence that he didn’t realize that they weren’t always like that.

“Are you thirsty?” Cordelia asked, noticing his chapped lips. “I can get you water.”

It took Bruce a while to respond. Several times, it looked like he was going to speak, but he kept changing his mind at the last minute until the anticipation became too much for Cordelia.

“Bruce, what are you thinking?” She asked. "Is something wrong?”

She hoped he would immediately say ‘no,’ but instead he let out a deep sigh and closed his eyes, as if he were about to face something he’d rather turn away from. “Cordelia…. Why don’t you want to take medication for your pain?”

Cordelia blinked, surprised by the question. “I do.”

Bruce didn’t seem to believe her. “Leslie said that you refused to. She has no reason to lie about that.”

“The medication, it…” Cordelia hesitated.

She didn’t like the idea of someone knowing a weakness of hers. Especially a weakness that could make her vulnerable to anyone capable of picking up a knife or a gun. But Bruce was looking at her with obvious dread, as if he was waiting for her to say that she was a glutton for pain — as if he was waiting for her to tell him that she enjoyed pain.

So she had to be honest. Or else she’ll be sent on a lengthy trip to Arkham Asylum.

“It makes me tired,” she said. “I didn’t want to fall asleep in front of her.”

“Why not.” Bruce said in his demanding, interrogation style.

Cordelia ignored his tone to give a small shrug. “She’s a stranger and I’m… weak right now. I had to prioritize safety over pain.”

“And now?”

His stare was intense, the pupils of his eyes nothing but tiny dots in seas of blue. He was searching for something; an answer that he hadn’t yet asked the question to.

“Are you asking me if I trust you?” Cordelia asked. 

“I’m asking you to take something for your pain,” Bruce said.

She didn’t feel as much pain when she was sitting still, but the aches and stings had not disappeared just because she wasn’t moving. Cordelia’s arms and legs were covered with bandages, all of them white and clean. And she knew once she tried to shower that she would find even more bandages hiding beneath her clothes.

Medication for it would be nice.

“Okay,” she said.

The slow decline of his chest as he breathed out was the only sign of his relief. Cordelia almost felt guilty for making him worry so much as he reached over to the table beside his bed and picked up a tiny orange bottle.

“Take two,” he said, handing it over with a bottle of water.

Cordelia did as she was told, her hands shaking the entire time she carried the water bottle to her lips.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to keep the drink steady so that she could get more of it, but it was too much. She only managed to get three gulps before her muscles screamed at her to get rid of the extra weight.

The bottle was brought down to her lap, leaving Cordelia disappointed and thirsty.

But she’d done it. She’d taken the pain medication.

She looked over at Bruce, expecting approval, but was met with a glare — or, no… he wasn’t glaring. His face was contorted, but not because he was angry with her. It was more like he was experiencing intense pain.

Cordelia held up the pill bottle. “Do you need some?”

He reached forward. Cordelia smiled and opened her palm for him to take the bottle — then gasped when his fingers closed solidly around her arm, instead.

“Bruce?” She said uneasily.

He ignored her, bringing her arm close to him and gently turning it over, as if counting every bandage and bruise that had formed over the past few hours. When he finally did speak, his voice was cracked and rough and… sad.

“Look at you, Cordelia,” he said quietly.

She did. At the bandages, the bruises, the scars…. At the slight tremble of her fingers as her body tried to cope with its trauma.

She looked terrible.

She looked abused.

“You can’t even hold up a water bottle,” he whispered. “Why would you do this to yourself?”

Cordelia stared at him. “I didn’t. It was the Joker. He had a crowbar and he kept hitting me with it —“

“The Joker didn’t know that you existed until today,” Bruce said. “He didn’t force you to leave this house. He didn’t bring you down to that underground warehouse. He didn’t set off the bomb. You did. Cordelia… be honest with me. Is there a part of you that wants to die?”

“What? No!” Cordelia’s eyes were wide as saucers. There was something desperate in his face; something that terrified her. “No, Bruce. I’m not — I don’t want to die. I promise.”

She could tell that he didn’t believe her.

She could also tell that he really wanted to.

“Then tell me why,” he said. “Why didn’t you listen to me? You could have stayed in this house, safe and sound. Why didn’t you?”

His voice was so raw. Cordelia looked away, thinking quickly, trying to find an answer that would hurt him less — but Bruce took her inability to hold eye contact as an admission.

“Cordelia,” he said, and her attention snapped back to him. “When I heard that you followed the Joker into that underground warehouse, I thought you were dead. Do you understand that? I went down there believing that I was going to leave with the body of my dead little sister. That I was going to have to come back to this house and tell Alfred that the kid he’s been falling in love with for the past month had been brutally murdered and she wasn’t coming back. So if there is even the smallest part of you that intended for that to happen, that wanted that to happen, then you need to tell me now so that I can help you get through it.”

“I….”

Cordelia swallowed down her nerves.

Her next words were going to hurt him. She could see that now: her ability to hurt her brother without throwing a punch. But she also saw that it was time to be honest with him. Not just because he was forming the suspicion that she was suicidal, but also because… things needed to change.

She needed him to change.

Or else she would continue to be scared of him. Or else he would continue to do things that made her scared of him. So she took a deep breath, gathered her bravery, and said what she had to — for herself, and for her brother: “Bruce, I didn’t leave this house because I have a death wish. I left because of you.”

The words, spoken softly, struck out like a whip.

Bruce flinched backward. The muscles in his hands tensed around her arm.

“Got it,” he said tensely. 

“I’m so sorry, Bruce,” Cordelia said. “I know that I’m Batgirl and that I should be able to handle a lot — and I can, I swear. Aggression was never something that I was scared of with criminals. But it’s different with you. I don’t think I can handle your — your anger or your rage, because tonight, when you held me down and shoved me into that wall… Bruce, there was a moment when I thought you were going to kill me.”

“I wasn’t going to kill you,” Bruce said. “Dick needed me and you weren’t listening, so I had to use other tactics to get you under control.”

Other tactics? That’s what that terrifying moment in the Cave had been?

A strategic move?

“You scared me on purpose,” Cordelia realized. “You knew how I would react. You knew what that would look like to me.”

Holding her still, growling like Batman, punching the wall by her head — it hadn’t been the actions of an out of control man after all. It had been as calculated and mindful as any scheme Riddler would have thrown together.

There was something truly disturbing about that.

“I thought it was necessary to keep you out of the field,” Bruce explained. “But you ended up leaving the house anyway.”

The memory of his sudden anger pulled at her. The way he’d waited until she protested before slamming his fist beside her head. Yet, while it was comforting to know that he never intended for that hit to land, it was also worrying to wonder….

Would he do it again? Would she know he was doing it again? Or would she, like this time, fear the worst?

And what if he did it again and it didn’t work?

What would he do then? Would he escalate the situation? Hurt her just a bit so that her old fears could return as quickly and painfully as the swing of a crowbar?

When would it end?

If it was up to Cordelia, it would end immediately. She would put her foot down and say firmly, no, I will no longer be frightened. I will no longer be abused.

But it wasn’t up to her. It was all up to Bruce.

And the only thing she could do… was ask for it to stop.

Something that had never worked before.

Cordelia absentmindedly pinched at the fabric of her shorts, letting the smooth texture drag against her fingertips as she thought about what she wanted to say, and how she wanted to say it. She didn’t know her brother, not completely. But she did know a bit about him. And from what she gathered, the best way to get a direct response from him was to ask as directly as possible.

“Bruce, how do I…” she trailed off, wanting what she said to be just right. He stared up at her, tense, waiting. She started again: “Bruce, when I was living with father, it didn’t start with — well, what I mean to say is that he wasn’t always the way he turned out, you know? It began with harsh words, which grew into shoves, which grew into beatings. And then, towards the end, before Barry came and saved me, I think it was starting to grow into something much worse.”

Bruce’s eyes, trained on her face, widened just a fraction.

“I mean, I don’t know for sure,” Cordelia was quick to amend, not wanting to ruin her brother’s image of their father any further. “Hitting your daughter and killing your daughter are two entirely different levels of… of cruelty, but there were times when he would — he would choke me and I wasn’t… I wasn’t always sure that he would stop. And it was getting much worse. Sometimes I would pass out. Sometimes my throat hurt so badly the next day that I couldn’t speak. And that was new. He was harsh when I was nine, but it had never been that bad. So… I was wondering with you if… maybe…. Maybe you will decide that scaring me isn’t enough for you anymore.”

The skin around Bruce’s eyes were pale, forcing the cuts and bruises to stand out harshly in the light.

His next words were faint. “You’re safe with me, Cordelia. I’ll keep you safe.”

“But how can I know that for sure?” Cordelia asked. “People change. Promises get broken. Love turns into hate. It happens all the time.”

“Because,” Bruce said, “all I ever think about when I look at you children is how much I want to protect you.”

A vision of him wrapping his cape around her as the world caught on fire filled her eyes.

“I believe you,” Cordelia insisted. “But it’s easy to believe you when you’re calm. It’s not as easy when you’re… you’re talking like him and acting like him. Father used to — he —“

“You don’t have to say it,” Bruce said, eyes still closed.

“I do. Or else you’re never going to understand,” she said. “Father… he really, really hurt me, Bruce. Physically, mentally, emotionally. In ways that I don’t think I’m ever going to recover from. And maybe I should try harder to recover from it, maybe I’m doing everything wrong and I’m my own worst enemy. But, for right now… you can’t do what you did ever again.”

It was an order. A demand. An ultimatum.

It was a little sister begging for freedom from fear.

Bruce’s eyes were open now, staring at her with ice blue.

“The first night I stayed here, I had a nightmare. Do you remember that?” She asked. “You woke me up and held me until I stopped crying.”

Her heart was thumping so loudly in her chest that she was amazed the sound wasn’t echoing around the Cave. 

She always knew she was vulnerable to Batman. There was little he couldn’t get away with. And because of this knowledge, she also knew that there were some things she had to keep close to her chest — because a Batman who knew everything about her would truly be unstoppable.

But she had to trust Bruce.

She had to trust her brother.

“I need that patience every time, Bruce,” Cordelia said, knowing she was asking for too much but still asking for it anyway. “My life… it’s been in your hands since I got here. I barely exist to the public; I’m legally and financially dependent on you; you’re stronger than me, smarter than me, and more powerful than me. Even the people I’ve become close with are more loyal to you than they are to me. There’s — there’s a lot you can do to me that I won’t be able to fight.”

Bruce looked down at his hands, how they were still holding her arm.

How thin her arm looked in his hold.

He let her go, and she drew away.

“I’ve been forced to put a lot of trust in you, Bruce,” Cordelia said, feeling peeled open and exposed. “But, more than that, I’ve decided to put a lot of trust in you. I’ve been patient, trying to understand what you’re thinking and why you’re doing something. I’ve accepted your rules even though I don’t agree with some of them. But you haven’t been patient with me. And I need that. Even if I’m lashing out. Even if I’m panicking or breaking things. I need you to understand that your aggression feels deadly.”

Bruce moved, trying to sit up.

Cordelia’s nerves flailed, but she kept going, “I know it’s not fair of me to ask for all of this. You shouldn’t have to walk on eggshells in your own home. So, if you want me to leave, then I will, Bruce. I’ll — I’ll figure something out. All I ask for is a little bit of money and some of the clothes you already bought for me. That’s all.”

He was grimacing, being extra careful with his stitched side, until he was fully sitting up.

His scarred torso was visual proof of his rough, violent nature. But when he grabbed her hand, Cordelia was not reminded of all the times she was thrown into the training mat by her father. She was reminded of how Bruce had cradled her in the bunker. 

She was reminded that there was a gentleness to her brother, too. A gentleness that he kept around for his family.

“You’re right,” Bruce said, causing his sister to look up at him in amazement. “You are putting a lot of trust in me. I should have never taken advantage of that.”

Cordelia let out a small breath of relief knowing that her words didn’t upset him.

“So I’m going to make a vow to you, Cordelia,” Bruce said seriously, and continued when he got her full wide-eyed attention, “I vow to be patient with you. To earn your trust. And, if you ever have a moment of fear again, I vow to sit with you until it passes.”

Vows weren’t magical binding contracts to Bats, but for Batman… they were sacred. Cordelia could hear the solemn truth behind those words as they were spoken, and felt goosebumps rise on her flesh as they washed over her like a splash of spring water.

“So you…” her voice was hushed, not wanting to break the  seriousness of the moment, “you don’t want me to leave? Not even a little bit?”

Bruce hesitated for a brief moment, gathering his thoughts, before saying in equal hushed tones, “Do you remember that week before I brought you to the BatCave?”

Cordelia nodded immediately.

It had been the best week of her life.

“You were so happy,” Bruce said with a hint of regret. “The happiest I’ve ever seen you. Every time I walked into the room, you would light up like…. Like my son used to. Jason. Back when he lived with me.”

Bruce looked at her then, but it didn’t feel like he was looking at her — it felt like he was looking through her, at someone else.

“You remind me of him,” he said, voice filling with something both soft and pained. “You’ll never know how much. Sometimes, when I look at you, he’s all I can see. Which is why I can’t fail you like I did him. I can’t let you get hurt.”

Cordelia watched his face and realized… it was Jason who the Joker had hurt. It was Jason who had been beaten with a crowbar, and Jason who had barely survived it.

Bruce’s controlling nature was because of Jason.

“I want you to stay, Cordelia,” Bruce said. “Just like I wish Jason had stayed, because this house, this family, became better the moment you joined us…. But I don’t think that staying is the best option for you —“

Cordelia cut him off, practically buzzing with joy at his words — at his implication that he loved her just as much as he loved his children. “It is! I promise, Bruce, it is! I’ll be so happy here with you and I’ll — I’ll make sure that you’re happy, too. I’ll be the best sister ever from now on. I’ll start gardening, and I’ll start taking Alfred’s etiquette lessons more seriously, and I’ll become your new healer, and I’ll —“

“Cordelia,” Bruce said. She shut her mouth. “You staying has nothing to do with my happiness. Will you be happy here?”

“I will,” she said readily and honestly. “Bruce, all I want is to be a part of your family. Please.”

He looked at her closely. She could tell he was looking for a sign of doubt, but she had none. This was where she wanted to be; by his side and in his house.

Everywhere else seemed lonely and drab.

Bruce nodded slowly. “Okay. You can stay.”

Cordelia smiled so wide that the cuts on her cheeks ached. Somehow, after such an awful day, she’d managed to get everything she’d ever wanted.

Well, everything except Batgirl. But she wasn’t going to ruin the moment by mentioning her.

“Thank you, Bruce,” she said sincerely. “You won’t regret it. Now, take two of these pills. I’m going to replace Dr. Thompkins as your healer since she’s never around to take care of you and I will be.”

Notes:

A NOTE FOR THOSE REREADING: I made an update to Bruce's and Cordelia's conversation. So if you're rereading and noticed differences - you're not going crazy! XD

Chapter 46: PART TWO: The Wayne Sibling Club

Summary:

Cordelia had never seen an adult pout before, but she imagined that Dick was doing just that as he slumped his shoulders inward and frowned exaggeratedly. “Fine. I get it. I’m not part of the Wayne sibling club so I can’t hear about what goes on during the cool slumber parties. I’m not bitter about it.”

Notes:

Just a little announcement: I updated the end of last chapter (Bruce's and Cordelia's heart-to-heart). Everything ends the same, so you won't be confused in later chapters if you don't read the updated version, but some things were added. ☺️

Bruce spent the next thirty minutes telling Cordelia that no, she could not be his new healer and that she had her own recovery to worry about.

She listened studiously, not wanting the stress of a disagreement to hurt her brother’s recovery. But after the tenth minute, something changed: her fingers and toes were getting tingly and her lips were becoming numb.

Outwardly, she showed no sign of this change. All she did was nod and stare at Bruce as he provided several reasons why her being his healer was not as good of an idea as she knew it was. But inwardly… she was focused on her numbness and how, if she closed her eyes, she wouldn’t be able to tell that she’d been harmed at all.

“Understood?” Bruce said out of nowhere.

“I understand,” Cordelia lied.

“Good. I’m glad we had this talk, Cordelia.”

“Me, too,” she said. Her stomach growled. “I’m going to get us something to eat.”

Cordelia slid off of her brother’s cot, happy when the sharp pain from earlier didn’t attack her legs, and then started to walk out of the medical wing. 

Bruce caught her arm before she could leave through the door.

“Go back to bed,” he said. “I’ll bring you something if you’re hungry.”

“We can go together,” Cordelia said.

“No,” Bruce said. “You heard Leslie. One of the most important things for you is bedrest.”

“Bruce, I don’t like her.”

“That was very clear,” he said. “But it doesn’t change anything.”

Bruce gestured for her to return to the cots and did not move from his position in front of the door until she was sitting on her cot with both feet beneath her blankets. Cordelia watched him leave, and only realized after he’d already gone that she hadn’t told him what she wanted to eat.

She hoped that he brought back something sweet. Cordelia really wanted a milkshake.

“I found granola bars,” Bruce said when he came back, and didn’t notice the look of disappointment his sister adopted when he dropped three of the bars into her open palms. “They’re filling.”

They tasted stale.

Beside her, Bruce was getting into his own cot with a small laptop. The sound of typing filled Cordelia’s ears as she bit into the grainy food and chewed listlessly.

Maybe she was getting spoiled with Alfred’s food. In her own timeline, she’d eaten nothing but stale food — to the point where she rarely considered having anything better. But, now, after eating so many meals rich with flavor, Cordelia couldn’t help but daydream about all the other things she could be chewing on at the moment.

Like one of the cookies she and Alfred left on the kitchen table.

Cordelia glanced at her brother. Bruce was still typing on his laptop, blue eyes trained on the screen as his fingers flew across the keyboard. He’d likely argue with her if she tried to get out of bed; and, judging from his snack choice, he would disapprove of her eating a treat as unhealthy as cookies.

She took another bite out of her granola bar and laid down.

It was not worth it.

The typing stopped for a moment as Bruce noticed her settling into her cot.

“Are you comfortable?” He said. “Do you need an extra pillow?”

There was a slight crease between his dark eyebrows when he asked that, as if the idea of her lacking pillows was really a concern of his. It wouldn’t have made any sense back in her timeline; Batman did not care about such things.

But it made sense now.

“You’re the sweetest Batman ever, Brucie,” Cordelia said.

“…Are you feeling okay, Cordelia?”

“I feel great,” she said. And she did. The pain medication was causing a wonderful numbness to take over her body and her mind, loosening her muscles — and loosening her lips. “I just wanted to let you know that you’re the best. I mean, even your medication is better. Father’s didn’t work half as well.”

Bruce hummed suspiciously, but went back to typing without another word.

Cordelia finished her second granola bar and opened up her third one. “The last patient he worked on was Barry. All he could do was give him ointment for his burns, though. If it wasn’t for Barry’s super healing, then he would have had to stay in bed for much longer than a couple of hours. Did you know that Barry could do that? Heal at super speed? He’s so perfect in every way.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Bruce grimace. “Cordelia. Go to sleep.”

She turned to her side and frowned at him, confused. “I’m trying.”

“You can’t fall asleep if you’re talking,” he replied.

“Yes, I can,” Cordelia said. 

Bruce pressed his lips together and went back to typing.

She wondered, at first, what he was doing. But then decided that he was most likely writing up a report on everything that happened tonight with the Joker. It was best to do those types of things immediately after they happened when the memory was still fresh.

However, if he was, then she most certainly needed to be a part of that process. After all, Cordelia was the one who had spent the most time with the Joker. Therefore, she would be the one who had the most significant details.

She bit into her granola bar and stared at Bruce in consideration. Offering her help had never worked before — not even when it came to writing up reports. He’d been especially determined not to let her help Barry write the report about the original timeline despite her unique knowledge about it.

But, looking back at it, his refusal to let her help write that report probably had more to do with Barry than the report itself.

Writing reports was a lot of work and extremely timely. It could go on for weeks if the mission had been especially complicated.

If Bruce had let her write that timeline report with Barry, then they would have spent more than just hours together — they would have spent days together. Sitting in a quiet room. Side-by-side. Having lunch breaks with each other. Exchanging notes.

It would have been magical.

“Bruce?” Cordelia said, cutting herself off from all the other possibilities her mind was conjuring up.

“Hm.”

“Does Barry ever ask about me?”

This earned her a sharp look. “No.”

The next bite of her granola bar didn’t taste as good. She set it aside. “Oh.”

She supposed that it made sense. Barry was starting a family with Iris, and Cordelia was now just a girl who had slammed a door in his face.

Bruce sighed heavily and said, “He knows I don’t want him to.”

“He — really?” Cordelia’s heart skipped a beat.

So Barry thought about her — and not just that, but he thought about her so much that Bruce noticed. 

Cordelia snuggled into her pillow with a smile that stretched her cheeks.

“He’s really considerate, isn’t he?” She said, her face aglow. “Even when you made him say good-bye to me, he was thinking about how I felt. He let me hug him.”

Tap tap tap.

Bruce wasn’t acknowledging what she was saying, too focused on his computer, but Cordelia couldn’t focus on much else. Every time she thought that maybe she was saying too much, that maybe she should close her mouth, the thought left as quickly as it came and then she was prattling on again.

“He’s funny, too, without even trying to be,” she said. “And did you know that he made his own uniform? Out of things found in Father’s house. It looks really nice on him.”

The typing slowed to a stop. Bruce turned to stare at her.

Cordelia blushed and sunk further into her blankets, realizing what she’d just said. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Your pupils are dilated.”

“So?” She said, rubbing her eyes.

“The medication isn’t making you tired,” Bruce said, a touch moody. “You’re experiencing drug-induced euphoria.”

That was so embarrassing. 

Cordelia tried to rub the flush from her cheeks, but she could still feel it burning her face.

“We have to reevaluate what kind you take,” Bruce decided. He turned to type more on his computer. “The last thing we need is for you to form an addiction.”

Cordelia agreed. She saw first-hand how addiction could ruin a life and a body. Her father had rarely gone over an hour without drinking for as long as she could remember, always keeping a flask at his hip and a Cave full of hard liquor. The effects didn’t show on him as much as it showed on the people in Gotham City, but….

It still showed.

In the redness of his eyes. In the slight shake of his hands when he went without it for too long.

In his temper.

Cordelia stopped rubbing her cheeks, feeling the blush fade as she stared at her brother typing into his laptop.

Addiction was a one-person battle, but it had a tendency to attack an entire family tree if given the chance.

“Bruce, do you drink?” Cordelia asked.

It was a question she’d had since the beginning, back when she first met Bruce and she was scribbling every observation she made into her notebook. There were signs that he didn’t — or, at least, signs that he didn’t drink as much as their father, but she’d not been able to come to a solid answer.

He answered without hesitation. “No.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

A tight knot in her chest eased at the decisive way he answered her questions.

“Good,” she said.

Tap, tap, tap.

Cordelia laid on her back and stared up at the ceiling, a smile on her face.

No alcoholic Batman. How wonderful could this life be?

Granted, she couldn’t say that she never drank alcohol. It had only been a few days ago when she’d snuck out with James and gotten so intoxicated that she still couldn’t remember large chunks of that night. But she didn’t feel a need for alcohol like her father used to.

And — Cordelia yawned and curled up beneath her blankets — she was unlikely to ever drink that much again.

It was an experiment. That was all.

Content with this new discovery, and relaxed from the strong medication, Cordelia finally closed her eyes and let herself fall asleep.

---

A bright flash woke Cordelia up from her deep slumber.

Every muscle in her body tensed, ready for a fight, but a fight was not to come.

“Dick, what are you doing?” Bruce grumbled.

Bruce was lying in his cot a few feet away, and squinting toward the door of the medical wing with a look so exhausted that he must have just woken up, too. Cordelia rubbed at her eyes, trying to get the spots out of her vision, before following his line of sight.

Dick was standing across from them, wearing jeans and a sweater, and holding his cell phone up at them.

“Taking a picture,” he said with an impish grin. “This is your first sibling slumber party! Say ‘cheese.’”

Another flash lit up the room and caused more spots to appear in Cordelia’s eyes.

“Enough,” Bruce said.

“Aw, come on, B,” Dick said. “This is a milestone! We have to memorialize it.”

“This isn’t a slumber party,” Bruce said. “She’s covered in bandages and recovering from a brutal assault by the Joker.”

“I don’t mind,” Cordelia said.

She tried to sit up, but grimaced half-way through the motion. The medication she’d taken last night had worn off completely, leaving her with aching ribs and the horrible sensation that her skin was being peeled from her bones.

“Hey, you’re alright,” Dick said, voice light and gentle. “Stay right there.”

Cordelia did not feel like she had a choice. One wrong move and her entire body would feel like it was aflame with agony. So she sat, stiff and frozen, as Dick hurried over to a wardrobe and pulled out a bunch of extra pillows.

“I guess this wasn’t such a fun night for you, huh?” Dick asked when he was by her side.

He placed one hand on her shoulder, keeping her still as he piled the pillows behind her until she could sit up without having to use too much of her own strength.

“It wasn’t all bad,” Cordelia said quietly.

She’d only just woken up and she already wished that she was back to sleep.

At least when she was asleep, she did not have to feel every time she had failed in her fight with the Joker across her body.

“Yeah?” Dick said with a smile. He sat down next to her and reached for the medication at the side table. “What were the upsides? Did you and Bruce talk about boys and braid each other’s hair?”

He was teasing. There was no way he could know about Cordelia’s embarrassing ramblings about Barry. Nevertheless, Cordelia could not help how hot her face became at the reminder.

Dick blanched. “Oh my God, did you?”

“We did not,” Bruce said firmly, but his cheeks were flushed, too.

“This is amazing,” Dick said, eyes glittering as he looked between the two. “Tell me everything. What boy? Who’s hair?”

Cordelia was trying her absolute best not to look guilty, but it was getting harder and harder the longer this conversation went on. It was humiliating enough that Alfred and Bruce knew about her feelings for Barry — the last thing she wanted was for the rest of the family to know, too.

At least Alfred and Bruce weren’t eager to tease her about it.

“Don’t tell,” Cordelia said to Bruce.

“Why not?” Dick asked. “Do you need boy advice? I can give you boy advice.”

“We are not discussing this,” Bruce said. “Where’s Alfred?”

Cordelia had never seen an adult pout before, but she imagined that Dick was doing just that as he slumped his shoulders inward and frowned exaggeratedly. “Fine. I get it. I’m not part of the Wayne sibling club so I can’t hear about what goes on during the cool slumber parties. I’m not bitter about it.”

He was twisting the cap off of the medication bottle as he said this and flicking two pills into his open palm by the time he finished.

Cordelia cringed away from his hand when he held them out to her.

Dick hesitated, his exaggerated frown becoming natural. “What’s wrong?”

“She doesn’t react well to those,” Bruce answered for her. “We’re switching them out.”

The two pills in Dick’s hand, so innocently white, disappeared as he closed his fingers over them and dropped them back into the small orange bottle.

Cordelia would miss their ability to free her from the pain, but she did not think she could handle how… how talkative and open they made her. She’d said things to Bruce that she could hardly even think in private without blushing like — like Barry’s uniform.

No. She would rather feel every stitch sewn into her skin than ever say anything like that ever again.

“Cordelia, what medication do you usually take?” Dick asked her. “It’ll be better to give you something that you’re familiar with.”

“Whatever she took before didn’t work,” Bruce said with a bit of a bite. “We’re starting from scratch.”

The blankets of his cot rustled as he stood up with his hand at his side. His movements were slow, but not pained; careful, but not overly-cautious. It was like he knew exactly which muscles to use in order to avoid pain and exactly which muscles not to use.

It was impressive, but also worrying.

He was too used to getting hurt.

“What about you, Bruce?” Cordelia asked. “You haven’t taken your medication yet.”

“We already talked about this, Cordelia,” Bruce said. “You’re not my healer.”

His back was turned to her as he looked over all the pain pills he hoarded, reading the ingredients and putting them back when he read something he didn’t agree with. Because of this, he didn’t see Dick grimace at his back — but Cordelia did.

“Don’t worry about him,” Dick said, noticing her stare. “He’s grouchy before his morning cup of coffee.”

From Cordelia’s experience with her brother, Bruce was rarely not grouchy. But that did not seem like the best thing to say out loud, especially after he’d kept her secret about Barry, so she said instead, “Are you okay, Dick? Did you get hurt last night, too?”

Dick didn’t look hurt. Quite the opposite: her nephew looked healthy and refreshed with his combed hair and his tanned skin. In fact, if she didn’t know any better, she would have thought that he hadn’t spent the better part of that night fighting against the Joker’s henchmen and saving a bunch of civilians’ lives.

“Someone managed to land a punch,” Dick shrugged, “but that’s it. It didn’t even bruise.”

Yesterday, she might have taken his word for it. But, today, she leaned squinted suspiciously at the skin of his face for any trace of makeup.

“He’s fine,” Bruce said, appearing at her side with a water bottle and a pill bottle. “I looked him over myself yesterday. Here — same thing, take two.”

Cordelia took the bottles, and hoped neither of them noticed the way her hands shook under the weight of them.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Dick,” she said, half honestly and half to distract them. “I was really worried.”

Dick looked up from her hands with a smile that was a little tight around the edges. “Yeah, kid, I know.”

Kid.  

Cordelia did not want him calling her that. 

It meant inferior. It meant incapable of protecting him. And even though she’d lost her fight with the Joker and was currently unable to hold up a water bottle without shaking, she still wanted Dick to know that he could count on her.

“Do you want my help?” Dick asked, gesturing toward her hands.

Cordelia shook her head quickly. “No. Thank you.”

She carefully opened the bottles, aware of both the men’s stares as she did so, and shook two of the pills into her palm. It was only after she popped them in her mouth and slowly swallowed them with small sips of water that she felt the pressure of their eyes ease.

“You didn’t answer my question earlier,” Bruce was saying.

“Alfred is sleeping,” Dick said with forced casualness.

“He won’t wake up?”

“He does,” Dick hesitated. “But he falls right back to sleep.”

Cordelia silently picked a piece of lint off of her blanket and let it flutter to the ground beside her. Last night, Bruce had told her that her drugging Alfred did not change anything. But, even then, it had been very obvious from his initial reaction that he considered what she’d done wrong.

Very wrong, actually.

It had completely floored him for a moment.

“Cordelia,” Bruce said.

She flinched and looked up at him guiltily, wondering if she was going to get yet another lecture from her brother.

“How much did you give him?” He asked.

“He should be awake by this afternoon,” she told him.

Cordelia hoped that this would calm their fears, but all her announcement made them do was glance at each other with alarm.

“I’m sorry,” she added hurriedly. “I really am. I was — I was upset. I’ll never do it again to Alfred.”

“You’ll never do it again to anyone,” Bruce corrected sternly.

“But — “

“To. Anyone.”

Cordelia did not want to make that promise. After all, she’d only tried to drug Alfred after he tried to sedate her. What if they did it again? Did she have to accept that treatment without ever retaliating? What if someone else tried to drug her? Could she never get her revenge?

Cordelia looked to Dick for support, expecting him to be on her side like he always was, but was only met with a face so wary that she knew that if she was going to fight this battle, then she would be in a team on her own.

“Okay,” she relented, going back to picking the lint on her blanket. “I won’t do it to anyone.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise,” she said, and hated the whine that snuck into her voice at the end.

“Good.” There was a tense pause, and then, “I’ll make breakfast, then. Dick can help you to your room.”

Cordelia nodded silently, now pulling at the threads of the blanket.

In front of her, Bruce hesitated for some reason. It was only when she saw his hand reach over to hers and give her two awkward pats that she realized he’d been trying to figure out how to comfort her.

“This still doesn’t change anything, Cordelia,” he said stiffly.

She blinked.

Dick was looking between them curiously, a slight tilt to his head as he tried to decipher this code he wasn’t made privy to. But Bruce’s eyes were on Cordelia’s, and his expression was expectant.

And Cordelia knew exactly what he was saying.

Does that… change… things? She’d asked, the heat of an explosion still on her flesh.

It doesn’t change things, Bruce had replied. I still love you.

A small smile creeped up on Cordelia’s lips, chasing away the bitterness she’d begun to feel and confusing Dick further.

“Okay,” she said. “For me, either.”

That made the corners of Bruce’s lips turn up, too — and made Dick even more bewildered by the conversation.

“What’s going on?” He asked. “What hasn’t changed?”

Cordelia almost answered, almost told Dick all about how Bruce loved her and how she loved him back — even though the second statement would surely not surprise anyone as much as the first. But, before she could, Bruce answered for both of them: “Nothing is changing, Dick. Except for where Cordelia will be resting. You know where we keep the wheelchairs, correct?”

“I — of course I do —“

“She will use one of those until Leslie clears her,” Bruce said this casually, as if the very concept wasn’t news to Cordelia. “Make sure you don’t jostle her around when you push her. And don’t do any of your tricks. She’s fragile.”

It was such a ridiculous thing to say. To refer to Batgirl as fragile. But he said it with all the confidence in the world. And, to make matters worse, he left before Cordelia had a chance to protest — and before Dick had a chance to get his answers.

Chapter 47: Clingy Little Lamb

Summary:

“I would do anything for you,” she said.

Her words were heartfelt. Her words were honest.

Her words made Dick’s smile fall.

Cordelia didn’t think of her mother often.

The memories came with too many unpredictable emotions. Some would fill her with so much heartache that it felt impossible to move; others would fill her with rage; and an even rarer few would make her feel almost happy if she was strong enough to shovel through the weight of nostalgia it was buried beneath.

They were like gleaming, glittering diamonds to Cordelia. She would gaze upon their beauty and, beneath the moonlight, imagine that there was a world in which she could wear them around her neck, don them on her ears, and settle them above her head like a crown. 

But the diamonds never stayed diamonds. If she looked at them too long, if she held them too closely to her heart, she’d find that the edges were too sharp and the surfaces were too fragile.

She’d find that they weren’t diamonds at all. They were shards of glass. And there was a reason she kept them buried.

Cordelia would then have to place them back in the ground and push the dirt over them with her bleeding hands.

Cordelia would then have to promise herself not to look at them again.

It was a promise she was always breaking. In a life with so few good memories, it was the rare ones that became siren calls. An irresistible music with a predictable, painful end.

“Press this button to reverse,” Dick said. He leaned over to show her the button on her gaming controller and then pointed at another one. “And press that one to throw things.”

Cordelia nodded, pretending as if she was listening attentively, when really she was trying her best to shovel more dirt over her memories.

This was not the time to think about her.

This was not the time to think about how this was the first time since her that Cordelia has felt normal.

After Bruce left her with Dick, she’d almost expected a lecture or a litany of questions. But Dick wasn’t mentioning how she’d handcuffed him or asking her about what happened in the bunker. He’d simply helped her to her room, noticed her gaming systems, and demanded that she play a video game called Mario Kart with him.

Then he’d hopped into bed beside her, got comfortable against her pillows, and started to explain how the game worked. As if she were like him. Normal. With good parents. With happy memories that were soft and warm like an armchair near a lit fire.

They both knew the truth, of course: that Cordelia would never be normal. She’d seen too much, experienced too much, done too much for that ever to be true again. After all, there was a reason why everyone treated her strangely; like a soldier, or a problem, or a body to be used, or a ticking time bomb, or a plague that needed to be isolated and studied by Hazmat-wearing scientists.

They were all aware of things that Cordelia could and couldn’t be. They were all aware that “normal” became out of her reach the day her mother died.

But it was nice of Dick to help her pretend otherwise.

“I think that’s everything,” he said. “Any questions?”

She shook her head.

“Good,” Dick said seriously, “because now the race begins. From this point forward, you are not my adorable Little Bat. You are my enemy.”

A grin fought its way onto Cordelia’s face.

At the same moment, Bruce walked in with a tray of food and a disapproving frown. “Dick.”

“What?” Dick said. He was all false innocence and wide eyes. “She knows I’m mostly joking.”

“Dick.”

“I know he’s joking,” Cordelia said, and gave Dick a slanted look. “There’s no way he honestly thinks he can win.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully at the challenge.

Bruce sighed and set the tray on the bedside table. “You were supposed to bring her here to rest.”

“I am resting,” Cordelia said. She pointed to her feet beneath the covers to prove it.

“Hm.”

“Lighten up, B,” Dick said. “Look, I’m making it three players so you can join.”

“I can’t join,” Bruce said. “I have work to do.”

Cordelia looked up at him curiously. “You have a job?”

For some reason, Bruce hesitated. It was Dick who ended up answering: “He means he wants to work on the Joker case.”

“The Joker case?” Cordelia repeated blankly. “How could there still be a case? Isn’t he dead?”

Cordelia knew that her own Joker had an unfortunate ability to survive the most dangerous of situations, but she had a hard time believing that anyone could have survived the bunker collapsing. If the explosion hadn’t managed to kill him, then the cement ceiling falling apart on top of him would have done the trick.

The look Dick and Bruce were giving her made her believe that this Joker was made of tougher stuff than Martha Wayne had been.

“He survived the explosion?” She demanded, glancing between them to make sure she didn’t miss a single micro expression.

“He was never in the explosion,” Dick corrected. “Oracle saw him on one of our street cameras right before the bomb went off.”

“But then…” Cordelia stopped herself before she could say, but then I would have died for nothing.

Judging from their conversation last night, that was something that Bruce would never want to hear from her. But she couldn’t help thinking it.

At some point during the Joker’s assault on Cordelia, she’d lost time. Her entire vision blackened and her mind fell quiet. She had no clue how long she’d stayed like that, or even if the Joker kept hitting her afterward, but what she did know was that she regained enough consciousness for her survival instincts to kick in.

Pure adrenaline and fear had taken over her.

She’d heard the Joker talking, had seen him standing a distance away, and started to crawl. At first, she hadn’t had a specific location in mind, or even a shred of a plan. All she had was a desire to get away from the crowbar, and away from the man who laughed the entire time he’d swung it. 

It wasn’t until she felt her battered, stepped-on fingers sink into the mud that her body jolted awake and she realized: she wasn’t going to survive this time. There was no escaping the Joker. And that the only way out of that horrible place was to die.

Except… dying would mean that the Joker got to win.

That the Joker would get away with killing Alfred, and get away with killing Cordelia, and would continue to get away with killing more people that Cordelia cared about.

She wasn’t going to let that happen. Even with all her anger and bitterness toward Bruce, she would make sure that the last thing that she did in this life was protect his children.

And kill the Joker.

So Cordelia used the last of her strength to pick herself up, leaned heavily against the closest crate, and set off a bomb that would take the Joker down once and for all.

To find out that it didn’t… that it had, in fact, ended up hurting Bruce — the person she’d wanted to protect….

“What can I do to help?” Cordelia asked.

Bruce and Dick glanced at each other. A silent conversation passed between them; one that was demanding on Dick’s side, but reluctant on Bruce’s. An entire minute passed in that silence — and with every tick of the second hand, Cordelia’s impatience grew and grew and grew until, finally, one of them gave in.

Surprisingly, it was Bruce who ended up relenting.

With a deep, heavy sigh he took a step back and grabbed the chair from her desk.

“You can help by answering a few questions,” he said after sitting down beside her.

“I’ll do it,” Cordelia said immediately. Bruce was giving her a cautious look, ice blue eyes flickering over her face, trying to read her thoughts in that sharp, analytical way of his. “What do you want to know?”

His first question was asked gently, in that voice that was not-Batman but also not-Bruce: “Are you okay with this?”

It was a voice that she’d only begun to hear after the explosion.

It was one that she was beginning to associate with love.

“I’m okay with this,” she confirmed.

Yet, despite her confirmation, Bruce still looked hesitant.

It was Dick who asked the first real question: “Oracle’s report said that you were down in that warehouse for two hours before the place exploded. Did you hear or see anything that might hint toward the Joker’s plans?”

Two hours? Cordelia stopped herself from spiraling at that new tidbit of information, and let herself process everything else that was said.

Once it all sunk in, she furrowed her eyebrows.

“The Joker didn’t tell you his plans?” She said to Bruce curiously.

From her memory, the Joker had been all too eager to share every passing thought and grievance with her, whether she wanted to hear them or not.

“No,” Bruce said.

“Batman wasn’t exactly there to ask questions,” Dick said wryly.

“Oh,” Cordelia said, and glanced down at Bruce’s knuckles before answering. “The Joker told me that he missed the way everything used to be between you and him; back when there weren’t any ‘birds’ or Batgirls or children.”

“He’s targeting us specifically,” Dick said.

There was no fear in his voice — just annoyance.

“Yes,” Cordelia said. “The bunker was full of explosives and crowbars that he wanted to use on you.”

Bruce looked away from her, his expression darkening before he could hide it.

“It’s okay,” Cordelia said earnestly. She remembered what Bruce had said about Jason, she remembered what the Joker had said about Jason. She reached forward to grab Bruce’s hand, offering comfort that words couldn’t. “I destroyed his ammo when I set off the bomb.”

Bruce’s eyes went to her hand in his. She thought, briefly, that he was surprised by her action — but realized once he began tilting it that he was analyzing the bruising beginning to form along her knuckles and fingers.

Cordelia pulled her hand away.

“That’s another thing we wanted to ask you,” Bruce said. “You set off a bomb. Why.”

That answer was obvious. “Because he was going to use it on your family.”

She didn’t miss the look that Bruce and Dick shared.

It made her defensive. “It’s the truth.”

“We believe you,” Dick said quickly.

Bruce was not offering the same assurance.

“It’s the truth,” she repeated more firmly. “I knew I wouldn’t be able to get out of there alive, so if I was going to die, then I was going to make sure that Dick and Jason and all the rest were safe first.”

“Getting yourself killed is not going to keep anyone safe,” Bruce said.

She pressed her lips together, annoyed. “I was not trying to get myself killed. I was trying to destroy the bunker full of weapons meant for my niece and nephews.”

Her brother’s normally mysterious face was openly disapproving, but Cordelia told herself that she didn’t care what Bruce thought.

What she’d done had been borderline heroic.

In fact, she was sure that it was also something that Barry would have done if given the chance. He had, after all, sacrificed his own mother to save the world. And if he could do that, then Cordelia could sacrifice herself to save her world.

Because that’s what Dick, Jason, Cassandra, Tim, and Damian were to her now. Her world. Her family. And she could not bear the thought of there being a bunker full of explosives meant to take them away from her.

“I did the right thing,” Cordelia decided, and knew in her heart that this was true.

She turned to Dick, who’d been watching her and Bruce speak to each other with a critical eye. His face smoothed into an easy smile when he caught her looking.

He had a mask, much like Bruce. And his mask, much like Bruce’s mask, hid a lot from her.

But it didn’t matter. Because Cordelia knew that she would love every color of his personality, even the dark undertones.

“I would do anything for you,” she said.

Her words were heartfelt. Her words were honest.

Her words made Dick’s smile fall.

Bruce growled unexpectedly. “No.”

Cordelia’s heart nearly jumped out of her ribs at the sound, but she managed to keep her composure. She probably would have been able to keep her sudden flash of fear a secret from Bruce, too, if Dick didn’t say anything.

“B, stop,” he said. “You’re scaring her.”

“I’m…” the apology withered and died before it reached his lips, leaving a tense and awkward silence to fill the space instead. He started again: “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay,” Cordelia said.

Her cheeks felt hot with embarrassment. And under the embarrassment, Cordelia felt angry. She was so angry at herself for still being scared — for not being able to hide it better.

She could set off an explosive and fall asleep next to it, but she couldn’t have a talk with her brother.

“Dick,” Bruce said, visibly uncomfortable. “Talk to her.”

Dick dipped his chin in a nod and then looked down at Cordelia.

She eyed him cautiously. It very much sounded like Bruce was telling her nephew to lecture her — something that was about as appealing to her as stale cereal.

“Little Bat,” he began.

She tensed in preparation. Dick’s expression softened. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder to pull her closer to his side.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” he said warmly. “Really, I do. But I don’t need you to sacrifice yourself for me.”

Cordelia wished that his arm wasn’t quite so heavy and comforting around her shoulders. It would be much easier to convince him that she was his protector if she didn’t have this overwhelming urge to curl up beside him and go to sleep.

“But I was already dying,” she said softly. Her head followed the warmth to his side. “Besides, I overheard the Joker saying that he wanted to kill you all at once. So with me gone, my Introduction to Society party would be cancelled, and your siblings would have no reason to come back to Gotham together.”

She could see Bruce pale out of the corner of her eye, but Dick didn’t give any sign that she said anything wrong.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Little Bat,” he said. “When I got to you and B after the explosion, I thought the worst. Neither of you were waking up, and both of you were covered in so much blood that it… it didn’t seem possible that you could be alive. But you were alive. Do you understand?”

He gave her shoulder a light shake, prompting her to look up at him.

Cordelia froze.

She’d thought that Dick hadn’t given a sign that she’d said something wrong. But now… she saw that she’d been a fool. She had said something incredibly wrong. Because, compared to Dick, Bruce had managed to keep his composure.

Dark blue eyes drilled holes into hers beneath lowered black eyebrows. And his face, normally so tan and full of life, looked washed of all color.

He looked older than his years. He looked haunted.

And she realized… he thought he’d lost his father last night. Again. Because of her.

That realization was enough to make her insides shrivel and her stubbornness decay.

“I understand,” she promised, her voice hushed. “I’m sorry.”

Dick didn’t accept her apology. “What do you understand?”

Her mouth got dry at having to voice it. But if it was something that Dick wanted to hear, then she would say it. “That what I did was wrong. That it almost cost you your father. And that I can’t do it again.”

“No, Little Bat,” Dick said — and then hesitated. “Well, yes, but that wasn’t my point. My point was that you can’t give up when things feel hopeless. Because if I’d given up last night, then I would have no one to eat breakfast with this morning. No father. And no aunt.”

Had that been his point? Cordelia thought back to what he said, and supposed that it could have been.

“Do you understand now?” Dick asked.

She wanted to say yes — mostly because Dick wanted her to say yes — but she couldn’t. Dick had felt a momentary fear that was quickly quelled once he checked for their heart beats. Her own situation had not been as easy a fix.

“It’s okay to say ‘no,’” Dick said, reading into her silence.

“I do understand,” Cordelia said. “But the chances of me surviving that bunker were practically non-existent. There was no way out.”

“Sure there was,” Dick said. “Batman was your way out.”

At the mention of Batman, Cordelia glanced over at her brother. He caught her eye, silent and pale.

Neither said anything as Dick kept talking.

“B’s timing can be off sometimes,” Dick said, and in his voice she knew that there was a story that only Bruce could hear. “But, more often than not, he’s there when you need him the most. Just like he was there for you last night, and like he will be there for you again. You know, if you keep getting into trouble.”

Dick might have been the one talking, but it was Bruce who Cordelia was watching. It was Bruce who she felt like she was hearing from. Because, even though his lips weren’t moving, his eyes told her everything she needed to know: that he did plan to be there for her.

Even if it meant spending the entire night in the medical room.

“Trust me, Little Bat,” Dick said, “you have one of the greatest heroes in the world watching over you now.”

Bruce’s eyes lifted up at that, breaking away from Cordelia’s to meet his son’s. And it was in that moment that she saw a look that she’d never seen in her own father’s. It was a look from a parent who not only loved their child, but loved everything that their child was.

It was pride. But it was also something else.

Something that she didn’t think she could describe or even comprehend because she’d never experienced it herself.

But whatever it was, she felt like she could not interrupt it. 

“Thank you, Dick,” Bruce said.

His voice was as deep and rumbling as always, but there was a warmth there that could have kept Cordelia snug and comfortable during even the coldest of Gotham nights.

“I’m just being honest,” Dick said with a shrug. Then he squeezed Cordelia’s shoulder. “Well, Little Bat? Do you understand now?”

Cordelia waited until Bruce looked back at her before answering.

“Yes,” she said.

The corners of Bruce’s lips turned up subtly, pleased with her answer.

The small movement prompted her to say: “Bruce?”

“Hm,” he hummed.

“I want to keep the garden.”

She wasn’t exactly sure why she said it. After all, the garden had been what caused the huge fight between them — or, more accurately, the reason why he’d given her the garden had been what caused the huge fight between them. But the words were leaving her mouth as if they’d sat on her tongue for years, just waiting for a reason to skip past her teeth and bounce through the airwaves.

It was only once they settled, taking comfort in the space of her brightly lit room, that Cordelia realized that she agreed with them.

She did want to keep the garden.

It had been given to her. And that was enough for now.

Bruce’s nod was unhesitant and unresisting. “It’s yours.”

The feeling that went through her was similar to what she’d felt like last night on medication. “Can I see it?”

This time, Bruce didn’t nod. “You need rest.”

She pointed to her wheelchair. “I can go in that.”

“I want to see it, too,” Dick said beside her.

“You both can see it in a few days,” Bruce said.

Cordelia made a small sound of distress. Days?

Dick nudged her, interrupting her spiral into dismay, and whispered loudly, “Don’t give up yet. Give him your sad eyes.”

“Dick,” Bruce said, reproachful.

But Cordelia was confused and asked, “What sad eyes?”

“There’s no way you don’t do those on purpose,” Dick said.

She furrowed her eyebrows at him. He must have been referring to her fake tears from yesterday; the tears that only worked on him because he was so soft-hearted.

They’d never work on Bruce.

But Dick didn’t seem to think so, because he was tilting his head at her expression, thoughtful. 

“You know, that might work,” he said. “Let’s give it a try.”

Suddenly, he grabbed her chin — squishing her cheeks — and turned her head so that she was facing Bruce. Bruce, who was giving Dick his very own pointed look.

“Don’t look at me, look at your sad baby sister,” Dick said with dramatic sorrow. “You are the cause of this. How does that make you feel?”

Bruce’s eyes flickered down to hers.

Cordelia blinked at him, face squished and feeling very awkward.

For whatever reason, that made Bruce relent.

“Fine,” he said. “We can go after you two finish eating.”

“Ha,” Dick said with all the smugness in the world. “It’s great to have someone to share my big brother guilt with. Welcome to my world, B. It’s nice but also not.”

Cordelia absent-mindedly rubbed one of her cheeks after Dick let her face go, and reached over for the tray of food with the other. Now that she noticed it, she saw that the breakfast was very different from the one she was growing used to.

For one, it was small. Alfred’s favorite meal of the day seemed to be breakfast, considering he always crowded the table with every breakfast food known to man. But, this morning, Bruce had put together two plates with identical, simple meals: pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon.

Not that Cordelia felt she had a right to complain considering she was the reason Alfred wasn’t awake to cook for them.

Dick didn’t have the same idea.

“Ack.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Bruce said bluntly.

Dick was spitting his runny eggs into a napkin.

“You ruined eggs,” he accused. “How do you ruin eggs?”

“I didn’t ruin them. They’re just a little undercooked.”

“Give me my phone.”

Bruce glanced at the phone on the bedside table and then back at Dick suspiciously. “Why?”

“I’m calling the police.”

Cordelia fought down a smile as they bickered, using her knife and fork to cut into her pancakes — and to check to see if they were undercooked, as well. But the pancakes had the opposite problem.

The undersides were a bit burned.

“You ruined pancakes, too,” Dick pointed.

“If you don’t want to eat them, then you can make yourself cereal.”

They continued to bicker as Cordelia slowly ate through her plate. She carefully avoided the runny eggs and gently bit into her crisp bacon; and, all the while, she was silently being entertained by the playful argument around her. It seemed that every time the argument would near an end, that Dick was finally having enough of making fun of Bruce’s cooking, Bruce would say something completely innocuous — and that innocuous remark would be met with the most dramatic of reactions from Dick.

And on and on it went, until the only things left on Cordelia’s plate were runny eggs and Bruce was taking the tray away back to the kitchen.

“Alright, Little Bat, you ready?” Dick asked. 

She held out her hands. “U-huh.”

He grinned and lifted her up into his arms. “Then let’s go see your garden.”

Dick carried her to the wheelchair, humming brightly, before pushing her to the elevator and out the backdoor of the manor where Bruce stood waiting for them.

It was a warm, almost humid day.

The sky above them was bright and cloudless. The sun’s heat was hot without being uncomfortable. And the wind, which flowed through the black strands of their hair, was strong without being pushy.

Cordelia thought that it was a morning that Alfred would have enjoyed.

Bruce led the way toward the garden, following the tracks that all the trucks had left in his otherwise perfect grass, until they were near the edge of the garden. It was there that he paused — and transformed.

One moment he was Bruce, confident and intelligent and a leader.

The next, his posture had become languid, and his head was tilting in a way that appeared bored-adjacent.

“What’s the matter?” Cordelia said, alert.

A second later, she got her answer: a red truck was driving in their direction, its tires muddy and old as it tore through the delicate grass. All three of the Wayne Manor residents stood stock still as the truck slowed to a stop a few feet ahead, and the man driving stepped out of it.

He was as unremarkable as most civilians were. Bearded with strands of grey hair peeking through the tufts of red. He wore overalls that had grass stains at the knees and were a bit tattered along the pants hem. And when he walked the short distance closer to the billionaires, Cordelia could see that his forehead was gleaming with sweat.

He was nervous.

And therefore non-threatening.

Cordelia relaxed, even when Bruce and Dick didn’t.

“Goodmornin’, Mr. Wayne,” the civilian said. His arm twitched, as if he wasn’t sure whether he should shake someone’s hand or not. “I was just giving the garden a last look-around before handing the keys off to your butler.”

As if to prove his own honesty, the man dug into his pocket and pulled out several bronze, old-fashioned keys.

Cordelia perked up with interest.

The movement caused the man to notice her — and then to notice her injured, beaten body. They all watched as his eyes traveled over the bruises and bandages along her bare arms and legs.

And then they watched him glance, with alarm, at Bruce.

And then they watched him clear his throat and say nothing about it.

Cordelia could hear Dick shift behind her, but it was Bruce who ended up speaking.

“That’s nice to hear,” he said. His tone was light and airy, and not at all Bruce. “Anything we should know about?”

The civilian must have been relieved to be asked a question, and basically told what to talk about, because he rushed into a report on the garden without a moment’s pause. Cordelia, meanwhile, had lost all interest in him. She tapped impatiently on her arm’s rest, wondering when Bruce would cut this man’s long-winded explanation on how beautiful and accurate the garden was so that they could see it for themselves. But Bruce was nodding along as if every boring word the man said was a thing of great interest.

Cordelia sighed quietly and propped her chin in her hand.

She knew that Bruce had been polite as a child, but she’d thought he’d grown out of it when he became Batman.

She also thought she might have died of boredom if she hadn’t begun to hear it.

A noise. Like a baby’s cry. Only nasally and with a sort of — vibrational — quality. A soft baaa, baaa repeated over and over with the sound of rustling leaves in the wind.

“What is that?” She asked, interrupting the strange man’s spiel.

This time, the worker didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he glanced at Bruce, almost as if he were asking permission to speak to her.

Bruce raised an eyebrow.

“Er,” the man coughed awkwardly into his fist before saying, “I can show you.”

He hurried back over to his red pick-up truck and pulled something large and silver from the back. It was only when he returned that Cordelia saw what it was: a cage.

And inside the cage… was a little lamb.

“It’s a newborn valais blacknose sheep,” the man explained.

He set the cage down in front of Cordelia, letting her look at the lamb up close. It was an adorable thing; its entire fluffy face was as black as Cordelia’s hair and so were its two floppy ears and knees, but the rest of the body was skinny and lanky and covered with soft, pure white fur.

The lamb let out a tiny baaa again and tried to stand up, but each of it’s four legs shook so badly that it fell right back down on its flat belly.

“Isn't it a little young to be away from its mother?” Dick asked, surprisingly reproachful.

The man’s answer quietened him: “She sure is, but her mother died in the Joker fires last night along with the rest of my farm. Me and the wife are hoping to find a herd willing to adopt her before we move out of city this afternoon, but it looks like the Joker burned down more than just my farm last night. It’s not looking good for the kid.”

“The kid” as he referred to the sheep baaa-ed again, leaning its head back to stare at Cordelia.

The young Wayne looked down at it with interest and held out her hand, the same way she did when she wanted to call Alfred the Cat to her. The little sheep took the hint, awkwardly wiggled forward until its wet nose bumped against Cordelia’s open palm.

“How old is she?” Cordelia asked.

She didn’t know much about animals — but she knew that they were usually quick when learning how to walk. So she wasn’t surprised when the man said, “she was born last night.”

Cordelia hummed, running her fingers through the soft fur of its forehead. It stopped baaa-ing long enough to enjoy the feeling of fingernails scraping against its scalp.

So the sheep was a newborn. New to this world, and motherless, like Cordelia.

But, unlike Cordelia, it was small and pathetic and in obvious need of her protection. The civilian who planned on shipping her off was clearly desperate, and desperation was dangerous when it meant looking for someone to care for a child. 

If Cordelia didn’t take this little lamb under her wing, then who knew what sort of abusive people it might be left with?

She had to do something.

Cordelia looked up at Bruce.

“Can I adopt her?” She asked.

Immediately after asking this, she heard how greedy she sounded. He’d already given her a garden, and now she was asking for more.

But before she could amend her request, before she could switch the word adopt to temporarily foster, Dick grinned gleefully and said, “Oh boy. Here it begins.”

Bruce shot him a resentful look.

Dick didn’t appear to take it to heart. “Go ahead, B. We all know you can’t say ‘no’ to the A word.”

“Or maybe just foster until we can find her the best home,” Cordelia said quickly. “I just want to make sure she doesn’t go to a bad family who would —“

“Cordelia,” Bruce said, cutting her off. Her mouth slammed shut, stricken. “It’s okay.”

He turned to the civilian, who was awkwardly swaying back and forth, trying to appear as if he wasn’t listening.

“We would like to adopt her,” Bruce said.

“Oh,” the man said, surprised — then shrugged. “Makes life easier for me, that’s for sure. Where would you like me to put her?”

But there was no reason for him to ask that.

The moment Cordelia heard Bruce’s answer, she’d reached down to open the cage and let the little lamb out. The lamb, clueless about most things but not clueless about freedom from frigid bars, lurched forward with all its strength. Its legs carried it for three awkward, clumsy steps before it tripped over itself.

It would have landed face-first into the hard dirt ground if Bruce didn’t catch her and plop her down on Cordelia’s lap, all without missing a beat in his conversation with the civilian.

“I’ve gotta warn you, Mister Wayne, she’s a bit of a handful,” the civilian was saying. “She spent all night scared and crying. It kept me and the wife up all the way up till morning!”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Bruce replied.

The lamb cuddled close to Cordelia and tucked its fluffy little head underneath her chin.

“It’s not the poor kid’s fault, of course,” the civilian hurried to say, realizing that he was not going to get a sympathetic ear from them. “She never got to bond with her mother or be a part of a herd, so it’s only natural that she’s clingy…. And she was born during the fires, did I tell you that? All the kid knows is death and destruction. She’s going to need a lot of love and care.”

“Hm.”

Cordelia wrapped her arms around the sheep and felt it rest its heavy body against her.

“I’m an orphan, too,” she whispered to it.

Something in her became soft and gooey when it let out a little baaa in response.

“Have you ever taken care of a newborn sheep before?” The civilian asked Bruce.

“Afraid not.”

He launched into a list of recommendations and tips as Cordelia smiled happily into the lamb’s warm, furry head. She couldn’t imagine the little thing being a handful at all. It was so quiet; it just needed hugs.

“And if you need any more advice, feel free to call me,” the civilian eventually said. “And — oh! Here are the keys to the garden. Have a nice day, Mister Wayne. And you, Sir.”

The man dipped his head to Bruce, and then to Dick, before hurrying away without a single word to Cordelia — or the lamb he was leaving behind. 

But Cordelia didn’t mind. For once in her life, she was too content with what she had in front of her to worry about what was leaving.

Chapter 48: Little Heart

Summary:

“Where did you hear that name?” He asked tightly.

“I — “ Cordelia shook her head quickly. The lamb, sensing her distress, ran into her arms and stayed there. Cordelia pressed her tightly to her chest. “My mother used to call me that. Why?”

The garden wall formed in front of them as if it were being hand-drawn; hardly noticeable at first, but then everywhere.

Silver stones rose from the soft dirt up ahead and hid half-behind waterfalls of leaves and vines and bushes. Flowers, like bursts of light and color, sprouted out from the ground beneath their feet and wheels the closer they got to this structure that was new, yet looked so incredibly and so beautifully ancient.

Their silence was a hush of awe, broken first by Bruce, who said: “Hm. It’s nice.”

Cordelia thought that this was an understatement.

Dick seemed to agree. “Spoken like a spoiled billionaire. This is amazing, and we’re not even inside yet!”

He rushed to the door with Cordelia and the lamb, as eager as a child at a trampoline park.

“Dick,” Bruce said. “Wait.”

The wheelchair slowed to a stop and Cordelia knew, without even turning, that her brother was approaching them.

It wasn’t that he made any noise. True to form, Batman was silent even in the woods where there were an endless amount of sticks and fallen leaves to step on. But she felt the shift of air as she always did — the shift that meant a lion was approaching.

Bruce stepped beside her. Cordelia craned her neck back in an effort to see his face, but her seated figure had no chance of being eye-level with his tall frame, so she was glad when he chose to kneel down in front of her, instead. And even doubly glad when she did not find threat in how he still managed to look strong and hulking in such a meek position.

Bruce, she knew, would always be a lion. But right now Bruce was a lion who saw her as a cub.

“I told you yesterday that I got you this garden for two specific reasons,” he said.

Cordelia nodded, trying to cover up the sting of the reminder. “To manipulate me.”

There was a sharp intake of breath behind her. “Bruce, what the Hell? Why would you tell her that?”

“Because it was the truth,” Bruce said, shortly and stiffly. “I also said that I got it for you as a gift, Cordelia. I thought you would be happy to have it; that it would help you feel… at peace. But after what you told me last night, I see now that there has to be a third reason.”

He reached inside his pocket to pull out the garden keys. The light from the sun glinted off the bronze surfaces, creating the beautiful illusion that each key was shining from within.

“One of these keys will be yours and yours only,” Bruce said. “The rest will go to the staff that I hired to upkeep your garden and to take care of your sheep.”

“You won’t have one?” Cordelia asked.

“No,” Bruce said seriously, “and neither will Dick or Alfred or anyone else in the family.”

Cordelia furrowed her eyebrows, confused, but carefully shifted her sleeping lamb into one arm so she could pick a glowing key from the pile. It was weighted and about the size of her palm. Small, intricate details of what looked like miniature clovers made up the head of it, and the color looked less shiny and more rustic, as if it had truly been made many years before.

Bruce continued to talk while she inspected it.

“I know that you don’t always feel safe in the house,” he said.

Cordelia was suddenly very glad that she wasn’t meeting his eyes when he said that. She kept her head down, ashamed beyond words. “I’m trying to feel safe.”

“I know you’re trying,” Bruce said. There was an edge to his voice that ate a cavity into her already handicapped heart. “I know, Cordelia. I see it every day. But you shouldn’t have to try all the time. Your home is supposed to be where you’re most comfortable.”

This was beginning to sound like another demand for her to leave — to go to boarding school, to be separated from the family. She held on tightly to the key, physical proof that she was wanted on Wayne ground, and waited for demand to come again.

“We both know that the manor isn’t going to be a place you feel safe in for a very long time,” Bruce said, “…but maybe this garden can be.”

He grabbed her hand holding the key, folding her fingers over it.

“This place is yours, Cordelia,” he said firmly. “Entirely yours. To spend all day in, if you want. To run to when the manor begins to feel too similar to the house your grew up in. To retreat to when I… when I remind you too much of the man who hurt you. For any reason, during any time, you can come here and no one will stop you. Not Alfred, not Dick… and not me.”

His words fell upon her ears like the final pieces of a puzzle.

Cordelia looked up. Thomas Wayne’s eyes peered back at her from her brother’s face but, for once, they were kind.

In the distance, there were robins calling. In the distance, there were sheep bleating. In the distance, there was probably a lot happening.

But in front of her was that look again. That love she always wanted but never had. That empathy she always needed but had to survive without.

Something pricked at the back of her eyes.

He’s a great man, Barry had once told her. One of the best. No matter what monsters he faces, he still manages to have enough compassion to offer help.

It had sounded too good to be true. Someone with the intelligence and brutality of Batman could not also be a hero. But here her brother was, being all three at once. And here she was, finally catching up to something that should have been obvious from the beginning.

A tear slipped past her lashes and down her cheek.

“Thank you,” she whispered, when what she really wanted to do was apologize. 

In the past few weeks, she’d given him more trouble than she’d ever given her father. She’d rebelled, and screamed, and broken things all in the name of righteous anger when, really, all she’d been doing was forcing Bruce to pay for some other man’s mistakes.

But Bruce did not seem to be holding a grudge. His expression was as close to soft as she could expect from Batman as he reached forward and wiped away the tear that lingered on her chin.

It was a gesture so similar to something that Alfred would have done that — for a moment — it wasn’t Thomas Wayne who he reminded her of.

“You’re welcome, Cordelia,” Bruce said, his voice like a balm to her guilt.

She rested her chin in his hand, sighing in contentment.

It was a gentle moment — one that was eventually interrupted by Dick.

“I didn’t get a heartfelt speech when you made the theatre room for me,” he said. “No fair.”

Bruce sent him a look that was neither soft nor gentle for ruining the mood. “Now is not the time, Dick.”

“It can be. Give me a speech.”

Cordelia pulled away to hide her smile behind her lamb’s sleeping head.

“No,” Bruce said.

“Aw, come on,” Dick whined. “First she’s Alfred’s favorite and now she’s yours? Can I be loved and cherished, too?”

“You’re behaving like a child.”

“And after I wheeled her all the way out here, too,” Dick continued dramatically. “I’m starting to feel overworked and under-appreciated.”

Cordelia’s giggle almost woke the lamb.

She didn’t move a muscle as it yawned quietly, not wanting to wake a creature that was finally getting a peaceful rest. But when the yawn ended, all the little lamb did was smack its lips and snuggle deep into Cordelia’s neck.

She closed her eyes and hummed happily at the feeling.

The little lamb was so warm and soft and furry. And even though it felt nothing like hugging Dick, it made her heart glow just as much.

A large hand landed on her head and ruffled her hair, startling her still.

Bruce stood to his full height and pushed the temporarily shell-shocked girl toward the garden door. “An alarm system will be installed later. But, for now, you can use your key.”

Cordelia blinked up at the door. It was made of wood as dark as the trees surrounding the clearing, and had swirling, vine-light designs carved across the entire surface. The keyhole was low, at a height that would have been perfectly situated for Cordelia if she’d been standing, and when she put her new key through it and twisted…

It made a hollow click that sent a shiver up her spine.

Bruce pushed them forward, ducking beneath the doorway, and silently let her take it all in.

Vines like rain fell from the arched walkway, stretching so low that some of them could even reach Cordelia where she sat. They brushed lovingly against her face and dragged lightly across her arms as she breathed in this new scent — a faint, yet calming smell of many flowers.

Bruce brought them deeper into the garden. Dick quietly closed the door behind them.

The sun peaked out from the passageway ahead, glinting like gold through the tree leaves and the gaps in the hedges. Flowers surrounded them in every direction; pink roses and white magnolias; bright lavenders and muted delphiniums.

But that was just the walkway.

When Bruce brought her to the end of it, when the soft dirt beneath her wheelchair’s wheels turned into slightly uneven and imperfect cobbled stone, the true beauty of the garden was revealed to her.

Colors exploded in her eyes. Mostly green, but also blue and yellow and sugary white. Flowers took up every corner, every hedge, and every tree, so that wherever Cordelia looked she would be able to see life in its most quiet and simple form. The flowers and the leaves swayed lightly in the gentle wind, dancing to the sweet sounds of birds singing and crickets chirping, as if it were a choir and they were all just spectators.

Up ahead, she could hear water running and knew, without even asking, that Bruce had also included that pond from the movie. The pond with the lily pads and little green statue at the very center.

Bruce brought them there, walking through the garden as if he knew every corner, as if he’d studied every design.

Little stone steps separated them from the pond. Dick came forward to help Bruce carry her down, and then helped him settle her in front of the water.

Cordelia leaned forward and peeked down.

The water was clearer in her garden than it was in the movie, but the shape was the same. A perfect square with a statue of a little angel reaching upward in the middle of it. Orange, giant fish swirled around each other beneath the surface of the pond, barely paying any attention to the newcomers and instead, much like Cordelia, exploring their new home.

“It’s not an exact replica,” Bruce said from behind her. “We had to make a few changes based on time and location, but this doesn’t have to be the final version. There’s a lot we can still do, like tear down a wall to make it bigger, or add glass ceilings so that the sky isn’t so open. Whatever you want, Cordelia.”

Cordelia was shaking her head before he could finish.

Tear down a wall? Add more ceilings? No.

The garden was beautiful.

More than beautiful: it was enchanting.

“It’s perfect,” Cordelia concluded.

“Nothing is perfect,” Bruce said. “I update the BatCave at least once a year. You can do the same with your garden —“

“Bruce,” Dick said with a roll of his eyes. “She said it was perfect.”

Bleating could be heard on the other side of a stone wall. Not a moment later, two white sheep came bouncing around the corner, playfully pushing against each other until they reached the pond and saw the three humans.

“Baaa,” one of the sheep said.

It and its friend waddled over to sniff at Cordelia’s, Bruce’s, and Dick’s clothing curiously.

Dick knelt down to pet one of their fluffy heads with a grin. “Do I suddenly want a sheep as a pet?”

“You can’t have sheep in your tiny apartment,” Bruce retorted.

“You once told me that I can do anything if I try hard enough.”

“Hm. That sounds nothing like me.”

The other sheep, the one that wasn’t being pet affectionately by Dick, laid its head on Cordelia’s knee the way Ace sometimes did to Alfred when he was in need of attention. Cordelia hesitantly reached down and rubbed its head.

“Baaa,” the sheep said, and pressed its head closer to her hand.

“It’s like petting a walking cloud,” Dick gushed. “Bruce, come here.”

“I’ve already inspected each of them,” Bruce said. “These were the most gentle sheep available, Cordelia. They’ll be good to you.”

“Bruce, pet this sheep right now,” Dick demanded.

Bruce glared at him but knelt down beside the animals. The sheep, to their credit, did not hesitate to approach him despite his clear discomfort. Like furry piranhas, they circled him twice before going in for the kill — by trying to crawl into his lap the moment he scratched the spots behind their ears.

“Aw,” Dick cooed.

Cordelia agreed. Her brother did look surprisingly innocent sitting in a garden with a sheep in each arm. An effect which didn’t dim when one of the sheep began to nibble at his ear, causing him to grimace.

Dick took a picture.

“Delete that,” Bruce said as he cringed away from another sheep nibble.

“It’s getting framed,” Dick said, deadpan.

Cordelia thought of all the photos hung up on the walls of Wayne Manor, of all the stiff poses and three piece suits, and thought that this photo would be her favorite of her brother's.

“You too, Little Bat,” Dick said. He lifted his phone and pointed it at her. “Say ‘cheese.’”

“Oh,” Cordelia said, suddenly shy. Her fingers tightened around the sleeping body of her little lamb as she said, “cheese.”

The camera flashed.

“Now together,” Dick said, gesturing for them to get closer.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dick, we didn’t come here for a photoshoot.”

“I did,” Dick said brightly.

He maneuvered Cordelia’s wheelchair so that it was directly beside Bruce, and then began to push and pull at them like they were two mannequins on display in a store window. By the end of it, Bruce had his arm looped around her shoulders and Cordelia was practically plastered to his side with the sleeping lamb cradled like a baby in her arms.

Only then, when neither had any personal space to speak of, did Dick seem satisfied. He was grinning from ear-to-ear, at least, when he finally backed away and held up his phone.

“Say ‘SheepFam!’” He said.

Bruce glared. “No.”

At the same time, Cordelia smiled. “SheepFam.”

There was another flash of light.

Cordelia blinked the spots out of her eyes and wondered why this timeline’s cameras had to be so bright. It took several blinks before she could see again. And, by that time, Dick was handing her the phone so she could look at the picture.

It was strange to see herself on screen, like finding out that she could exist somewhere outside of her own body. But once she managed to shove that feeling away….

It was a nice picture.

Although she had felt how awkward Bruce had been beside her, that didn’t translate to the photo. On the contrary, her brother looked more comfortable in the photo than he ever had in real life. His hair was nicely tousled by the wind; his lips pulled subtly upward at the corners; and his hand was loose and languid near her shoulder, as if he hadn’t been tense the entire time Dick was moving them.

Cordelia let her eyes linger on him, on how — how unlike their father he looked when he was around her — before moving onto herself.

She was bruised and bandaged and obviously flustered, but that was nothing new. She’d grown used to seeing the purple and yellow marks mix into her skin and decorate her face. What she wasn’t used to was seeing herself in a photo with her brother. The brother who she’d grown up imagining and daydreaming about — the brother who was now alive and solid and caring. 

The brother who had posed in pictures with his father, his mother, all of his children… and now with her.

“Do you like it?” Dick asked.

She nodded, still staring at the photo of Bruce’s smile. “Can I have a copy?”

Dick beamed. “Of course! You cutie patootie.”

Cordelia was getting used to Dick’s oddities and strange phrases, but Bruce raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t pretend like you haven’t thought the same thing,” Dick said, pointing at him. “Now are we going to look at the rest of the garden or are you going to keep snuggling with the cloud pets?”

They did end up seeing the rest of the garden. Dick wheeled Cordelia all around, stopping every time they saw a new flower and searching up its name on his phone. He spoke the entire way, too, making up for the silence from the two Waynes, and eventually petered off when they reached a wide wooden swing all the way at the back of the garden.

By that point, the little lamb in Cordelia’s arms had woken up and Dick suggested letting it learn how to walk.

That was how Cordelia ended up sitting in the grass with her lamb in front of her, watching it as it tried to control all four of its skinny legs long enough to get into a standing position. It took several face-plants and even more frustrated bleats before it managed to take one steady step and then — it was walking.

Cordelia, Bruce, and Dick all stared in interest, wondering what it would do with this newfound freedom and ability.

They did not have to wonder for long.

The lamb only walked eight paces away before sprinting as quickly as possible back into Cordelia’s arms, bleating sweetly as if she’d tried to abandon it. And then it would turn around to do the same thing again: walk eight paces, sprint to Cordelia, bleat in frustration, walk eight paces, sprint, bleat, walk eight paces, sprint, bleat — over and over again, as if it expected Cordelia to suddenly disappear if it took that ninth step.

Cordelia did not grow tired of it. She smiled every time she saw those furry black ears come flopping back in her direction — and would open her arms wide to feel the body collide against her torso.

She could not say the same for Bruce and Dick. After the fifth time the lamb did this, they both wandered off together, whispering low.

Cordelia watched them out of the corner of her eye, wondering what they were saying and worried that they’d leave. But they stayed just far enough for her not to overhear them yet close enough for her to see them glance in her direction every so often.

Cordelia wished she hadn’t promised Alfred not to eavesdrop.

“Oof,” she said, when the lamb ran into her stomach again.

“Baaa,” it said, an accusatory note in its voice as it stared up at her.

Cordelia’s lips twitched, momentarily forgetting her brother and nephew. “I haven’t moved an inch, little lamb.”

“Baaa. Baaa baaa baaa baaa —“

It fell silent as Cordelia scratched its forehead.

“You are very demanding,” Cordelia told it. The black eyes were half closed as it enjoyed the pets. “But that’s okay. You just miss your mom, don’t you?”

The lamb hobbled into her lap and rested its head on her shoulder.

Her heart began to glow again.

“I know what that’s like,” Cordelia said softly. The lamb let out a small sigh as it relaxed against her, releasing all the nervous energy that had it sprinting back and forth in front of her. “It’s like losing every star in the night’s sky all at once. Things get dark. But I’m not going to let it get as bad for you.”

She circled her arms around the lamb. It nuzzled her cheek in response.

“You’re my little lamb now,” she gently kissed its nose. “I’m going to take care of you.”

It couldn’t have understood her words, but her tone must have been enough. Because, suddenly, its nuzzles intensified. Cordelia squealed and giggled at the ticklish feeling, a sound which only encouraged the lamb even further.

It rubbed and pushed its nose against her face, sometimes softly nipping at her ear and nose, in what could only be a lamb version of a kiss.

Cordelia squeezed her eyes shut, smiling, at the sniffly sounds it made.

Animals were so weird. She could not imagine ever doing something like this to Alfred.

They stayed like that for a while — Cordelia giggling and the lamb nuzzling — until the creature tired itself out and fell asleep on her chest. And Cordelia, also tired from the medication she took, laid back in the grass.

The sky was bright blue up above. Normally, it would be much too early for a nap. But Cordelia had been honest with Bruce about how medication affected her: whenever she took it, she’d feel so exhausted that she could fall asleep mid-grappling hook if she wasn’t vigilante. Which was why it was best to leave medication until after patrol.

Luckily, she was nowhere dangerous this afternoon.

She was in her garden. With her little lamb. And with the soft green grass like a mattress beneath her back. And the rumbling hum of Bruce and Dick talking nearby. And the slowly darkening world as her eyelids slid shut and….

---

Sharp, angry bleating woke her up.

“Bruce, it’s fine,” Dick was saying. “I know how to shop.”

“Don’t get anything ridiculous,” Bruce responded as if he didn’t hear what his son had said.

Cordelia blinked around lethargically; half awake and half asleep, yet still trying to make sense of her surroundings.

They were no longer in the garden, but in the entrance hall of Wayne Manor. Cordelia herself was seated in her wheelchair near the stairs, the seat adjusted so that she could lean back as if in a lounge chair — while Bruce and Dick were standing near the front door of the house with her little lamb.

Her lamb who was bleating angrily over the sound of them talking.

“I’ll get what’s on the list,” Dick said.

“Exactly what’s on the list.”

“Fine, fine,” Dick rolled his eyes. “I won’t get it a fancy sheep castle. Can I go now? I don’t speak lamb, but I’m pretty sure she’s been telling me to hurry up and leave for the past twelve minutes.”

“BAAAA.”

Bruce, who was holding the lamb, rubbed his ears before saying, “Yes. Go. And hurry back.”

“BAAAA!”

The little lamb gave a mighty kick into Bruce’s chest. Surprised, he let go, allowing her to hop right out of his arms, crash land into Alfred’s hallway table, break his expensive vase, and sprint down the hallway.

Bruce and Dick stared in the direction she disappeared, slack-jawed.

Cordelia, meanwhile, could barely comprehend what had happened. Her eyelids felt sticky.

“Welp,” Dick said, hand on the front door. “Good luck with babysitting duty. Call me as a last resort.”

Bruce glared at him. “Is this your idea of hurrying?”

Dick saluted him, grinning, and left the manor — leaving Bruce to look between the broken vase and the hallway, debating on which problem to confront first, and eventually deciding on finding the lamb.

Cordelia blinked slowly at his retreating back.

Although she felt like she was awake, a part of her couldn’t help but question that fact. Was it really possible that she’d just witnessed Batman getting bested by a little lamb? 

It couldn’t be.

And it took several more slow, long blinks before she realized that it actually could. Her brother, who tracked down criminals for fun, was now tracking a furry farm animal around his house.

She rubbed her eyes again.

Cordelia could no longer hear any bleating. And maybe it was the drugs, but she found that she was not worried. The house might have been large, but it was a house full of detectives. Even if the lamb managed to find the very best hiding spot these old walls could offer, it would never have been good enough to hide away from the Bats.

That Cordelia knew all too well.

She yawned and straightened her back, not liking the ache she felt at the movement. The drugs were wearing off — and the last place she wanted to be when she felt all those pains again was in a leather wheelchair, no matter how advanced and comfort-focused the design was.

The buttons beneath the armrest let her control the movement of the chair without having to manually turn the wheel. She pressed a few, testing out their purposes, before finding the only relevant ones: front, back, left, and right.

She tiredly guided her own wheelchair toward the elevator and pressed the button, ready to take an early bedtime. But it was not meant to be. Any trace of sleepiness — any trace of confusion or apathy — was completely washed from her when she saw who was standing at the other side of the elevator doors.

Alfred, too, froze at the sight of her.

The last time she saw him, he was tucked into his bed with a fire warming his room. She’d drugged him, given him a kiss on the forehead, and then left to fight for Batgirl.

Now she could see the consequences of that.

Alfred was pale and even a little green. His balding head had beads of sweat on it; his white-gloved hands shook at his sides, and his thin lips looked chapped and dehydrated — as if he hadn’t just woken up from a long nap, but was actually fighting the flu.

But even worse… much, much worse… was the way he was looking at her: with fear so palpable he could have wielded it as a weapon against her.

It felt like a weapon against her.

Cordelia did not know what to do. She wanted to run away, to go back to Gotham, to go back to the Joker, to go anywhere where she didn’t have to face an Alfred who was afraid of her. But her fingers were clenched around her armrests so fiercely that even she could not unfold them long enough to press a button and escape.

The elevator doors tried to close between them.

Alfred stepped out before they could. And still, he didn’t say anything. He wasn’t even trying to form a polite greeting like he would for a stranger.

He didn’t trust her anymore. He didn’t care for her anymore.

Cordelia might have gained Bruce’s love, but she lost Alfred’s friendship — and she knew, without having to think about it, that it wasn’t worth it.

She’d already lived a life where she lost Alfred. It had been a dreadful one. It was not a life that she looked back on fondly. It was not a life that she wanted to return to.

Even the idea of going back, of living in an Alfred-less world again, sent her into a panic.

She’d — she’d frightened him. But that didn’t mean the end. Bruce had frightened her more than once, and those times hadn’t been the end.

All she had to do was fight for him. Beg for him.

Let him know that she would never hurt him again, the same way Bruce did with her.

It had to be enough. There was nothing else that she could give.

“Alfred…” she began, but did not know how to finish.

Her voice, shaky with remorse and dread, made Alfred pale even further. “Miss Cordelia.”

Cordelia felt like throwing up. This man had once nursed her back to health; he’d once made her an entire batch of cookies just to cheer her up. Now all she had to do was speak in order to make him — make him sound choked and frightened. 

It was a sound that cut straight to her heart.

And that pain — that sharp, stinging, writhing pain in her chest — let her know that when she chose Batgirl over Alfred yesterday, she’d chosen wrong. Because losing Batgirl hadn’t felt half as painful as this.

Losing Alfred felt like dying.

All thoughts of what would Bruce do in this situation fled her, because in life and death scenarios, decisions were never rational.

Which was why Cordelia found herself standing up from her wheelchair, ignoring the sharp pains in her legs at the movement, and throwing her arms around his middle.

It was so stupid. If Bruce had done this to her yesterday, she would have been terrified. But when Cordelia was sad, she wanted Alfred — so that’s where her instincts took her, even when Alfred no longer wanted her.

“Alfred, I’m so sorry,” Cordelia’s tears were soaking his tuxedo as she clung to him desperately. She dreaded the moment when she’d feel his hands on her shoulders, trying to push her away. She wondered if she’d be selfless enough to let go. “I did something so terrible. I know I did. I can see it on everyone’s face every time it’s mentioned. Like I’m a monster. But I promise I’ve been trying to get better, to learn from you because — because I respect you so much and I want you more than anyone else in my entire life to be proud of me, but I keep making stupid mistakes and I know that — that this one is something that you can’t forgive me for.”

She was sobbing wretchedly as she said it, her entire body shaking as if trying to rid herself of the truth in those words.

Her fingernails dug into the back of his tuxedo jacket like claws.

“But I really want you to forgive me, Alfred,” she said. “I don’t want you to stop caring. You’ve been so kind to me, and I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”

“Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said. He was tense in her arms.

She held on tighter. “Please, don’t be scared of me, Alfred. Please.”

Cordelia didn’t know how Bruce was able to bear it: seeing the people he cared for frightened of him. Just hearing the way Alfred said her name made her want to crawl into her room and never come out.

“I’ll never hurt you again,” she wept, her voice cracking and crumbling the longer he didn’t hug her back. “I’ll die before I hurt you. I will go back to the Joker and let him kill me before I hurt you.”

That’s when she felt it: hands at her shoulders, pushing her away.

Everything inside of her died.

Alfred took a step away from her, a step away from her clinginess and her monstrous behavior.

He was pale.

“Miss Cordelia,” he began, in a voice that rang with alarm. “You will do no such thing.”

She blinked at him through her tears, uncomprehending. “…What?”

“To say such things,” Alfred said, shaking his head. “How could you think that I’d ever want that?”

His hands were still on her shoulders, shaky but strong as they kept her away from him but not out of reach. His lips were pulled into a familiar disappointed frown. And his eyes, once wide with fright, were looking down at her with blatant disapproval.

This was not the look of a scared man.

This was a look of an authority figure prepared to give a lecture.

“You’re not scared of me,” Cordelia realized.

“You are not as frightening as you think you are,” Alfred sniffed.

“Then why…” Cordelia trailed off. Had she imagined that look of fear? Was her paranoia getting out of control? “You looked scared before. I saw it.”

“That is because, when I fell asleep, you were moody yet unharmed. And now you are not. Now you are bound to a wheelchair and discussing the benefits of death,” Alfred said. His fingers squeezed her shoulders gently. “My dear, what on earth happened?”

Cordelia, reeling from Alfred’s easy forgiveness, prattled off her report with the steadiness of a soldier. She told him about the woman she’d saved and their conversation, about her discovery of the white semi trucks, about the Joker’s plans, and then about Bruce coming in at the very last minute to save her.

When she was done, Alfred had urged her back into her wheelchair seat, and was pushing her to her bedroom.

It was all almost normal, minus the wheelchair and the bruises.

It was all weird because it was normal.

“I thought you would be mad at me,” Cordelia confessed hesitantly after Alfred had tucked her into bed and closed her bedroom curtains.

“I was furious,” Alfred said honestly. He handed her the television remote. “As a matter of fact, I had an entire speech prepared for you. But the sight of the wheelchair shocked every shred of fury from my system. I thought… well, Miss Cordelia, I thought it was a permanent accessory for you. At least, I did until you leapt out of it and attacked me.”

Cordelia glanced at the wheelchair — the thing that she’d hated the moment Dick showed it to her.

It had been her saving grace.

“You can still give me the speech,” Cordelia said. “I deserve it.”

Alfred shook his head at her in a way that he probably meant to be exasperated, but turned out looking a little sad. “I think you’ve had quite enough people being mad at you to last a lifetime. My child… my dear child, you deserve anything but.”

Cordelia did not agree. If anyone deserved to be mad at her, it was Alfred. But he’d called her his child, and even though it was probably a generic phrase that he used for everyone, she did not want a lecture to follow two words that made her feel so special.

 “Now where is Master Bruce?” Alfred asked, unaware of the absolute adoration filling her heart. “Why were you left unattended in a wheelchair?”

“He’s chasing a little lamb,” Cordelia said.

“…Do I want to know what that means, Miss Cordelia?”

She frowned, confused. “Don’t you?”

Luckily, Cordelia did not have to spend a long time explaining to Alfred how perfectly literally she was being because, at that moment, they heard a noise.

It was the sound of little hooves clomping as they raced through the hallway. 

Both Alfred and Cordelia turned just in time to see it: a black and white lamb speeding past her bedroom and toward Bruce’s.

“Baaa, baaa, BAAAA.”

Bruce ran by thirty seconds later.

Alfred blinked several times, hard. “Miss Cordelia… did the drugs you gave me, by any chance, have hallucinogens in them?”

“Of course not.”

“So that was, indeed, Master Bruce chasing a little lamb?”

Cordelia hummed. “Yes. But you should tell him to stop. He has a huge stitch in his side that he’s not being careful with.”

“…Very well. I will have a chat with him. You rest, Miss Cordelia. I will be back with your lunch shortly.”

---

The next few weeks in Wayne Manor pass by in a calm, relaxing, happy little blur.

Every morning, Cordelia would wake up with her lamb snuggled into the space between her shoulder and neck. It’s gentle snores would fill her room along with the sun as she waited for Alfred to come and help her get ready for the day.

And then, at breakfast, she would be served her favorite dishes with a side of pain medication — and her lamb would be served a warm bottle of milk.

Cordelia loved feeding her lamb. It was messy and always ate like it was starving, but the way it wagged its tail never failed to make her heart glow. Especially afterward, when its belly was full and it began to nuzzle her face with a wet, smelly mouth.

Then, when both were done eating, Cordelia would wheel them outside to begin the lamb’s lessons.

As it turned out, the lamb had a lot to learn. It seemed like every day it did something to stress Alfred out, such as breaking an expensive vase or urinating on an expensive rug. And since Cordelia could only handle so many near panic attacks at the thought of Bruce discovering how destructive her lamb was, she created a lesson plan.

Lesson number one — the lesson that was taking weeks to complete — was how to only use the bathroom outdoors.

“Please, little lamb,” Cordelia said desperately, “you just had a whole bottle of warm milk. There is no way that you don’t have to use the bathroom right now.”

It was hopping like a bunny around her, not paying any mind at all to her tone or her stress.

“If you keep being bad, Bruce will find out,” Cordelia said. “He might try to send you away. You don’t want that to happen, do you?”

The lamb stopped hopping.

Cordelia sighed in relief, before realizing that it wasn’t her words that had gotten the lamb’s attention. She followed its line of sight over her shoulder and toward the doors of the manor. Bruce was making his way over to them, wearing a nice jacket and sunglasses — both of which he only ever wore if he was leaving the house and expecting paparazzi.

Cordelia straightened her back, wondering what he could want. He stopped walking a few paces away, face unreadable behind the glasses.

“Alfred told me that you’re having difficulty controlling the lamb,” he said. When the blood drained from Cordelia’s face, he continued, “Would you like my help?”

“No, thank you,” Cordelia said.

The lamb started to hop around her again, its ears flopping every time it landed.

Bruce knelt down beside them. “I admit that Damian and Alfred are better at tr — teaching animals, but I still learned a thing or two that might be useful.”

“She’s only had a few accidents,” Cordelia said. “She’ll get better.”

“She ruined four rugs and broke five vases.”

Cordelia stared at him in horror. “Alfred told on us?”

“Personally, I don’t care about rugs or vases, but he told me that I needed to replace them,” Bruce sighed. “And then he lectured me for not helping you more with the lamb’s lessons.”

“Oh.”

That made her feel better. Even though Alfred and the lamb weren’t getting along as well as she thought they would, she doubted Alfred would put the lamb into a stressful position.

“Okay,” Cordelia agreed. “But — be patient with her. She’s just a kid.”

Bruce nodded and sat down in the grass beside her. “What’s her name?”

“She doesn’t have one,” Cordelia said.

Truthfully, she hadn’t thought to give her one. Every time she spoke to the little lamb, she would say exactly that: “little lamb.”

“She needs something to respond to,” Bruce said. “Do you have ideas?”

Cordelia shook her head. The little lamb, a few feet away, was still hopping and trotting around — as energetic as Dick after a cup of coffee.

She loved how much her little lamb reminded her of Dick. And it did often. From the way it hopped around to how affectionate it was with her. In fact, every time Cordelia hugged her, she felt like she was also hugging her nephews.

It was like having a miniature, fluffy version of them. Except that this one seemed to enjoy being cared for and coddled, while both Dick and Jason did not.

“I want to name her Little Heart,” Cordelia decided.

It had been her mother’s nickname for her. She’d never asked her mother why, but she felt like she didn’t need to. It was a name that meant Love — and that’s what Cordelia felt for Dick, Jason, and her little lamb.

Cordelia turned to Bruce, expecting a nod of approval.

But Bruce was pale.

“What?” Cordelia said. There was panic in her voice. “I’ll change it.”

She couldn’t read his eyes. He hid them. But his mouth was pressed so firmly together that they were nearly gone.

“Where did you hear that name?” He asked tightly.

“I — “ Cordelia shook her head quickly. The lamb, sensing her distress, ran into her arms and stayed there. Cordelia pressed her tightly to her chest. “My mother used to call me that. Why?”

Bruce stared at her, long and quiet. Cordelia did not know what he wanted from her.

“I’ll name her something else,” she said. “Like… Fluffy.”

There was a pause.

“The name is fine,” Bruce said.

“You’re upset,” Cordelia hesitantly pointed out.

“Not at you,” he said, but didn’t elaborate further. “Put her down. She has a lot to learn.”

It took an entire hour before Cordelia was able to relax again. That look Bruce had given her when she decided the lamb’s name was something that was going to stick in her detective mind for a while, along with a whole bunch of other questions like: where did Bruce hear that name?

“Very good, Little Heart,” Bruce said suddenly. “We’re extremely proud of you.”

Cordelia blinked the questions out of her eyes to focus on Bruce’s lesson. Little Heart was squat three feet in front of them, relieving herself.

“Baaa,” she said.

When she was finished, she trotted over and was treated with congratulatory pats on the head from both the Waynes.

“I’m on my way to the store to get her treats and diapers,” Bruce told Cordelia. “The diapers will be temporary until she begins to only use the bathroom outdoors.”

Cordelia scooped Little Heart into her arms. Her eyes were on Bruce’s, curious. “You go to stores?”

She’d never seen nor heard of Bruce visiting shopping centers. For the most part, he only ever dressed in clothes that hinted toward business outings.

“Not usually,” Bruce said. “But my friend heard of the lamb and she is excited to pick out a few things for her. She’s what you’d call an animal person.”

The way he said ‘friend’ made Cordelia suspicious. “Your friend isn’t Miss Everlott, is she?”

“Not even close,” Bruce said. “I kept my promise and haven’t spoken to her since.”

Cordelia hummed, not sure if she should believe him or not. But it was beginning to drizzle, and getting her lamb away from Gotham’s cold rain was more important than anything Miss Everlott could ever do, so she let Bruce help her into the wheelchair and push her back to her room.

Usually, by this time in the afternoons, Cordelia would either take a nap or play video games with Dick. His favorites were racing car games. But that afternoon, Cordelia got a visit from Dr. Thompkins who — for once — gave her good news.

Cordelia no longer had to be constrained to a wheelchair.

There was a very brief discussion about making her switch to crutches, but that idea was quickly vetoed by Alfred, who saw tears of frustration begin to form in Cordelia’s eyes as she accused Dr. Thompkins of purposely trying to humiliate her.

Dr. Thompkins ended up leaving with her crutches, and a very pointed remark about spoiling teenagers.

But Cordelia forgot all about Dr. Thompkins the moment she got what she wanted. Because, for the first time in weeks, she was able to walk around the manor with everyone else. And, even more exciting, she didn’t have to hide away from the public and stay on Wayne Grounds.

Cordelia rushed into Dick’s room to let him know. He’d been telling her almost every day that, once she was better, they could finish their plans and go to the movies. So, now that she was better, she was determined to cash in on that promise.

Only, once she walked into Dick’s room, she realized that she should have knocked.

Her nephew was sitting in bed with his laptop, talking to a woman. Which would have been fine — except the way the woman was talking was so flirtatious that Cordelia wanted to rip her own ears off and never hear again.

“Somethingcameupgottagobye!” Dick shouted.

He slammed his laptop closed and gawked at the red-faced teenager staring at him from across the room.

“Sorry,” she said.

“No problem,” he said hurriedly, although his face was becoming nearly as red as her own. “That was just — a friend — we were… talking. Anyway, look at you! Finally got out of that wheelchair, huh?”

Cordelia nodded, still feeling very awkward. “I’ll leave.”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “We weren’t — um. Where’s Bruce?”

“On a date with an animal person,” Cordelia said. “I thought… you and I could go to the movies?”

She knew the answer the moment it left her mouth. Dick began rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe tomorrow, kid. Okay?”

Despite her awkwardness, she couldn’t help but feel disappointed at the rejection. She’d waited weeks to spend time with Dick outside the manor. There were only so many times she could lose at video games against him before she started thinking that maybe there were better things to do.

She turned to leave.

“Cordelia, hey,” he said, voice apologetic. “I’m sorry. Now is just a really bad time.”

“I understand,” she said.

Everyone had someone but her.

“Maybe Alfred can take you to the movies today,” Dick said.

“He’s working.”

“Then let me call Bruce,” he said, and dug into his pockets for a phone. “This is your first day out of the wheelchair. You should be out celebrating.”

“But he’s on a date,” Cordelia said.

Dick shrugged. “He bails on dates all the time.”

Cordelia drew closer to the door, not wanting to hear another rejection. But Dick dialed Bruce’s number with the quickness of familiarity and, by then, she had no choice but to stay.

It only took one ring for Bruce to pick up.

“Bruce, we have good news,” Dick said, and sent her a cheerful thumbs up. “Cordelia is out of her wheelchair…! No, I don’t see any crutches…. I didn’t ask, but she looks fine…. Bruce, this was not the point of my call. Ask Leslie…. I’m not doing that —…. Geez, Bruce, no. Can you just listen…? Great. Thank you. Anyway, I called to let you know that Cordelia wants to celebrate with you…. Yup, she asked for you specifically, because she loves you so much. And she was really looking forward to going into the City with you today…. Yeah, today. Right now. And before you say ‘no,’ just know that she’s giving me that look again and she’ll most likely give it to you tenfold if you reject her.”

Cordelia wanted to run back to her room. She couldn’t hear what Bruce was saying, but from what she could hear — he was pushing back.

She’d rather get told that she was rejected than see it first hand.

“Really?” Dick said with actual surprise. “Great! I’ll let her know.”

He hung up his phone and smiled brightly at her. Cordelia took her hand off the doorknob.

“He wants to hang out with you, too,” Dick said. “He said to wear a dress. You’re both going to have a celebratory lunch at his favorite restaurant.”

Notes:

🥷🕵️♂️👱♀️⚔️

Chapter 49: The First Time They Met

Summary:

“That’s her?” The Joker screeched.

A thin finger was pointed at Cordelia like an accusation.

Alfred stood up quickly, angling his body so that the green-haired woman and her anger were hidden from view. “Mrs. Wayne, it is lovely to see you again.”

Notes:

TRIGGER WARNING: Death, Blood, Child Abuse, and Child Neglect

(also, everyone who guessed right with the emojis in the last chapter has earned their BatDetective badges 🦇)

Everyone was staring, whispering. Cordelia glanced at Bruce to see if he noticed — or if he cared. But Bruce had a mask on; not the blank one that was hard to read, but the dope-y one that was even harder to read.

Cordelia looked back at the crowd.

His favorite restaurant was spacious and dark with the ceilings so high that it almost looked like the night sky. There weren’t many tables, but the tables that they did have were placed along the walls near the windows, where each seated person could have a view of the Gotham skyline.

Except, no one was staring at the Gotham skyline.

They were staring at the Waynes — or, more specifically, Little Heart in Cordelia’s arms.

When Bruce had come back from his date to pick Cordelia up, he’d come back with two arms full of gifts for the lamb. So, as Alfred finished covering up her lingering injuries with makeup, Bruce had presented them with the toys he’d bought to keep Little Heart entertained, the diapers to keep the house clean, and the accessories that his “friend” insisted every young girl needed.

Cordelia had been delighted. Not because she thought Little Heart actually needed any of those things, but because it felt nice to see her lamb being accepted into Bruce’s heart.

“Can she come, too?” Cordelia had asked her brother.

“That would be most inappropriate, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred had interjected. “A restaurant is not a place for pets.”

“But she’s more than a pet to me,” Cordelia had said. “And she gets scared when I leave her alone for too long. Please, Bruce?”

Bruce had hesitated.

“She will be perfectly fine with Master Dick,” Alfred had said. “He has no plans for tonight and will be able to watch her while you’re gone.”

Cordelia, who knew what Dick was doing in the next room, hugged her innocent lamb close. “Bruce, she’s basically been in the wheelchair with me the entire time. It’s her celebration, too.”

It was this logical argument that made him give in to her request.

“No one will say anything to our faces, Alfred,” Bruce had decided. “And, if they do, I will be able to deal with them. You can take the lamb, Cordelia.”

Cordelia had beamed; Alfred had sighed.

But the old butler did not present any further arguments. Instead, he began to get the lamb ready. He’d taken her a bath, scrubbed her curly white and black fur, fit her into a diaper, and then laid out all her accessories for the best option.

“A diamond collar, Master Bruce?” Alfred said with a raised white eyebrow.

“Selena must have snuck that one in there,” Bruce frowned.

“It matches the bracelet you gave me, Alfred,” Cordelia said, holding her wrist close to it to show him.

It did match. Both the old Wayne tennis bracelet and the tiny collar twinkled like little stars as they caught the light. And that’s how it was decided what Little Heart would wear to her first outing.

Only, now that Cordelia was actually in the restaurant, she wished that she’d chosen something less flashy for her lamb.

All the eyes on them were making her anxious. Were all these people simply curious about a diapered, diamond-wearing lamb? Or were there darker intentions lurking in the shadows?

A waiter approached them.

“Greetings, Mr. Wayne,” the man said. “Right this way.”

Bruce dipped his chin regally in a nod, and then held out his elbow for Cordelia to take. She gingerly curled her fingers around his arm as Alfred had instructed her to do before they’d left, and then let him lead her toward the table.

Their table was even more isolated than the rest. It was much further past the main area, giving them freedom from all those staring gazes, and a few feet away from a water fountain that was just loud enough to give them privacy.

The view was excellent, as well. While the other tables would see the surrounding buildings in their windows, Bruce and Cordelia got to see the calm waters of the dark Harbor.

Bruce pulled out her seat for her before sitting down himself.

“Will you have drinks to start with?” The waiter asked.

Cordelia stared at the menu.

“Iced tea for both of us,” Bruce said.

“And… for the lamb?” The waiter said.

“A high chair,” Bruce said.

There was a brief moment of hesitation, as if the waiter was going to say something, but ultimately decided against it. Cordelia watched as he gave a surprisingly low bow, and left them to get their drinks.

“Do you think they have high chairs here?” Cordelia asked Bruce. “It doesn’t look like they do.”

“If they don’t, then they will send someone to get one for her,” Bruce said. He looked her over, taking in her squared shoulders and the way she was clutching Little Heart to her chest. “Have you been to a restaurant before?”

“Yes,” she said.

A few times. When her targets were successful business people. She’d never actually sat down at a table to eat.

“Everyone was staring,” Cordelia said.

Bruce hummed. “I noticed. They are mostly curious.”

“Mostly?”

“A few have plans against me,” he said. “But nothing life-threatening.”

Cordelia looked back at the main room, at all the seated bodies and wondered which wanted to hurt her brother. “Do you want me to do something about it?”

“This lunch is a celebration, Cordelia,” Bruce said, “not a mission.”

He picked up her menu and held it up to her. Cordelia had to let go of Little Heart with one hand to grab it.

“You’re nervous,” Bruce said. “You’re making Little Heart nervous, too.”

She was. The lamb was sitting stiffly in her lap with its tiny, dark face pressed into Cordelia’s ribcage.

“You’re going to go to a lot of restaurants in your lifetime, Cordelia,” Bruce said calmly. “This is what it’s like to be a Wayne. Getting stared at, getting critiqued. You need to start getting used to it.”

The view to the main room was not as clear as it had been, but she could still see some heads turned in their direction. She could see people leaning in close to each other to whisper.

“It’s not the critiques that bother me,” Cordelia said. “It’s the attention. Attention is dangerous.”

Especially for her lamb, who did not know how to defend herself. If a fight broke out, then Cordelia would have to be vigilant not just for herself and Batman, but also Little Heart.

It almost felt like too much.

“When you start going to school, you will have even more attention on you,” Bruce said matter-of-factly. “For eight hours every day. What will you do then?”

There was a familiar lilt to his voice, one that Alfred used when he was testing her on etiquette. And, in his eyes, he could also see that he was reading her, trying to see — what? If she can handle being a Wayne?

If that was the case, then this was a test that she needed to pass. He was already trying to take Batgirl away from her, she could not lose Cordelia Wayne, too.

She forced her shoulders to relax. “…I guess I’d have to find a way to deal with it.”

Bruce squinted at her, doubting her sincerity, but finally nodded in approval when Cordelia took her eyes off the main area to read the menu. “Good.”

They read through all the options for their meals, even picking out an appetizer that they both liked, by the time the waiters came back. One of them — their original waiter — held a tray of their iced tea, while the other tried to carry the high chair and keep his dignity at the same time.

He couldn’t have left fast enough.

“Is the table ready to order?” The remaining waiter asked.

Cordelia settled the lamb into the high chair as Bruce ordered for the both of them, something that Alfred told her to expect — along with expecting Bruce to lead her when they walked, to open every door that they went through, and to pull out any chair she was going to sit in.

It was surprising, really, how much etiquette required that she do almost nothing but wear a nice gown and expensive jewelry.

Cordelia took a sip of her iced tea.

Her reflection in the glass was almost unrecognizable. Alfred had covered every single one of her lingering injuries, making her skin appear smooth and unblemished. He’d done her hair, as well, taking it out of the simple ponytail she’d originally wanted to wear and pushing silver, sparkling pins into it, instead.

The dress she wore was also something she hadn’t picked out. Black, silk, and floor-length. Too delicate to run in; not much protection if someone tried to stab her.

At least she had her heels to stab back with.

“I look like I’m undercover,” she told Bruce after the waiter walked away. “Do you ever go undercover?”

“Sometimes,” Bruce said.

Cordelia looked at him in surprise. Not because he had gone undercover before — it was pretty much standard for a Bat — but because he hadn’t immediately shut down conversation about their vigilante life.

Ever since the fiasco with the Joker, he’d made it pretty clear that he didn’t want her talking about anything remotely close to Batgirl.

Now she had an opening.

“If you ever need help,” Cordelia hedged. “It’s one of my biggest strengths.”

“You’ve gone undercover?” Bruce asked.

Cordelia cheered internally. “So many times! Father always said that I have a talent for telling people what they want to hear. Tricking them into doing what I wanted. It’s why he recruited me as Batgirl in the first place….” She trailed off, giving Bruce a slanted look. “He sent me in when we needed information we couldn’t punch out of someone. I can do that for you, too. If you want.”

Cordelia was disappointed to see Bruce frown. “Who could you possibly have been tricking at nine years-old well enough to be recruited as a Bat?”

That question surprised her, much like a question about why the grass was green would surprise her, but she thought back to try to find an answer for him anyway.

She could only vaguely remember the night before her entire life changed. The night before she went from a neglected little girl to an abused one; a civilian to a Bat.

It had been dark in the Manor, as it always was back then. She hadn’t been tall enough yet to reach the light switches, and Alfred had no longer been there to turn them on for her. So little Cordelia had walked around in the dark aimlessly, not knowing what she was looking for, but in constant search of it.

And then… she’d walked into the sitting room and saw her father.

He was sitting on the armchair directly across from the large family portrait — the perfect one that showed him, his wife, and his son side-by-side.

Little Cordelia couldn't see his face in the dark, but she could see his silhouette. His large, muscular shoulders; his strong, thick legs; the way his fist curled around the neck of a bottle.

He’d been terrifying. He’d been awe-inspiring. Like a god.

A mysterious, ill-tempered god that she wanted more than anything to impress.

Lightning had flashed. It lit the room, revealing Cordelia’s hiding spot near the door.

Thomas Wayne turned to her. His eyes were red, but this time not from alcohol.

He was crying.

“I don’t remember,” Cordelia said, when she discovered that she had no memory after that point. “Probably Alfred. Father once told me that if I can trick a man into dying for me then I can trick a paranoid drug dealer into giving me all the names of his underlings. He was right. I never failed an undercover mission.”

Bruce’s frown deepened.

The waiter came back with their appetizer before he could ask anymore questions: a platter of several mini fruit galettes.

Cordelia had to stop Little Heart from trying to climb onto the table to eat one.

“These aren’t for you, silly thing,” Cordelia said.

She placed the lamb back in her lap and gave her a lamb treat from her purse. Little Heart’s tail wagged happily through the hole in her diaper the entire time she ate it, and then even more as she nuzzled Cordelia’s face excitedly for another treat.

“You like them?” Cordelia giggled. “Uncle Brucie got them for you. Say thank you to Uncle Brucie.”

She held the diapered lamb up to her brother, wanting to make him smile, too — but Little Heart chose to nibble his ear instead of nuzzle him.

Bruce’s face scrunched up.

Giggling could be heard in the main area of the restaurant. And then, horrifyingly, there was a camera flash.

“Cordelia,” Bruce sighed.

She drew backwards with the lamb.

“That picture is going to be everywhere,” he muttered tiredly.

“Sorry,” Cordelia said. Little Heart’s back was pressed against her chest, the warmth of her body giving her comfort. “I thought she would make you laugh.”

“It’s fine,” he said, his tone neither forgiving nor accusatory.

The ambiguity encouraged her to apologize again. “I really am sorry, Bruce —“

“Cordelia,” he said. “It’s okay. I’ve had more embarrassing pictures out there.”

His lips were pulled into a smile. She wasn’t sure if it was fake or not.

“Um,” she said, squinting at it. “Okay.”

Bruce pushed the platter of appetizers closer to her.

Cordelia took one and bit into it, eyes widening at the flavor. It was absolutely delicious; the fruit tasting sweet and fresh.

“I’m glad you’re getting along with her,” Bruce said as she finished her galette. “I’ve never seen you so happy.”

“It’s hard not to get along with her,” Cordelia said. She reached for a second galette. “She’s really sweet and excitable. Like Dick. Doesn’t she remind you of him?”

They both looked down at the lamb, who was staring blankly at Bruce with her tongue poked out.

“The spitting image,” Bruce said.

Cordelia smiled happily and gave Little Heart three quick kisses.

“Tell me what happened,” Bruce said after she finished her third galette.

“With what?” She asked.

“The Alfred you knew. You said he died for you.”

Cordelia looked at him curiously. It was rare that he asked her about her timeline, especially after he’d found out the truth about their father. “Why? Our Alfred is safe.”

“For now,” Bruce said. “But our timelines aren’t completely different. Both had a Batman, and both had a Joker. In both timelines, a gunman killed at least one Wayne in Crime Alley.”

“So you think I might trick Alfred into dying for me here, too?”

“No. I don’t think your nine year-old self was capable of manipulating a man as intelligent and astute as Alfred Pennyworth,” Bruce said. There was disdain in his tone that she didn’t think was directed at her. “It’s most likely that Alfred died for you because he loved you, as he does here. That’s no mystery to me. What I need to know is what circumstances led up to the point where he needed to step in between you and certain death.”

Cordelia ran her fingers through Little Heart’s soft fur.

If there was one thing that was made clear to her the moment she stepped foot in Bruce’s home, it was that nothing filled her brother with more emotion than discussion about their father. At first, he’d been filled with awe and curiosity. And then….

“Are you sure you want to know?” Cordelia asked. In her mind’s eye, she could see Bruce looming over her, shaking her, demanding to know a truth he wasn’t ready to accept. “It has to do with Father and… I don’t want you to feel bad.”

Her admission was met with a hum. From across the table, Bruce stared at her, his eyes as blue as they had been the first time he took her down to the Cave. Two icy, analytical lights in the darkness. But when he spoke, his voice was the smooth, gentle grumble that she heard after the explosion: “I won’t get angry, Cordelia.”

She tentatively took in his expression, before nodding.

It was not as if their father had done anything particularly horrible that night, anyway —

Footsteps were drawing close to the table. Both Waynes quickly gathered themselves, closing off their expressions as the waiter returned with their food.

“Salmon en papillote for Mr. Wayne,” the waiter said as he placed Bruce’s food very carefully in front of him. “And a croque madame for the miss.”

Cordelia didn’t speak until the waiter left and — even then — she did not dare say a word for a couple minutes after. It was only when Bruce seemed to give up on her, relaxing his shoulders as he cut into his salmon, that she began the story.

“Father blamed me for Alfred’s death,” she said softly, “but it was the Joker who slit his throat.”

Bruce froze, knife and fork closed in each fist.

Cordelia kept speaking: “It happened when I was five years-old. Alfred was teaching me how to read in the sitting room when we both heard shouting.”

Even after all these years, the memory of seeing the Joker for the very first time was as ingrained into her mind as the night she became Batgirl.

Five year-old Cordelia had been resting her chubby cheek against Alfred’s thin arm as he showed her the pages of a fairytale book. It was a familiar one; one that her mother had been particularly fond of when she was alive.

The story was about a girl named Cinderella who lived with an evil family before she left to marry a handsome prince. Cordelia knew it by heart. But five year-old Cordelia pretended as if she didn’t, sounding out each word as Alfred pointed to them, and pretending to be extra confused at the big ones.

It was an innocent lie.

She didn’t mean to be deceitful, especially to the kind old man who always kept her company in this big lonely house, but she liked their pretend learning sessions. Learning to read with Alfred meant getting to sit close to him for long moments, it meant getting her hair pet when it was clear she was getting tired, and it meant getting praised when she sounded out the words correctly.

So that’s what little Cordelia had been doing the night Alfred died: tricking him.

And then — in came the Joker.

Wild green hair, that’s what Cordelia noticed first. The strands flew out of the woman’s loose braid, writhing and slithering around her head like vicious snakes. And then she noticed the skin, so pale that the creature might as well have been a ghost — a ghost with eyes so full of hatred that it was immediately obvious to the little girl that they were all in danger.

“That’s her?” The Joker screeched.

A thin finger was pointed at Cordelia like an accusation.

Alfred stood up quickly, angling his body so that the green-haired woman and her anger were hidden from view. “Mrs. Wayne, it is lovely to see you again.”

The name gave Cordelia a chill.

On the other side of the room was a family portrait, taller and broader than the rest, with three people painted on it who were supposed to be Cordelia’s family. One of them was her dead brother, round-faced and thin; the other was her father, barely recognizable from the drunken man who could barely look at her; and the last was a woman so beautiful and kind-looking that Cordelia had not been able to stop staring at her pictures when she first saw them.

How could a woman that beautiful become something so wretched?

“That is her,” Mrs. Wayne said. “How could you do this, Thomas? How could you create another child?”

“It wasn’t planned,” Father said back.

His voice was so soft when he spoke to her. Something that it would continue to be, Cordelia would later realize, even after everything she’d done.

Even after she murdered Alfred.

“Then kill her,” Mrs. Wayne hissed.

Five year-old Cordelia let out a shaky, startled gasp. Alfred quickly reached behind him and grabbed her hand, squeezing her tiny fingers a little too tightly in his own.

“No, Martha,” Father said. “She’s just a little girl.”

“She won’t replace Bruce!” Mrs. Wayne said. She must have moved closer, because suddenly Alfred was ushering Cordelia backwards around the sofa, still keeping his body between her and the madwoman. “How can you even try to replace him? How can you let her walk around his house and read his books? It’s like you don’t remember him!”

Father was standing by the doors, fists clenched. His face looked like a Gotham storm as he said, “I remember him. Everything I do is because I remember him.”

“Prove it.”

Father glanced over at Cordelia, who was half-hidden behind Alfred’s coat.

She stared back. There weren’t many times when he acknowledged her, other than to tell her to get out of the way, or when Alfred was telling him that she needed supplies for this and that. But when she did meet his gaze, she looked for love.

She looked for it then, too. Looked for a sign that he would save her.

There was none. No sign; no love.

Cordelia’s entire body shuddered as she felt — for the first time ever — very real fear. This man was not her protector.

Her mother was a liar.

Cordelia started to cry.

“Alfred, I’m scared,” she whispered.

Alfred’s hand was so tight around her fingers that she thought he might crush them.

“Mr. Wayne,” he said stonily, “I suggest you both leave.”

Father’s eyes left Cordelia’s to look at Alfred, surprised. Alfred was a butler; he was not supposed to give orders, he was supposed to listen to them.

“This is a family matter, Pennyworth,” Father said firmly. “Stay out of this.”

“That is unacceptable,” Alfred said. “I refuse to stand by while you discuss Miss Cordelia’s murder with a certifiably insane criminal. This is a child that you two are talking about. A child that was entrusted into your care.”

There was a crash — the sound of porcelain breaking against the wall. Cordelia flinched so terribly that only Alfred’s grip on her hand kept her from falling.

“You too, Alfred?” Mrs. Wayne screeched. She threw another vase, this time at the floor. The pieces skid close to Cordelia’s pale pink socks. “Does no one in this house remember my Bruce?”

Alfred was backing up again, moving them away from the sharp edges of the shattered vase.

“I remember him, Mrs. Wayne,” he said. There was a coolness to his voice that Cordelia had never heard before. “I clean his portraits every day. I light a candle every year for his birthday. I visit his grave and tell him all about his little sister, and how many similarities she shares with him. And, right now, I honor him by telling his parents that they have lost their way. That he would have been horrified to stand in this room with us tonight.”

His words were met with a shocked, angry silence. It dragged on too long, wracking against Cordelia’s ears like jagged nails and causing more tears to spill down her cheeks and drip onto her shirt.

She wished Alfred would pick her up. She wished someone would hold her, just once.

“Alfred, remember your place,” Father said warningly.

“Kill them both,” Mrs. Wayne snapped.

Cordelia whimpered, pressing her face into Alfred’s hand, trying to hide from everyone but him.

“I am not your executioner, Martha,” Father said. “Please, let me take you back to Arkham. Let them help you.”

“Can Arkham bring my son back to life?” Mrs. Wayne said. Her voice raised an octave, hysterical. “Tell me! Can Arkham fix your mistake?”

“Martha, please,” Father said.

Alfred tugged at Cordelia, encouraging her to start walking toward the windows.

She did not move at first, sniffling and scared that moving meant drawing attention to herself. But Alfred kept tugging, and little Cordelia always tried to do what Alfred said. So she began to walk toward the windows, each step as shaky as the last, until they were right next to the cushioned seats that overlooked the garden bed.

Father and Mrs. Wayne were still arguing near the doors.

“Climb up, my dear,” Alfred whispered. “Slowly.”

The elevated seats were as tall as Cordelia’s shoulders. Her fat fingers scrambled to grip onto something — anything — that would allow her to crawl on top of it. But all she could grab was loose cushions and soft pillows.

“Alfred, I can’t,” she whined.

“Sssh,” Alfred hushed her hurriedly.

His back had been to her, keeping her mostly hidden from Bruce’s parents. But, at her complaint, he turned around.

Cordelia felt him grab her around the waist and lift her onto the window seat. Her knees met the soft pillows, and then her face felt the cool wind as Alfred unlatched the windows as quietly as possible.

But it was an old house. And old houses made creaking noises.

The window latch groaned as it was turned; the window protested as it was thrown open.

There was a strangled, seething sound from behind Cordelia like a cat who had its tail stepped on.

The little girl turned without thinking — and caught sight of Mrs. Wayne.

Something happened then. A transformation. Or an explosion that had been building up for a while. Either way, it happened after Mrs. Wayne saw the ice blue of Cordelia’s eyes.

Suddenly, the madwoman’s brewing hatred contorted into a boiling, red-hot rage.

Mrs. Wayne drew out a pistol and fired a shot.

Cordelia did not even have time to scream. Two thin arms wrapped strongly around her waist and threw her to the ground. Her face smacked painfully against the hardwood floor as a body pressed her down, not letting her move an inch.

The sound of glass shattering filled Cordelia’s ears.

“MARTHA!”

Another gunshot sounded.

Cordelia was screaming now, too terrified to think. She wiggled out from under the heavy body, ignoring the hands that tried to stop her, and sprinted toward the doors — not knowing anything except that she had to get out of there.

“Miss Cordelia, come back!”

Something small and fast whizzed past her ear.

Cordelia ran faster, not slowing down until she slammed into the door and grabbed at the doorknob. Behind her, she could hear struggling — fighting — the sound of a fist slamming into flesh and then the clatter of metal on the floor. She ignored all of it as she struggled to twist the cool doorknob with numb fingers. 

When it finally turned, when the door finally creaked open, Cordelia let out a relieved sob that shook her whole chest. But she only managed to take one single step out of the sitting room before someone snatched her around the middle and dragged her back inside.

“No!” Two voices shouted as one.

Father and Alfred were on the other side of the room, both breathing heavily from their places on the floor. Which meant that the person who was holding her was —

The sharp point of a knife pressed against the side of Cordelia’s throat.

“Don’t take another step,” Mrs. Wayne said.

Alfred, who usually only had expressions that ranged from warm fondness to sarcastic amusement, looked pale with fright. “Mrs. Wayne… please.”

“You know what’s funny?” Mrs. Wayne said with a high-pitched laugh. “That sounds almost exactly like what I said to the gunman who killed Bruce. Tell me, Thomas: did it work then?”

Father glared at her, his face red around the cheekbones. “You are insane, Martha. Put the girl down NOW.”

Cordelia felt the knife pierce the skin of her throat. She wailed in pain.

“Miss Cordelia!” Alfred extended his arms to her, as if he could will her away from Mrs. Wayne. “You will be okay, my dear. Everything will be okay.”

Mrs. Wayne laughed again. “Oh, Alfred, when did you become such a parent? My, my, a lot has changed here, hasn’t it? Don’t think I didn’t notice how rundown the manor has become, either. What happened? Have you busied yourself with taking care of this little cuckoo?”

She tightened her grip around Cordelia’s ribs at the word “cuckoo.”

This felt like too much. Cordelia could not take anymore pain. She let out a pathetic, wheezy sob. Her lungs were no longer able to form anything stronger.

“Alfred,” she weeped with eyes so watery that the room was nothing but a dark and scary blur. “Save me.”

The blurred figure on the floor stiffened — and then lunged forward.

“Pennyworth, wait —“

Alfred did not wait. He was by Cordelia’s sides in seconds, gripping Mrs. Wayne’s arm to keep her from sinking the knife into the five year-olds throat.

“Let go of me!” Mrs. Wayne shrieked. “How dare you!”

“You are too far gone, Mrs. Wayne,” Alfred said back, his voice strained. “Release her at once!”

It happened too quickly for Cordelia to see. But one moment the only thing that coated her face were her own tears, and the next….

There was a sickening, wet, gurgling sound.

Cordelia flinched as warm, thick liquid fell onto her face and over her eyes.

A body fell to the ground.

Nothing was said at first. Just a silence that would linger in the manor for the next ten years.

And then: “Martha… what have you done?”

The arm holding Cordelia up let go. The hardwood floor cracked against her knee caps. Cordelia felt a sharp pain travel up the lengths of her legs.

No one paid any attention to her when she cried out.

“Thomas….”

The floorboards creaked as her father walked closer. Cordelia wiped the warm, sticky liquid from her eyes to see him storm in her direction with his teeth gnashed and his eyes flashing.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” Father growled.

“I — I —“ Cordelia stuttered out, thinking he was talking to her.

That voice he used was unrecognizable. She had heard him angry before, of course, but nothing like that. Nothing like that low, graveled sound that ripped from his throat and shook each of her tiny bones.

Wetness soaked her bottom. At first, she thought she’d relieved herself from fear — but when she looked down, she saw that it was the wrong color.

“I told him to let go,” Mrs. Wayne whispered from behind. “I did what I had to do.”

“YOU KILLED HIM!”

Cordelia lifted her fingers to her face. They were coated in red.

“I…” Mrs. Wayne was no longer laughing. “I don’t know what’s… the shock treatments are… my head….”

Cordelia blinked slowly. There was a body in front of her, stretched out and wearing black.

“You’re going back to Arkham,” Father said slowly. He was cornering his wife against the wall. “And this time, I’m making sure that you don’t get out.”

“But the girl,” Martha rasped.

“Forget the girl,” Father snarled. “Haven’t you done enough?”

Cordelia was only half paying attention to them. The body in front of her was twisted; one arm extended out, one white glove stained red. A face of a friend, pale and still, stared lifelessly back at her as blood seeped from his bow tie.

“Thomas…. I’ll go to Arkham…. I’ll go to Arkham….”

Cordelia crawled forward; toward Alfred, through the blood. Her little fingers sunk into the puddle, slipping against the smoothness of it until she was by his side.

“Alfred?” Her voice was tiny as she pressed her sticky hands against his shoulder and shook him tentatively. “Alfred?”

There was a groan behind her. A long, tortured one that mixed in with the sound of wind rushing through the cracked windows. Father was carrying Mrs. Wayne out of the room, kicking through the doors, and leaving Cordelia alone with her only true friend.

“They’re gone, Alfred,” Cordelia said. She could hear the front door slam. She could hear nothing else. “You can wake up now.”

His eyes were scaring her. The pale blue that once looked upon her so fondly now seemed to stare right through her, as if she wasn’t even there. His skin, always so impeccably clean, was now speckled with his own blood.

They’d been reading before this. Cinderella. He’d given her one of his rare smiles when she stuttered over “bibbidi bobbidi boo” and told her how smart she was when she read an entire paragraph without hesitating.

He’d let her rest her cheek on his arm because he knew she liked to cuddle.

She laid her cheek on his arm again, seeking that same warmth, but Alfred was getting cold and stiff through his suit jacket.

Cordelia’s mouth twisted.

She felt frightened, but she didn’t understand why. Alfred had saved her — he’d leaped forward and wrestled a knife out of a monster’s hand for her, like a hero from one of her mother’s stories. Like Batman. 

She should not be scared anymore.

But, for some reason, her stomach felt sick, and the arm she was seeking comfort from was not comforting at all.

“Please, wake up,” she whispered brokenly. “Please, please, please, Alfred. I want to leave. Please, can we leave?”

Blood was everywhere. Not just her hands and clothes and face, but around Alfred’s head and soaking into his suit. It leaked from his bowtie and kept going, draining all the color from his face and settling into the wood of the floor.

She didn’t want to see it.

It was wrong and she did not want to see it.

So little Cordelia closed her eyes and snuggled closer to Alfred. She buried her face against his cold neck and told herself that there was nothing to worry about, that Alfred had saved them, and that Mrs. Wayne would never return.

Cordelia stayed there for hours.

She stayed there even as the sun came up, and stayed there even when she heard the front door of the house open and her father stumble into the room.

“What are you doing to him?” Father said. His words were slurred and angry. “Get away from him, you little beast.”

Cordelia didn’t move a muscle. Somewhere between the moment she felt the blood dry on her face and the moment she heard the first morning bird sing, she’d realized that she would never again get to read with Alfred.

This realization was not a new one. She felt it often when she went to bed crying for her mommy. 

But to have another person to miss felt… defeating.

Her loneliness had been chasing her for years. And she was getting really tired of running from it.

Thomas Wayne did not care what she was tired of.

A large hand grabbed the hair at the back of her head and ripped her away from Alfred’s body, not giving her a chance to hold on. Cordelia screamed from surprised pain. Her own hands went to his instinctually, and pulled at the fingers that were tearing at the strands.

Father shook her by the head.

“Look at him,” he snapped.

His breath smelled toxic.

“No!” Cordelia screamed, eyes firmly shut.

He shook her again, more violently this time. “Look at him!”

His deep, growling voice terrified her into obedience. Cordelia’s tiny body shook like a leaf as she peeled her eyes open and finally looked at the body.

Alfred was unrecognizable. His face had lost all its color; his wrinkled skin sagged drastically; the red at his neck was crusted and dark.

“He’s dead,” Father said. “My only friend. Dead. Because of you. Is that what you wanted?”

Cordelia felt some of her hair get yanked from her head when her father shook her again.

“Answer me,” Father growled.

She couldn’t. She was too busy sobbing from grief and confusion and fear. Snot poured down her nostrils as Cordelia opened and closed her mouth, trying with all her heart to obey him — but she was unable to form any words.

Father shoved her away in disgust.

“Get the hell out of here,” he said.

Cordelia started to crawl back to Alfred.

“Get. Out,” Father snarled, his white teeth bared and his muscles bulging.

This time, Cordelia listened. And she never saw her Alfred again.

That was ten years ago, yet she didn’t think she could ever forget what it had felt like to have her fingers slipping in the blood of someone she loved. She stared at her fingers then — at how much they grew; at how long and slim they were in contrast to the short, stubby ones of her past.

She would have been able to save them all if she’d just been tougher.

“Cordelia?”

She looked up out of reflex, mostly lost in her own memories.

Her father sat across from her.

Cordelia flinched away, expecting him to reach across the table and strangle her for allowing her mind to drift. She was supposed to be vigilant; she was supposed to be aware of her surroundings.

But when no pain came, she remembered: her father was dead now, too.

Her body was curled up away from Bruce and her back was arched protectively over Little Heart.

It was not a reaction that she would be able to explain away.

This realization was only confirmed when she unfurled herself and opened her eyes. Bruce was staring directly back at her, boring two holes right through her head; his large hands flat on the table, his mouth downturned, his eyebrows furrowed.

He’d seen. And he wasn’t happy with it.

“What happened?” He asked.

“I’m s —“

“I didn’t ask for an apology.”

Her cheeks felt hot. She was suddenly very glad that this restaurant was so dark, that her brother couldn’t see the way her eyes watered from embarrassment.

“You said that you and Alfred heard shouting,” Bruce said, reminding her of where she’d left off in the story. “Was it the Joker?”

“Yes,” she said, voice wobbling before she took a sip of her iced tea and started again. “The Joker heard that Father had a new kid and wanted to kill me to cause Batman pain. I had a knife to my throat when Alfred stepped in the way.”

“The Joker knew Batman’s identity in your timeline?”

“And your Joker doesn’t.”

“Of course not,” Bruce said. “I have a theory that he doesn’t want to know. The mystery is part of his fun.”

She wondered if was intentionally trying to gross her out, or if both Bruce and the Joker were naturally open about their sex lives. Either way, these new intimate details about what the Joker found exciting about her brother disturbed her so much that she felt her own embarrassment lessening.

“Please, don’t talk to me about that, Bruce,” Cordelia said. “I don’t want to hear it.”

The surprised look he gave told her that he hadn’t meant to gross her out. “You don’t want to hear about my theories?”

“I don’t want to hear about what the Joker considers ‘fun,’” she corrected. “Why would I?”

Bruce’s eyebrows were raised high. “I… suppose you wouldn’t.”

Cordelia nodded, glad that he understood, and then went back to finishing her sandwiches.

The rest of their lunch was focused on more positive things: how her garden was growing, how she was getting better at video games, how she felt about the school year drawing closer, and how Bruce’s charity work was going in Gotham City. So by the time both their plates were cleared and Bruce had paid the bill, their spirits were high.

Cordelia wrapped her hand around Bruce’s elbow as he led her back out the restaurant and through a sea of cameras, flashes, and photographers. They all screamed at Bruce and Cordelia; telling them to look this way, telling them to look that way, telling them to smile wider, telling them to answer questions, and telling them how great they looked.

They were harmless, mostly. Except for the fact that they completely terrified Little Heart, who frantically hid her face into Cordelia’s neck from the moment they left the restaurant doors to the moment they sat in the car.

“Sssh,” Cordelia hushed tenderly to the lamb as Bruce drove them back home. Little Heart was curled into a ball in her lap, shaking delicately. “I think taking her with me was a bad idea.”

“She did well,” Bruce said. “As did you.”

The praise made Cordelia smile the entire way back home. She hummed happily as she got out of the car, and was practically buzzing with joy when she turned to see that Bruce was smiling, as well.

“Are we going to do this again?” She asked impulsively. “Or is this only when I get out of wheelchairs?”

“I’d like to make this a weekly arrangement,” Bruce said.

They walked up the steps to the front door.

“Really?” She said.

“Hm,” Bruce hummed. He pulled the door open. “As check-ins. I think it will be good for us.”

“Just you and me?” Cordelia asked.

“Is that a problem?”

“No!” She said quickly. It was the exact opposite of a problem. “I’ll go anytime you want.”

“We can find a time that’s best for both our schedules,” Bruce decided. He closed the door behind her after they both stepped in. “You’re going to be very busy when school starts.”

Cordelia could feel herself beaming. Not only was her brother saying that he wanted to spend more time with her, but he was saying that she would no longer be trapped in the manor for weeks on end. 

She would be able to see something other than endless portraits of her father and the sheep in her garden.

“What about if school gets in the way of it?” Cordelia asked. “Can we reschedule or will I have to wait another week?”

His lips twitched. “Whichever you prefer, Cordelia.”

They were at the foot of the stairs down, but Bruce did not seem to be heading up, so she stopped at the third stair and stared over at him. “I’m really sorry about flinching, Bruce. It wasn’t you, it was —“

“It’s fine,” Bruce said. “Your body is reacting to trauma, Cordelia. It’s normal. I don’t want you apologizing for that.”

“But —“

“It’s normal,” Bruce repeated firmly. “Go to bed. Get some rest. Just because you’re out of a wheelchair doesn’t mean you should strain yourself. I’ll see you at dinner, okay?”

Cordelia hesitated, but her brother seemed genuine about not wanting an apology. And, to be honest, she didn’t really think that her brother said things without wholeheartedly meaning them, so she nodded and waved good-bye before walking up to her room. Behind her, she could hear Bruce waiting for her to reach the top step before turning to his library — perhaps still pretending to be a gentleman like he was during lunch, or perhaps honestly worried that she wouldn’t be able to walk up the stairs without getting hurt.

Either way, she felt… taken care of.

Loved.

Perhaps a little like Cinderella after she escaped her wicked family.

Cordelia swished her silk skirt back and forth as she turned the corner to the family wing, distracted by how smooth and light it felt around her legs. It was that reason why she didn’t pay much attention to the sound of whispering through the door before she actually opened it.

It was that reason why she was so caught by surprise to see not Dick standing outside her bedroom, but four complete strangers: one dark haired girl with loose, comfortable clothing; one teenaged boy with a direct, analytical stare; one blond girl with her mouth popped open with obvious surprise; and one very small, very angry boy with two swords drawn.

Chapter 50: INTERLUDE: Tim's POV (Part One)

Summary:

“Drake,” Damian said tightly. “Take the lamb from her. There’s no need for it to get hurt, too.”

Tim was the first to notice that something had changed in Wayne Manor.

His first clue was one of the garden beds. It was full of pink peonies which, in a house of people who gravitated toward different shades of black, looked like nothing but an eyesore. After that, he began to notice other changes: missing vases, scuff marks on the hardwood floors, the faint floral smell permeating the air, and the lack of Alfred greeting them the moment they walked through the front door.

When he was halfway up the stairs to the family wing, he realized what all this meant: “Bruce has a new kid.”

His siblings and Steph had all been walking ahead of him. But, at his words, they froze in their tracks, turned, and stared.

“What?” Damian snapped.

“Exciting,” Cass decided.

“Geez,” Steph scoffed. “This guy doesn’t slow down, does he?”

Tim walked past them. Their reactions were not the least bit surprising to him. Damian had always been easily jealous and insecure about his place in the family, so someone new arriving was bound to make him feel threatened; Cass was the exact opposite; and Steph… was Steph.

Whatever she really felt regarding this news would not be so readily shared.

The mystery that Tim was actually interested in was the new kid. Who were they? And why did Bruce feel the need to take them in so soon after adopting Cass? 

Tim had been sure that she would be the last one. Not because Bruce showed any signs of “slowing down,” as Steph said, but because Cass had been the final piece to the perfect Batman Legacy Puzzle.

The one that worked to fill the void Batman’s death would create. The one that strongly influenced which orphan got brought into the Bat team and which were moved into the system. And the one that Bruce thought no one knew about.

But Tim knew. The puzzle pieces fell too perfectly for him not to be aware.

Dick, the born leader, had been brought in to take over Batman’s leading positions. Over the years, he had become a leader of multiple teams, and had even gained the respect of most members in the Justice League. 

But that hadn’t been enough for Bruce, because Batman was more than a leader. He was a hero, a detective, a fear-inducing creature, and one of the world’s greatest fighters.

So he needed to keep building his team.

That’s where the rest of them came in. Jason, the once compassionate hero, was meant to stay true to the mission — to protect the world against crime. Tim, the analytical, was meant to become the next world’s great detective. And Damian, the bloodthirsty and violent, was meant to strike fear into the heart of criminals.

Together, they made a great Batman. But there was one thing that they were all unable to do: beat him in a fight.

That’s when Cass came in.

And that’s when the puzzle was complete.

At least, that’s when Tim thought the puzzle had been completed. Apparently, there was one more skill or quality that Bruce found them all lacking in.

“Whoa, whoa, wait,” Steph said. She was rushing up the stairs to catch up to him, finally over her shock at his announcement. “How do you know he adopted a kid? Did he tell you? Have you known this whole time?”

“No.” Tim pointed at one of the scuff marks as they passed them. “But someone’s damaging Alfred’s floors, and he’d never let anyone except a new kid get away with that.”

“Huh,” Steph said, impressed. “Good catch.”

Damian was suddenly much too close to his elbow, all narrow-eyed and wrinkly-nosed. “Tt. Ridiculous. Those aren’t marks made by a child, Drake. They’re clearly the marks of an animal. Father must have known I was coming back today and got me a welcome home gift.”

“Great theory,” Tim lied. “Except that Bruce has never bought any of us a welcome home gift before, so why would he start now?”

“Don’t compare your relationship with Father to mine, Drake. You were nothing but a placeholder until Mother delivered me to his side. Now that Father has a real son, he is bound to give me special treatment. I suggest getting used to it.”

Sometimes, Tim fantasized about pushing Damian down a tall flight of stairs.

Today was one of those days.

“San Francisco was bad?” Cass asked, reading into their brother’s foul mood better than any of them.

Damian scowled at her in response.

Tim walked up ahead to hide his smirk. He hadn’t been involved in the hero community gossip lately — too busy with his own case in England — but even he heard about Damian’s disastrous attempt in leading a new Teen Titans.

Every single member had quit.

In under six months.

Because strangers couldn’t deal with the demon brat, either.

It was slightly validating to know that Tim wasn’t the only person who found it hard to get along with Damian. The kid had developed such strong relationships with Bruce, Dick, Steph, and even Jason that sometimes Tim thought….

Well, that the problem was him and not Damian.

Tim pushed open the door to the family wing. There were more scuff marks on the ground, and even less vases. Whoever Bruce was looking to adopt must not have realized how important the state of the house was to Alfred. Or, if they did, they didn’t care.

“Flowers,” Cass said from behind him.

Tim sniffed the air. The floral scent was strongest in the family wing. It almost smelled like someone had walked up and down the hallway spraying perfume on the walls.

“Bruce definitely adopted a new kid,” he said.

Even Damian didn’t deny it this time.

“Hello?” Tim called out. “Is anyone here? Bruce? Dick?”

There was no answer.

He knocked on a random door and paused to listen. When there wasn’t any shuffling on the other end, he decided to take a chance by twisting the knob and throwing it open. Steph, Cass, and Damian crowded around him, peering inside for signs of a new orphan.

They looked to the left. They looked to the right.

Plain white sheets; plan brown furniture; no orphan.

Tim went to try the next door when, suddenly, Steph was shouting an inch from his ear: “Whoever finds the new kid first gets to call themselves the best Robin or Batgirl!”

That was all it took. Each vigilante shot in a different direction, ripping open any door they could get their hands on and showing their way into the rooms. With Cass and Steph, the game remained playful. Both giggled when they ran past each other, and only shoved with minute strength on the occasions when they chose the same door.

The game between Tim and Damian was… not playful.

Damian had no problem pulling out one of his swords to slice at him for getting too close. Which was why, when Tim and Damian both decided to check the room across from Jason’s, Damian ended up winning the struggle.

“Ha!” The short demon crowed. “Found them!”

A sound of devastation left Steph’s lips before she ran over with the rest of them.

The room, like the pink peonies, was jarring to see. It was completely furnished with an obvious garden theme. The cream-colored wallpaper had leaf decorations; the art on the wall was an amateurish painting of a flower bed; and the shelves showed off small porcelain flower figurines that were… dancing with each other?

It looked like a room designed for a fairy, not a Bat. And certainly not someone who Bruce found necessary to the mission.

“Wow,” Steph said, bewildered. “Congratulations, you guys. It’s a girl.”

“Yay,” Cass said with a smile. “A sister.”

The girls high-fived. 

“Flowers do not mean that they’re a girl,” Damian said grouchily.

“And finding an empty room doesn’t mean that you’ve found the new kid,” Steph said, flicking his ear. “The game is still going.”

Damian bared his teeth and drew out his other sword. “Do that again, Brown.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tim said.

“He is,” Cass said. “All show.”

“Not him,” Tim said. “That.”

He pointed, and all their heads followed his finger. Sitting on the top of the new girl’s desk, next to a stack of books and a journal, was a pack of baby diapers.

Tim looked around the room again — at the girly, feminine decorations; at the stacked entertainment center, at the lack of a crib — and thought about the strong floral smell, the broken vases, the scuff marks in the floorboards, and the pink peonies.

What could it all mean?

“Oh. My. God,” Steph whispered dramatically. Her eyes were wide as she turned to the others. “Bruce got someone pregnant.”

Tim really hoped not. He glanced over at Damian, who was living proof that Bruce’s genes made awful children, and inwardly sighed when he saw the kid gnash his teeth back at him — as if he could smell Tim’s negative thoughts floating through the air like a demonic, mind-reading piranha.

Thankfully, whatever biting insult Damian was prepared to fire at him was interrupted by someone walking through the hallway door.

Steph’s jaw dropped.

It was a girl. A short, slender girl with an alarmingly thin waist and smooth, alabaster skin.

Just looking at her made the artistic side of Tim’s mostly logical brain flare up.

This girl would look great on camera. Her hair looked like spilled ink from the way its silky tendrils escaped their diamond-studded pins to fall over the paleness of her shoulders; her eyes were the color of ice formed on only the coldest days of Winter; and the floor-length, black silk dress she wore clung distractingly to the delicate curves of her hips and breast.

She was….

“She’s a Wayne,” Cass murmured to him as the girl walked up to them.

Tim did a double take.

Now that it was said out loud, he wondered how he could have missed it. This girl was a Wayne; the pale skin, the black hair, the blue eyes — they were all the exact same shades as Bruce’s.

His original train of thought went veering off the side of the tracks and crashed into a ditch.

And just when he was about to retire to his room to rethink his life, the girl spoke.

“You’re Tim.”

Her voice startled him. Not because of the way she sounded, but because of the way she spoke. Each letter was enunciated very carefully, as if she was unused to the English language, yet her accent was the exact same as everyone else from Gotham’s high society.

“Um… yes?” Tim said.

His answer was immediately faced with a beaming smile and wide, searching eyes. He tried not to feel judged as she so blatantly inspected his every feature, from his airplane hair to the comfortable shoes he decided to wear during the trip.

It was a relief when she moved on to the next siblings. He actually felt his shoulders sag from how much stress left him.

“You’re Cassandra,” the girl continued.

Cass smiled. “Cass.”

“Cass,” the girl repeated the name as if it was a gift given to her. “And you’re little Dami!”

That was the wrong thing to say. Damian’s growl sounded as if it came straight from Titus’s throat. “Don’t you dare disrespect me, harlot.”

Her smile wilted.

Cass laid a restraining hand on Damian’s shoulder. Apparently, the kid was not putting on a show anymore.

The new girl followed the movement, and then noticed the twin swords. Anyone else would have sensed the danger they were in and left, but she either really wanted to meet them or did not believe that Damian would actually hurt her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Not offended,” Cass corrected. “Hurt. You’re a Wayne.”

The new girl glanced between Cass and Damian, trying to understand the cryptic message. But Tim understood perfectly fine. There were two things that Damian took enormous pride in: being Bruce’s only blood child and being Batman’s main partner.

The fact that they were standing in front of Bruce’s daughter — the fact that Bruce didn’t take the time to tell Damian about her — hurt the kid’s ego.

“Yes, I’m a Wayne,” the girl said. “Cordelia Wayne. You’re… cousin.”

The pause before she said “cousin” would not have been noticeable in any other group. But in a group of detectives who subconsciously tracked speech patterns and were instantly alert when those patterns were broken, she might as well have introduced herself as a liar.

Tim’s next step would have been to continue the conversation as if nothing abnormal had happened. To casually ask questions that probed for the truth.

Damian’s next step was, predictably, more violent.

In the moment it took for all of them to blink, the kid had both sword blades crossed just inches away from the new girl’s pale throat.

Cordelia froze.

“Damian!” Steph said in alarm.

Tim, Cass, and Steph moved forward, ready to take the swords by force — but the kid only pressed them closer to Cordelia’s throat in a silent threat. One wrong move, one accidental slip, and she would end up bleeding out on the hardwood floor.

“She’s lying,” Damian said angrily. “She’s not my cousin. The Wayne family has not had a Cordelia in it for the past eight decades.”

Cordelia didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes were trained downwards at the sharp blades lingering so threateningly near her neck. But, slowly, she raised them to meet the toxic green eyes of her so-called cousin.

It was difficult to tell what she was feeling at that moment.

Certainly not fear. Tim was well-versed in identifying that emotion; the dilated pupils, the quickened breath, the sweaty skin. Fear was an emotion that telegraphed itself.

Whatever Cordelia was feeling was more subtle. But it showed, somewhat, in the dimming of her eyes.

“Put the swords down,” she said.

“Not until you tell us who you really are,” Damian said. “And don’t lie. I can sense lies from two miles away.”

It was a ridiculous claim, but no one called him out on it. Instead, they watched tensely as Damian (once again) threatened the life of their new sibling.

“I can’t tell you the truth,” Cordelia said. “Not with her here.”

Her eyes flickered over to Steph for the very first time.

“Me?” Steph said blankly. “Why not?”

“Because you’re not family,” Cordelia said.

“Ouch.”

“Steph is one of us,” Tim said, quickly coming to his ex-girlfriend’s defense. “What you say to us, you can say to her.”

Cordelia pressed her lips together unhappily. “If that were true, then Bruce would have mentioned her. But he hasn’t.”

“That’s because Bruce is an asshole,” Steph said.

Cordelia’s blue eyes widened — and then narrowed in a very familiar glare.

Yup. That was a Wayne.

Great.

“Don’t talk about him like that,” she said. Her words came out stiff, as if she were trying not to show up upset they were making her, but the red flush in her cheeks gave it away. “And put down your swords, Damian. You’re scaring my lamb.”

There was a confused silence before they saw that she was actually being literal.

In her arms was a fluffy black and white lamb.

A diapered lamb.

That was good news, at least. Bruce wasn’t having a baby. They would not need to find a very small Robin outfit that came with a bat-shaped binky.

“Drake,” Damian said tightly. “Take the lamb from her. There’s no need for it to get hurt, too.”

Tim loathed being bossed around by Damian, but the lamb was noticeably trembling, so he walked forward to grab it from Cordelia — only to see her fingers curl tightly around the soft, curly furred body.

“She stays with me,” Cordelia said firmly.

“I’m not going to hurt her,” Tim said.

“I don’t trust you.”

Double ouch.

They were all really making such good impressions.

“Release the lamb at once!” Damian demanded, and walked forward with the swords in place.

Cordelia was forced to retreat until her back hit the wall and she had to tilt her head back to keep her chin from being cut.

“Damian, careful,” Tim snapped, annoyed.

He’d known that he was in for a rough day back at home once he discovered that Cass, Damian, and Steph were visiting the manor at the same time — but he didn’t think he would be forced to relive his first time meeting Damian all over again.

“Yeah, Dam,” Steph said. “You’re taking this too far. So what if she lied? It’s not a big deal. We all keep secrets.”

“This secret concerns my ancestors,” Damian said with all the self-importance of a prince. “Drake. The lamb.”

This time, when Tim went to grab the lamb, he saw Cordelia loosening her fingers around it. He reached forward, expecting it to get transferred into his arms, but that wasn’t her plan. All it took was one moment of distraction — one glance toward the little lamb from Damian — and Cordelia lashed out.

With one swipe of the fist, she hit the bone of Damian’s wrist; not hard enough to bruise, but accurate enough in the aim to force his hand to fly open.

The sword clattered to the ground in front of her. Cleanly, without even looking, she kicked it past Damian down the hallway.

Tim, Cass, and Steph turned to watch it fly. But Damian learned from his momentary distraction — and lashed out himself.

Years ago, he probably would have aimed for the throat. But this new Damian was not so quick in offering death sentences. 

So he aimed to slice her face instead.

Cordelia was ready for that.

None of them actually saw her move — that’s how fast it was — but one moment she was pinned against the wall with a sword about to cut her face in two, and the next she had ducked beneath it to tackle Damian to the ground.

The back of the kid’s head hit the hardwood floor, temporarily stunning him, and giving Cordelia enough time to wrestle the remaining sword from his grip.

That’s when Tim and Steph stepped in. 

Because even though Tim found Damian to be the single most annoying kid in the world… he still did not like seeing an angry, glaring stranger crouching over him with a sword sharp enough to cut steel.

Steph was the one who went to disarm her, ripping the weapon from Cordelia’s hand. Meanwhile, Tim was the one who went to get her off Damian by tackling her to the ground and pinning her.

It was a struggle. Cordelia was still holding onto her lamb tightly, trying to keep the bleating thing clutched securely to her chest. But after Tim managed to wrestle it out of her grip, and after the thing raced down the hallway and out the door, he was finally able to overpower her.

Tim grabbed her wrists and slammed them on both sides of her head. He could feel her trying to fight back, trying to yank herself free, but it was no use. 

He was stronger than her.

Cordelia stared up at him in wild-eyed shock, pale and scared, and Tim let out a sigh of relief.

She didn’t know how to get out of pins. Which meant that the fight was over and that no one got seriously hurt.

“Tim —“ Cass said.

There was a warning in her voice, but she was too late.

A strong set of teeth sunk into Tim’s forearm.

It was more painful because it was so unexpected. He shouted out, releasing her as he lurched backwards, but she kept snapping at his arms in a quick frenzy. Tim received bite after bite, and was already sporting three marks by the time his siblings made it to their sides.

They tried to pry Cordelia from him; tried to get in between her teeth and his skin. But the beaming, friendly girl they had met before had completely disappeared — and gotten swapped out with a snarling, crazy-eyed piranha that was lashing out with everything that she had.

In the end, the only thing that got her to stop was Damian bringing back his sword and pressing it underneath her chin, forcing her to choose between death or keeping still.

Cordelia chose to keep still. She laid on the floor, breathing quickly with the four vigilantes surrounding her: Tim holding down one wrist, Steph holding down the other, Cass holding down her legs, and Damian sitting by her head with the sword.

That’s how Bruce, Dick, and Alfred found them.

And it must have looked much worse than Tim thought it did, because the way that each of their faces paled when they burst into the hallway and saw Cordelia felt a little over the top.

They were acting as if they’d walked in on the teenagers and pre-teen murdering Cordelia rather than just restraining her.

She did not make it any better, either. Because the moment she saw Alfred — she cried out to him.

“Alfred,” she whined.

The old butler stiffened, before transferring a cool look toward the vigilantes above her.

“Get off of her at once,” he said sharply.

Tim, Steph, and Cass guiltily cringed away from her limbs.

Damian pressed the sword closer to her neck. “She’s dangerous, Father. I recommend making her our prisoner until we’re sure that we can keep her under control.”

“Damian,” Bruce snapped. “Back away from her.”

The kid’s cheeks flushed in embarrassment at being publicly scolded. “But Father —“

Cordelia, apparently unwilling to wait while her freedom was being discussed, punched his wrist bone again. The sword fell on her chest, and then it was in her hand as she sat up.

Damian hissed out in anger.

Not only had she bested him with the same move twice — but she’d bested him in front of Bruce. And if there was one thing that Damian did not like, it was being outdone in front of his father.

Cordelia did not see Damian lunge at her, but everyone else did.

“Damian!”

Bruce and Dick rushed into action. The former by yanking Cordelia off of the ground and out of Damian’s reach with a strong arm wrapped around her middle; and the latter by plucking Damian out of the air mid-attack with both his hands underneath Damian’s armpits.

As a result, the smallest Waynes ended up looking like two over-sized cats.

And they behaved like cats, too. Damian went completely feral once he realized that he wasn’t going to be set back on the ground immediately; kicking and screaming and yowling. And Cordelia went completely lax, like she was being scruffed. 

No one said anything for a long moment.

Everyone was waiting for Bruce to speak. But he wasn’t speaking. He was surveying.

His arm kept Cordelia dangling at his side as his eyes looked over the scene of the crime. They watched him take note of the sword across the hallway, the open bedroom doors, the bite marks on Tim’s arms, the bite marks on Steph’s hands, Cass’s disheveled hair, and then Damian’s glaring green eyes.

Whatever conclusion he came to, it made him glare back.

Damian, instantly cowed, stopped struggling against Dick to look down at his dangling feet.

“Someone explain,” Bruce’s voice was tight with suppressed rage. “Now.”

It was like his demand broke a silencing spell. Everyone started speaking at once, their voices and sentences tangling in a garble the moment he finished speaking.

“She’s a liar, Father —“

“—hurt everyone—“

“—she bit me—“

“—Little Heart—“

“—kind of badass—“

Bruce was pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Stop,” he said finally, and then pointed at Damian. “You. Explain. Go.”

Damian's anger renewed. He fired off his answer with spitting venom. “Whatever she’s told you, Father, she’s a liar. I don’t have a cousin and neither do you!”

Cordelia tilted her chin up at Bruce, wide-eyed with false innocence. “I told them that I couldn’t say the truth until the blonde left, but she wouldn’t leave.”

“The blonde?” Steph echoed blankly.

“Father did not give you harlots permission to speak!” Damian said.

“Harlots?” Steph said.

Cordelia looked offended, too. “I don’t need permission to speak. I’m not a child.”

“You’re an intruder,” Damian spat. “And our prisoner until we decide what to do with you. Father, I suggest the Phantom Zone.”

“What’s the Phantom Zone?”

“It’s like a prison,” Dick explained, “in another dimension. You’ll live for eternity in a ghost-like state until someone releases you.”

Cordelia’s eyes bulged.

Damian smiled nastily. “I’ll make sure no one releases you. By a century, no one will even remember you’re there.”

“Damian,” Bruce said. “Enough. And Dick, you are not helping.”

“Sorry.”

Cordelia was nervously picking at the fabric of Bruce’s sleeve. Her eyes, still a bit wild, flickered around as if searching for the best escape route.

Tim just hoped whatever plan she put together didn’t involve gnawing through his arms.

“No one is going to the Phantom Zone,” Bruce continued. His voice was so gentle that it disturbed almost everyone in the hallway. “And no more calling girls harlots. Is that clear?”

Tim was on edge. 

Why was Bruce speaking to them like that? Had his brain been swapped out? Had something happened?

Tim glanced over at the others, trying to see if he was the only one that noticed, and saw that Steph and Damian were just as uneasy as he was.

That was probably why their responses came out so robotic: “Yes, Sir.”

Cordelia blanched. Which was weird, since she hadn’t looked half as haunted when Damian was holding two swords to her throat.

Alfred stepped forward. “Perhaps real introductions are in order, Master Bruce.”

Bruce nodded once.

“Cordelia, that is Stephanie Brown,” he said, gesturing toward her. “She’s a family friend. You can tell her everything.”

Steph gave a salute.

“That is Tim, Cass, and Damian. You three, this —“ he lifted Cordelia up slightly as if to give them a better view of her “—is Cordelia. Your aunt.”

Tim, Cass, Steph, and Damian stared at him.

And then they stared at Cordelia.

She wiped some blood from her cheek. “It’s nice to finally meet you all.”

You have got to be kidding me, Tim thought.

Cass blinked and turned to Bruce, visibly confused. “Aunt?”

“It’s a long story,” Bruce said. “Alfred, could you show Cordelia where Little Heart ran off to?”

“Certainly, Sir,” Alfred said. “Come along, Miss Cordelia. I believe the little lamb was trying to use the pantry as a hiding place.”

Bruce set Cordelia on the ground, but she didn’t follow Alfred instantly. Instead, she turned to look up at Bruce.

Tim was amazed to see that large tears were forming in her eyes.

“Bruce?” She said.

Bruce, abnormally expressive, softened his features to say, “Everything is okay, Cordelia.”

“I bit your son,” she said, as if the blood all over her cheeks and mouth (and the bite marks all over Tim’s arms) weren’t big enough clues of what she’d done. “I’m so sorry.”

Bruce accepted her apology with insulting ease. “It wasn’t your fault. I forgive you.”

Tim gawked.

“You’re still coming to dinner?” Cordelia asked.

“I’ll be there.”

Cordelia smiled shakily, wiped a tear from her eye, and made her way over to Alfred. The old butler handed her a napkin before leading her out of the hallway. 

The family wing was silent.

At least until Bruce could no longer hear the footsteps of Alfred and Cordelia. Once that faded, he whipped his head toward his children, his BatGlare at full force.

“What were you thinking?” He demanded. It was the same question from before, but now with all the heat and anger of Batman. “Well?”

No one spoke up.

“Why were you all holding her down like that?” Dick asked instead.

That was a much easier question to answer.

“Because she was biting me,” Tim said. He couldn’t help but sound exasperated. “Look at my arms!”

He held them out. The teeth marks were bleeding.

“Was that before or after you tried to pin her?” Bruce said.

Tim did not like how knowing his eyes were.

“After,” he said reluctantly. “But I only tried to pin her because she was holding a sword over Damian.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes at Tim, silently demanding that he explain the entire story. So he did, as if he just returned from a mission and was giving Batman a status report. He began with noticing the changes in the house, and then their race to find their newest sibling, and then finally meeting her — just to realize that she was lying about her relation to them. After that, he had to explain (with Damian scowling at him out of the corner of his eye) his little brother’s intense reaction to the lie, Cordelia’s stubbornness to keep the secret, and then the resulting battle.

“We didn’t hurt her,” Tim finally concluded. “If anything, she hurt us.”

“She was frightened,” Bruce said. “You know that.”

“I was pretty freaking scared, too,” Steph told him. “After that third bite, I started to think that you’d adopted a cannibal.”

Bruce glared at her.

“Cordelia isn’t a cannibal,” Dick said. “She’s just a kid. And she was really excited to meet you guys before today.”

If he was trying to stir guilt in Tim, he was failing.

All Tim wanted to do when he returned from his mission was have an Alfred-prepped snack and head straight to bed. Instead, he’d gotten attacked by yet another new sibling. As if the only way this family knew how to introduce themselves to Tim was by giving him a few scars to remember the meeting by.

Tim looked down at his arms. At all the injuries he’d need to disinfect and cover up before work tomorrow morning.

All because of Cordelia and Damian.

“You mean she was excited to meet them,” Steph said, gesturing to Tim, Damian, and Cass. “She didn’t even know me. Apparently, Bruce has not mentioned me once.”

Bruce hummed. “I had other things on my mind.”

“Yeah,” Steph said, “like suddenly having a sister? Are you going to explain how that’s possible?”

This got all of their interests. Dick, Tim, Steph, Cass, and Damian all whipped their heads in Bruce’s direction, waiting for his response.

He did not keep them waiting long. His explanation was quick, succinct, and without any emotion. “The Flash accidentally created an alternate timeline where I died and my parents lived. In that timeline, he met Cordelia and decided to bring her back with him. Now she’s my responsibility, my ward, and your aunt.”

That was… a lot to take in. But they’d heard of stranger things happening, so none of them were that floored.

However, they did have questions.

“So your mom would have been how old when she had Cordelia?” Steph asked.

“We don’t share a mother,” Bruce answered.

“Who is her mother if not Mrs. Wayne?” Tim asked.

“Unknown. Her mother doesn’t exist in this timeline.”

“Why did Flash feel the need to bring her here?” Damian asked.

“She would have ceased to exist if he hadn’t.”

“She’s… abused?” Cass asked.

Tim could tell that Bruce hadn’t been prepared for that question. He blinked three times, hard, before smothering any emotions that managed to creep through his Batman facade.

“Yes,” he said bluntly. “It was severe, and went on for years.”

“By mother?”

Bruce did not answer this time. In a way, that was answer enough.

“By father,” Cass realized. 

There was no denial; no excuses. Just a slow nod as Bruce silently told them — yes, it was Thomas Wayne. The man he idolized above all else. The man who had inspired the creation of Batman. The man who had inspired the mission they’d all dedicated their lives to.

That was the man who had chosen to abuse his daughter.

“Nonsense,” Damian decided, still being held in Dick’s arms. “You told me you had great memories of grandfather.”

“People change, Dam,” Steph said.

“Not that much,” Damian said. “Father, do not listen to her. She’s a proven liar.”

“She’s not lying, Damian,” Dick said.

“How do you know?” Tim asked.

“Because she acts abused,” Dick said. “Really, really abused.”

“Anyone can act,” Damian said snippily.

“Barry witnessed some abuse himself,” Bruce said. He spoke with a false sense of calm, but the illusion of it was broken when Tim looked at his eyes. They were dark, Gotham storms with flashes of anger and swirling clouds of shame. “She’s not acting. I wish she was.”

That small, final statement — said as if discussing the weather — softened all their ire.

They all knew how much Thomas Wayne meant to their father. They all knew that, sometimes, the memory of his parents was what kept him going.

And now, that memory was corrupted.

Now, all he had was his mother’s legacy to look up to.

Cass stepped forward and did what the rest of them wanted to do, but were sometimes too nervous to initiate: she hugged him.

Bruce’s response was instant. Two large arms wrapped around her thin, muscular body, and hugged her back. Dick was the next one to join the hug, forcing Damian into it as well — and then it was Tim’s turn to come forward, and then it was Steph’s.

All five of them huddled around Bruce, pressing their faces against his arms and torso, trying to comfort him and — secretly — stealing comfort for themselves.

Chapter 51: INTERLUDE: Tim's POV (Part Two)

Summary:

He’d seen that look before. Back when he used to go to school. It usually occupied the eyes of scholarship students when they made their way into the cafeteria, saw everyone talking to each other, and realized that they were the outsiders of a very exclusive club.

“Where’s Cordelia?”

Bruce was frowning deeply from the head of the dining room table. The seat beside him, the one he saved for his… sister, was empty. But Tim was more focused on the two-tiered green cake standing tall at the center of the table.

There was a large pink and edible flower on top of it.

“Miss Cordelia requested that I send you her deepest apologies, Master Bruce,” Alfred said. “But she wanted to have her meal in her garden tonight.”

Tim’s blink was slow from exhaustion.

After their group hug, Bruce had told all of them that attendance at dinner was mandatory so that they could get to know the newest member of the family. This order had met some pushback, mainly from Damian who was just being difficult and also from Tim who felt too tired to hold his head up.

But Bruce had been firm: Cordelia liked quality time, and they were going to give it to her.

Except that she must not like it that much if she hadn’t even bothered to show up.

Tim moved his empty plate aside and laid his forehead on the table. After the flight to the United States, the drive to the manor, the fight in the family wing, the bandaging of all his wounds, and the unpacking of his clothes — he’d barely had enough energy to dress for dinner.

To know that his extra effort had all been for nothing was enough to make an overworked vigilante cry.

“She’s eating in the dirt?” Damian’s voice was full of judgment.

“Her garden is more than dirt and flowers,” came Alfred’s surprisingly clipped reply.

“Did something happen?” Dick asked. “I thought I heard her say that she wanted to eat dinner with Bruce.”

“Yes, that was before we found her lamb trying to scratch its way through the front door,” Alfred said. “It was so terrified that it would not let me nor Cordelia touch it without much cajoling. And, well, you know how much that lamb means to her. Seeing it so scared made her inconsolable.”

The sound of chairs scraping sharply against the floor filled the dining room. Tim lifted his head, alert — but it was only Bruce and Dick standing up too quickly. They both stared at each other, surprised, before Dick’s expression settled into something that was equally fond and amused.

“Stay here, B,” Dick said. “I’ll go eat with her. I have to make up for earlier today anyway.”

Bruce squinted at him with great suspicion. “What happened earlier today?”

“That’s for me to know and for Cordelia to forget.”

“Dick.”

“I’m sure it was nothing too serious, Master Bruce,” Alfred said. “As for you, Master Dick, that is very kind of you. In fact, I was hoping that this was going to be your reaction to the news. I’ve already packed your plate and cut you a slice of cake.”

He then handed Dick two large containers and briskly led him out of the dining room. And just before he closed the doors, he sent the still-standing Bruce a look that Tim had once seen his mother give his father right before they both sent him to boarding school.

The reminder was enough to make Tim uneasy, and when he glanced over at Bruce, that feeling only strengthened. Because the look he was giving them was not the annoyed glare of a disappointed father. It was the BatGlare; the one he gave when they failed a mission, the one he gave when someone under their protection died — and, apparently, the one he now gave when they made Cordelia cry.

Eyes like glaciers of ice peered across the table at them under dark, lowered brows.

Suddenly, everything around them felt less homey and more like they were meeting a villain in a dark alley. The candles that lit the space no longer emitted a warm glow, but instead made jagged, dancing shadows form across the walls with every slight turn of the wind; the stars that shone through the windows slowly crept behind mirky, polluted clouds; and the calming hoots of an owl transformed into the screaming of a crow.

Tim knew, of course, that Bruce did not have the power to do any of this. But that was hard to remember in the moment when he was glaring at them. First at Damian, who was unfortunately sitting the closest; then at Cass, then at Steph, and finally at Tim.

And he did not stop glaring, either, until they each straightened their backs, raised their chins, and squared their shoulders.

Only then did Bruce speak.

“Ever since Cordelia was brought here,” he said, in a voice so low and dark that it matched the shadows in the room, “she has consistently looked forward to one small thing: meeting all of you.”

He paused, letting that information settle.

Letting them know that they were not welcoming enough to someone who had eagerly awaited their arrival.

Tim did not dare look away from Bruce to see how the rest of his family felt about that.

“It has been one of the first and only things she has asked for since I met her. But I delayed it. I wanted her to be ready. I wanted all of you to be ready. I did not want there to be an incident,” Bruce said the last part slowly. “Yet after one short conversation with her, that’s exactly what I got. I got to walk into my family wing and see my children, the very people who I’ve trained to protect and defend the innocent, holding a sword to an abused fifteen year-old’s throat. What do you have to say for yourselves?”

None of them spoke.

Not even Damian, who had been the one with the weapons.

“Well?” Bruce snapped. “Damian? Nothing to say?”

Damian lowered his chin in submission. “I am sorry, Father. I have disappointed you.”

Bruce transferred his attention to the rest of them. “Anyone else?”

Murmured, automatic apologies filled the air. 

“None of that was enough,” Bruce said bluntly. “Alfred, Dick, and I have worked too hard trying to make Cordelia feel safe here for you all to undo that work within the first ten minutes of meeting her. So let me be clear when I say this: the next one of you who raises a hand to her, the next one of you who picks up a weapon against her, will be suspended from their uniform.”

Shock rippled around the room.

For as long as Tim had known Bruce, he’d always put the mission first. It came before his romantic relationships, his businesses, his friends, his family, his life. There was not a moment when he didn’t consider how his actions would affect his war on crime.

Yet now he was saying that he was willing to bench his strongest, most loyal soldiers if they got into a harmless fight with some girl?

That did not sound like Bruce.

Tim, once again, glanced at the two-tiered green cake. The one that was clearly made for Cordelia. 

He couldn’t remember the last time they had a cake in the house for anything but a birthday.

“Tomorrow, you will all make up for what you’ve done,” Bruce said. “Damian?”

Damian’s head was still lowered as he said, with a bit of a bite, “I will do as you wish, Father.”

“Good,” Bruce said, and finally sat down.

The rest of the dinner was had in tense silence as they all recovered from their lecture with differing feelings. From what Tim could see, Damian was the most upset about it. He stabbed at his tofu as if he was imagining that it was Cordelia’s face and scowled every time he saw his brother watching him. Cass seemed the most remorseful with her shoulders dipped and her dark eyes cast down. Steph, on the other hand, seemed the most bewildered at this turn of events — perhaps wondering why she had sat there and listened to a lecture as if she were another one of Bruce’s children.

Tim, himself, did not know what to feel other than confusion.

For as long as he’d been a part of this family, it had always been clear that each of their relationships were their own responsibilities. They did not have to like each other, and they did not have to get along. 

The only important thing was that their arguments did not become a nuisance in the field.

So for Bruce to step in now was… odd.

Maybe even more odd than the scuff marks on the floor boards, the missing vases, and the giant green cake at the center of the table.

“Alfred made it to celebrate Cordelia finally getting out of her wheelchair,” Bruce said, startling everyone. He had been watching Tim eye the cake critically. “She had a run-in with the Joker that she hasn’t completely healed from. But she’s heading in the right direction.”

Tim, with all his intelligence, did not know what to say.

Bruce might have provided this information as casually as if he were discussing the weather, but Bruce Wayne did not speak simply because he wanted to hear the sound of his own voice. There were reasons behind everything that he did. And, in this case, it was clear that he wanted them to know this: that not only had they gone up against a severely injured girl, but they’d also been bested by her on multiple occasions.

Maybe Tim should have been less descriptive of their fight.

“I am upping each of your training regimens,” Bruce continued. He calmly cut into his steak, digging the knife in deep. “You all need to work on your speed.”

And what else could they say to that besides: “Yes, Sir.”

---

That night, it took two entire hours of tossing and turning for Tim to realize….

He couldn't sleep.

He’d daydreamed about his soft, silky bed at Wayne Manor ever since he arrived at the New England airport. Yet, now that he was here, he couldn’t shut his brain off.

Thoughts of her wouldn’t leave his mind. Questions about what she’d done to make Bruce so protective of her, questions about her past, questions about life with Thomas Wayne, questions about all the flowers, and — most of all — questions about the perfume that she seemed to wear even in the middle of the night kept forming in his head.

And perhaps it was his exhaustion speaking, but the last one was the most frustrating.

The floral smell had completely taken over the family wing. It had seeped into the cracks of Tim’s bedroom door, leaked into his sheets, covered his pillows, and even floated into his bathroom until she was all that he could smell.

It was driving him crazy.

Tim kicked off his blankets and sighed angrily.

He was not going to sleep tonight. He could already tell. There were some mysteries that were just intriguing enough to chase away unconsciousness, and Cordelia Wayne had become one of them.

Not that he wanted her to be.

But Tim’s brain did not care what he wanted. It only cared about finding answers, so he got out of bed and went to the place he knew he’d get them: the BatComputer.

When it came to detective work, there was no one in the family more thorough with note taking than Bruce. While Tim might also enjoy the tiny details of a case, he was less prone to writing them down — preferring, honestly, to obsess over them in his own head.

But Bruce wrote everything; dating the events of a crime down to the second.

Tim could never forget the first time he hacked into the BatComputer. It was like getting a peak into Batman’s mind and seeing… art. 

Each report was deliciously detailed and connected together like a beautifully spun spiderweb — linking towards one another, referencing one another, not straying too far from the ultimate goal which was always to stop crime completely. 

It was awe-inspiring for young Tim. It was everything.

So when Tim sat down in front of the BatComputer that night and hacked into Cordelia’s heavily armored file, he’d been expecting… more.

Profile

Name: Cordelia Wayne

Aliases: formerly Batgirl, formerly Little Heart

Age: 15

Gender: Female

Height: 5’2”

Weight: estimated to be 100 — 120 lbs

Hair: Black

Eyes: Blue

Relatives: Thomas Wayne (father, deceased), Bruce Wayne (brother), Dick Grayson (adoptive nephew), Jason Todd (adoptive nephew), Tim Drake (adoptive nephew), Cassandra Cain (adoptive niece), Damian Wayne (nephew)

Marital Status: Single

Occupation: Former Vigilante, Student

Origin

Cordelia Wayne, 15, daughter of Thomas Wayne (alias: Batman) and unknown, was born in an alternate timeline created by Barry Allen (alias: The Flash) (See FlashPoint Report #1 For More Details On Alternate Timeline).

Early Years (From Ages 0 to 5)

Note: The early years of Cordelia Wayne are largely unknown. Intel is currently limited, likely due to lack of memory retention at that age. Questions disguised as conversation to extract further information have been successful.

Cordelia lived with her mother up until the age of 5. During this time, she was frequently left with babysitters while her mother pursued her career as a writer. It is unlikely that Cordelia managed to build a strong bond with any babysitter she was left with. Due to the lack of child care resources and support system, Cordelia was eventually left with Thomas Wayne when she turned 5 years-old.

Her Mother’s Death (Age 5)

Cordelia’s mother died shortly after leaving Cordelia in Thomas Wayne’s care. Cause of death was a plane crash.

Pre-Batgirl (From Ages 5 to 9)

Alfred Pennyworth became the unofficial caretaker to Cordelia after her mother’s passing. They developed a strong bond. This bond eventually led to the death of Alfred when he stepped between Cordelia and the Joker.

How involved Thomas Wayne was in the death of Alfred is unclear.

Following Alfred’s passing, Thomas Wayne became the sole caretaker of Cordelia. It is unclear when the abuse started as Cordelia herself has a blurred definition of abuse. However, her lack of trust in authority figures indicate that it began almost immediately. Her inability to identify smaller formers of abuse also indicate that her mother abused her, as well.

Abuse worsened the older Cordelia became. Her small stature and ability to go an entire day without eating prove that she experienced severe neglect during these development years (See Cordelia Wayne’s Food Guide For Steps On How To Optimize Her Health).

Batgirl (From Ages 9 to 15)

At the age of 9, Cordelia’s training as Batgirl began. These training sessions involved beating, choking, and terrorizing her. Her instinctual, impulsive fighting style indicate that very little teaching was involved (See Footage Of Batman VS Batgirl #4 For Example On Fighting Style).

It is unclear why Cordelia was given the Batgirl mantel. Possible reasons include:

• She was beginning to show signs of genius-level intellect.
• Thomas Wayne’s increasing age naturally led him to look for a Batman successor.
• Gotham was getting worse.
• Her talents at manipulation were far superior to Thomas Wayne’s.
• Thomas Wayne was lonely.

During her time as Batgirl, Cordelia became dangerous. Her fighting style, geared toward survival due to her upbringing, seeks to take down her opponent as quickly as possible. Her aim toward the weakest parts of the body are disturbingly precise and may result in death if not blocked.

Note: Do not allow Cordelia to fight with family, friends, or civilians. If unavoidable, force her into isolation.

Her time as Batgirl came to a close at the arrival of Barry Allen —

Tim frowned.

That was it?

He reread the report from her origin to the mention of Barry, just to make sure that he didn’t miss anything. But his tired eyes had not deceived him — fifteen years of her life, arguably the most interesting years of her life as far as Tim was concerned, had been reduced to two pages of a report.

Tim narrowed his eyes and skimmed further down the page, where the report became more detailed and critical of Cordelia’s personality: ….Symptoms of long term abuse in Cordelia are typical… impulsive… little-to-no self preservation… abandonment issues… lack of social skills… apathy toward strangers… extreme attachment to the idea of family… concerning view that sex is a transactional experience….

On and on notes like these went, some even linking toward action plans to help make her less impulsive and to make her develop more social skills. But Tim wasn’t as interested in Cordelia’s self betterment as Bruce seemed to be.

He wanted to know her past. Her history with Thomas Wayne. Her history in a dying timeline.

He wanted to know why Batman was allowing a report to have so many “unknowns” and “unclears.”

She’d been living with him for over a month. Why hadn’t he sat her down for an interrogation yet? The Bruce Wayne that Tim knew wouldn’t have been able to hold himself back from getting answers — especially considering how manipulative and dangerous he seemed to think she was.

Tim kept reading until he made it to the end of the report. He read through Cordelia’s run-in with Red Hood, her infatuation with Barry Allen, her sneaking out to go to a nightclub, her handcuffing Nightwing to a car in the middle of a Joker attack, her fight with Bruce, her biting Alfred, her drugging Alfred, her near death experience with the Joker, and then her adoption of a newborn lamb.

His mind was already reeling from all this information, from all the trouble she’d gotten into in such a short period of time, when he read the final note — the one written in bold, red font:

Due to suffering years of abuse under the hands of Batman, Cordelia Wayne is disqualified from inheriting the Batgirl mantle.

That was the note that made Tim’s brain short circuit.

In a way, it made sense. Not only could Cordelia not be trusted, but her report was also much more focused on her civilian side than any of theirs were. However, it was difficult for Tim to imagine that Bruce was putting up with all of Cordelia’s issues without an ulterior motive in mind. 

Reading through the report, Tim could list several different ways Cordelia could be useful to them. She could be their spy, their backup Oracle, their backup Alfred — but Bruce seemed to ignore all of these important positions that she could play a role in.

And for what reason? Because she’d been abused?

So had Damian. So had Cass. So had Steph.

What made Cordelia so special? What made Bruce look the other way when she put Dick’s and Alfred’s lives on the line? What made Bruce so protective of her mental well-being when he didn’t show half as much concern leading his children into battle?

What made him lecture Damian for holding a sword to her throat when the kid had barely gotten a slap on the wrist for almost killing Tim on multiple occasions?

Tim read through her report again, trying to get an answer for these new and more pressing questions — but only more arose.

Frustrated, Tim started to click on the links, watching the few videos they caught of her.

First, he watched Nightwing’s domino mask footage during the Joker attack. He watched her fight; the quick and precise moves she made, the fearlessness before jumping in front of bullets, the way she would have died if Nightwing hadn’t stepped in.

Then he watched her manipulate Nightwing with the most believable set of tears Tim had ever seen. He watched the tears well, the tears fall, the pink lips shake — and then watched all of them disappear the moment she’d gotten what she wanted from him.

After that, he watched her fight with Bruce. He watched her lash out with feral, deadly strikes. He watched as Bruce doubled over in pain after a sharp jab to an armored rib. He watched as Cordelia was pinned to the floor and, upon realizing that she couldn’t get up, watched as she changed tactics by trying to garner sympathy instead.

He watched her succeed in making Batman soften.

It was unbelievable.

Tim had known Bruce and Dick for years. He thought they knew better than to fall for tricks like these.

He clicked the next video link; the one from Bruce’s cowl as he walked underground and found Cordelia nearly beaten to death by the Joker. The video had just shown Tim her broken, bleeding body when it suddenly paused.

“Why are you watching that?”

Every hair on the back of Tim’s neck stood on end. Batman was standing at his elbow, encased in the darkness of his uniform — all except for the glowing white and glaring eyes.

“I was curious,” was the first thing that came out of Tim’s mouth.

The hum that left Batman was low and unhappy, but he did not press the issue. That was something that Tim always liked about their relationship; Bruce respected Tim’s instincts as a detective, so if he was caught investigating something that might appear trivial to others, Bruce would not view it as such.

“How did patrol go?” Tim asked. “Did you find something on the Joker’s new hideout?”

“I haven’t,” Bruce said darkly. He pulled his cowl back, revealing eyes that looked just as tired as Tim felt. “I’ve looked through all the abandoned warehouses and the seediest parts of Gotham. Not even the henchmen that we’ve caught know where he is.”

“Don’t worry, B,” Tim said. “We’ll find him. I can start looking now if —“

“No,” Bruce said firmly. He laid a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here, Tim. The work that you do is invaluable. But when it’s the Joker we’re up against, I need you at your best. That means that you can’t be sleep deprived on the field right now.”

Tim barely registered anything past I’m glad you’re here.

“But there is something that you can do for me starting tomorrow,” Bruce continued. 

“Okay,” Tim said, a bit too eagerly. Compliments from Bruce were so rare. “Anything!”

“I want you to take photographs of Cordelia.”

Tim felt his smile stiffen on his face. “…Why?”

“I’m planning on having Thomas Wayne’s portraits removed around the house,” Bruce said. “I’ll need other photographs to replace them with, and since we don’t have any of her, I think she’d be the best option. I’d also like more of Cass.”

Tim was staring.

He knew he was staring, but he could not stop.

Since the moment he walked through Wayne Manor’s gates, he’d noticed that things had changed. He noticed Alfred’s leniency toward house destruction, he noticed Bruce’s bizarre protectiveness of Cordelia, he noticed that Dick of all people had managed to stay in the manor for longer than a week, and he noticed Bruce’s lack of notes on the new resident of the house, but this….

This level of change was so alarming that warning bells were ringing in Tim’s ears.

“You’re…” Tim blinked several times, “disowning your father?”

This was a test. Bruce was supposed to say “no.”

He didn’t.

“I am,” Bruce said instead. He looked away when he said it, too; he looked at the BatComputer. At the paused video of Cordelia lying half in mud and bleeding so much that it was a miracle she’d managed to survive. “I have to. For her.”

Tim glanced at her image on the screen. He thought about her easy tears and her trembling lips; he thought about the way Dick and Bruce instantly bent to her will whenever she started crying.

“Did she ask you to?” Tim asked.

“Not directly,” Bruce said, “but she tore his portraits off the walls of my office. It became obvious that she doesn’t like seeing him everywhere at that point.”

Tim didn’t think he could feel anymore surprised. If there was one thing that they all knew about Bruce, it was how much he cherished the memory of his parents. Yet Cordelia had barged into Bruce’s office, ripped portraits of his father off the wall, and was getting rewarded for it.

It was… suspicious.

Tim, again, glanced at the screen. But he was no longer seeing her bloodied form. He was seeing the report he’d just read on her; he was seeing all the times Bruce had written the words “unknown” and “unclear.”

He was seeing an even bigger mystery than the one that kept him up at night and forced him to walk into the BatCave.

He was seeing a reason to tell Bruce…. “Okay. I’ll take pictures of her.”

---

The next morning, Tim was even more exhausted than he was yesterday. He’d barely gotten a wink of sleep after his disturbing conversation with Bruce and all the suspicious behavior he’d witnessed. 

But, in the life of a vigilante, a wink of sleep was usually enough.

So the next morning, when Alfred made his rounds waking each of them up by throwing the curtains of their windows open, Tim did not complain. Instead, he’d gotten out of bed and prepared for his day at work.

He really should have extended his vacation a couple more days.

Maybe he could get away with taking a nap in his office.

Tim planned ways to get more sleep as he brushed his teeth, and then stopped thinking entirely as he left his room and trudged over to the kitchen. He could hear Steph talking loudly three rooms down, and when he opened the door, he saw that she was battling Damian for the last fluffy pancake.

“Good morning, Tim,” Bruce said.

Tim blinked his red-rimmed eyes.

Bruce was sitting at the head of the kitchen table with Damian viciously biting into his hard-won pancake to his right and Dick cheerily talking on the phone to his left. Bruce himself was calmly cutting into his turkey bacon with a knife and a fork, much too fresh-eyed for a man who spent the entire night patrolling.

“Morning,” Tim’s voice did an embarrassing crack.

He hated being a teenager sometimes.

But he did not have enough energy to be hateful at the moment. So he went straight for the coffee pot and poured most of it into his stainless steel water bottle.

This would be as good a breakfast as any.

He turned, about to leave to get an early start at work, when Bruce said, “You have a few more hours before work begins. Why don’t you join us?”

Tim wished Bruce would stop surprising him. He didn’t have enough caffeine in him to feel this many emotions. But apparently he did, because seeing Bruce eat a family breakfast at all was weird — let alone hearing Bruce invite more people to the table, as if family breakfast was something that he ever prioritized.

“With… you?” Tim said stupidly.

“Aw, I love non-caffeinated Timmy,” Dick cooed.

Tim wondered who was on the other end of that phone call and hoped it wasn’t anyone he knew.

“He sounds like an imbecile,” Damian snapped.

“Sit,” Cass said, patting the seat beside her.

Tim rubbed his eyes and did just that.

The table was more crowded than it had ever been. Normally, all of the vigilantes didn’t return to Wayne Manor at the same time. Tim was more used to it being him and Damian and Bruce; but, now, it was also Steph and also Cass and, most surprisingly, also Dick.

He would have questioned Dick’s presence if he wasn’t so tired.

Tim took a long gulp of coffee and then started scooping some hot oatmeal into a bowl. Around him, his siblings and Steph kept up the noise, some talking to each other — but most of them determined to get Bruce’s attention.

Dick hung up his phone to try to engage Bruce in a conversation about patrol last night, telling him about new places that they could look into. Damian tried to tell him about new tricks he’d taught Titus while he was away, actually tugging at Bruce’s sleeve every time it looked like his attention strayed. Steph tried to make him laugh with jokes about some loser villains she’d fought a few weeks ago. And Cass kept making her food look like smiley faces so that she could show her designs to Bruce.

It was more noise than Tim was used to hearing in Wayne Manor. But, he supposed, it made sense. None of them were used to eating breakfast with Bruce, so it was only natural that everyone would try to soak in as much quality time with him as possible.

Tim wondered how long this would last before Bruce retreated back to the quiet of his BatCave.

He took another long drink of coffee, and glanced at the clock. How long would it take for the caffeine to give him brain power? Thirty minutes? Ten? Maybe if he drank it all in one shot —

He saw something out of the corner of his eye.

It was Cordelia Wayne standing at the doorway with her lamb clutched tightly to her chest. She looked completely changed from the girl of yesterday; her dress had been switched for a black t-shirt and jeans, her hair had been twisted into a braid, and her makeup-covered face had been cleaned, revealing a gash near her temple and a healing cut across the bridge of her nose.

She looked younger. And lost.

Tim couldn’t guess how long she’d stood there watching his family chatter amongst each other, but it was clear that she’d been standing there a while. Not because of anything around her, but because of that look in her eye.

He’d seen that look before. Back when he used to go to school. It usually occupied the eyes of scholarship students when they made their way into the cafeteria, saw everyone talking to each other, and realized that they were the outsiders of a very exclusive club.

After they had that realization, there were only two options ahead of them: they could either turn around and find somewhere else to eat alone, or they could find a seat in the cafeteria and try to make new friends.

Yesterday, Cordelia had chosen the former.

This morning, she looked at the final available seat at the table. The seat all the way at the end, right beside Tim.

Her movements were reluctant as she made her way over, quietly pulled the chair out for herself, and sat down.

Tim didn’t bother getting offended. It wasn’t like he wanted to share arm space with someone who liked to bite arms.

But he was curious. All the things he knew about her were from the report he’d read. And, now, he wanted to learn some things about her firsthand. So he watched as she slowly served herself, piling her plate with great care, ensuring that each food group was present and that each food group had proper proportions.

He also watched as she clutched her lamb tightly with one arm, keeping it just out of Tim’s reach as if she expected him to wrestle it from her again.

He grabbed his cup of coffee from the table and watched her twitch in response.

Jumpy. Paranoid.

Fearful.

All things Bruce had listed himself.

He was almost relieved. With all the changes he noticed in Bruce, at least the man wasn’t losing his ability to assess a person’s character.

As he took a sip of his coffee, watching Cordelia out of the corner of his eye, he could see her own eyes watching him — or, more accurately, could see her stare at the bandage that peaked through the sleeve of his shirt.

The bandage that covered one of her many bite marks.

Cordelia looked down at her plate of food, but she didn’t touch it.

Tim was half convinced that she would not say a word to him for the whole meal. And just when he was about to be fully convinced of that, she spoke: “Did you have a good sleep?”

Her voice was lightyears more quiet than the rest of the family, all of whom were still chatting with Bruce on the other side of the table.

“You mean despite my arms being covered in marks made by your teeth?” Tim asked dryly. “No.”

He glanced at her without really meaning to, and regretted it instantly.

Two wide, sad eyes were staring up at him from a pale and pretty face.

It was impossible not to feel guilty.

Fortunately, Alfred had the best timing in the family, because his entrance into the kitchen stopped Tim’s feelings of guilt from festering. The old butler made a beeline toward the table, holding out two large newspapers for both Bruce and Tim.

Tim happily latched onto the distraction.

He was never much of a newspaper person, but he’d gotten into the habit of reading the Gotham morning news ever since Bruce adopted him. At first, he thought since Batman was doing it, then it must be useful. But after a few months, he realized that Bruce only read the newspaper because he was old and it had become a habit at that point.

Still, Tim didn’t cancel his subscription. And he was glad he didn’t, or else he would not have anything to hide behind when Cordelia was looking at him like he’d kicked her lamb and called it ugly.

“Ah, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said after handing Bruce and Tim their papers. “You slept in today. Are you feeling well?”

Alfred spoke quietly — but when the butler spoke, everyone was in the habit of listening. So the moment they heard him address Cordelia, they realized that she’d been sitting with them for quite a while.

Every single head in the room turned in her direction, openly staring and waiting for her answer.

Cordelia did not meet anyone’s eyes. Instead, she looked down at her untouched plate of food and shrunk into herself.

“I’m fine,” she murmured.

The silence that followed her answer was too awkward even for Tim. He opened his newspaper and hid from it.

Cordelia must not have liked the silence, either, because she shifted uneasily beside him.

“I’m…” she faltered, and then tried again. “I’m so sorry to everyone for the way that I acted yesterday. For hurting all of you. You have no idea how guilty I’ve felt ever since.”

The quiet only became more suffocating.

Tim wished that he’d just gone to work early like he’d planned.

“That was very mature of you, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said, finally breaking through the awkwardness. “I am sure everyone appreciates your apology. Don’t you all?”

“Uh," Steph stuttered, as unused to apologies as the rest of them. "Yeah."

“Tt," Damian scoffed. "Whatever."

“Apology accepted,” Cass said warmly.

“I could never stay mad at my Little Bat,” Dick cooed.

Then it was Tim’s turn — and everyone knew it. He could feel their stares through the newspaper. So he sighed a large and tired sigh, put down the paper, looked into those blue eyes, and said very firmly, “Just don’t do it again. Bite marks are hard to explain to the public.”

He didn’t know what she expected from all of them, but his response clearly was not it. The tentative hope that had resided in her eyes stuttered and died as she said, in a soft whisper, “Okay.”

Chapter 52: INTERLUDE: Tim's POV (Part Three)

Summary:

“Tim,” Bruce said, with so much exhaustion that Tim almost offered him a cup of coffee. “You cannot have a crush on your aunt.”

Notes:

We return to Cordelia's POV in the next chapter!

Chatter continued like a slow trickle of water, everyone recovering from the awkwardness at their own pace.

To Tim’s left, he could hear the conversation turn toward day plans. From business meetings to school shopping — everyone was busy; everyone had something to do. But to his right, where just Cordelia sat, all he could hear was the quiet clink of silver utensils on a porcelain plate.

Tim sighed. He was really, really regretting not going to work early.

“Should I warm your lamb a bottle, Miss Cordelia, or would you prefer to feed her after you eat?” Alfred asked gently.

“I’ll feed her now,” Cordelia murmured.

She adjusted the lamb on her lap so that the hooves were no longer clinging to her shoulders with the desperation of a drowning man to a life raft.

The lamb did not react happily to this movement.

Frantic bleating hit the air like a buzzard, causing everyone at the table to flinch. Cordelia, pink in the cheeks, stopped trying to force the lamb to sit with its back to her chest, and was rewarded with its silence as it scrambled back underneath her chin and stayed there.

“Oh dear, has she not gotten over her fright from yesterday?” Alfred asked.

He walked over and tried to pet the lamb’s back, but the thing must have known that it wasn’t Cordelia’s touch, because it began bleating again as if it were getting beaten.

Alfred tore his hand away.

“She’s — overwhelmed,” Cordelia said, avoiding everyone’s eyes. “I’ll leave.”

“No,” Bruce said. “You need to finish your breakfast.”

Cordelia was already standing — and from Tim’s experience with catching thieves red-handed, he could tell that she was seconds away from booking it. “But she needs space.”

“Isolating her isn’t going to help her get used to a new environment,” Bruce said, “or new people. Sit down.”

For a moment, Tim was sure that she’d argue back. Simply because there was a stubbornness to the way she held her chin that reminded him too much of Damian to think otherwise. But then she tilted her chin down, and the stubbornness disappeared as if it had been a trick of the light.

“Okay,” she said, full of submission, and sat down.

Alfred patted Cordelia comfortingly on the shoulder before leaving to make a bottle for the lamb. Which… turned out to be an actual baby bottle. To feed the diapered lamb. Because this was what life in Wayne Manor was like now.

“Would you like me to drive you to work, Master Tim?” Alfred asked.

“No, thanks,” Tim said. “I know you’re busy.”

“It would not be a problem for me, I assure you,” Alfred said.

Beside him, Cordelia was feeding her lamb and sadly petting its limp tail.

Tim shook his head — partly to answer Alfred’s question and partly because of the situation. “Really, Alfred. I’m okay. I like driving.”

“Very well,” Alfred said with a slight frown. “But do be careful. Gotham’s streets tend to be less civilized when the Joker is out and about.”

“I remember,” Tim said, and went back to finishing his meal and listening to the excited buzz of conversation around him.

It seemed like no one could get enough of having breakfast with Bruce. Especially since he was not talking shop like he usually did. Instead, Bruce calmly cut into his breakfast and lightly engaged with whichever child had managed to capture his attention.

At the moment, it was Damian, who was proudly describing all the new tricks he taught Titus over the Summer.

“Titus now knows the difference between my civilian identity and Robin,” Damian said with his tiny chest puffed up. “He will only approach Robin if I do a very specific whistle. Would you like to hear it, Father?”

“It could be useful,” Bruce decided. “Go on.”

Damian whistled a tune that sounded a lot like a bird singing. “Should l proceed with teaching him the difference between you and Batman?”

Bruce hummed his approval.

Damian’s responding smirk was full of victory.

But he could not hold Bruce’s attention for much longer. Because then it was Steph talking about the classes she was planning to take in her Fall semester, and then it was Dick talking about Bludhaven’s lack of a nightlife, and then it was Cass talking about a delicious meal she had during her trip to China, and on and on it went — until everyone was finishing up their breakfasts and getting ready to leave.

Bruce was the first to go, but not before letting them all know that he would be in business meetings until lunch. After him, it was Damian, who was much more mysterious about his day plans. And then it was almost Dick before Cordelia’s hand locked around his wrist like a handcuff, keeping him from leaving with the rest.

“Can I join you?” She asked.

Her knuckles were white.

“In the gymnastics room?” Dick said. “Cordelia, you haven’t healed yet.”

“I can still do tricks,” she said. There was a pause, and then…. “Please?”

Tim lifted his spoon toward his mouth, about to take the final bite of his oatmeal so that he could head to work, when he saw the strangest thing happen: Dick, normally so free-spirited and easily rankled when prodded, softened.

He took a step closer to Cordelia and poked her nose. “Don't do that, Little Bat. I’m trying to take care of you.”

Her response was petulant. “But I want to spend time with you.”

Dick was putty in her hands.

Tim gawked.

“We can hang out later,” Dick said. “What about a movie before I patrol?”

“That’s hours away,” Cordelia complained.

Clearly, she could not take “no” for an answer. This was something that would have annoyed Tim greatly, but Dick was acting as if she was the cutest thing in the world.

“Geez, you make me feel so wanted, Little Bat,” he said, eyes glimmering.

It was supposed to be a joke. Everyone knew (and Dick certainly knew) that his company was always desired by pretty much everyone he met, but Cordelia answered seriously.

“What else would you be?”

In a detached sort of way, Tim could appreciate the scene in front of him for what it was: a master class in manipulation.

She was clearly pulling out all the stops to get Dick to fold to her will. Waiting a few hours to watch a movie was not going to hurt her, but she was making it seem like it would by forcing herself to look like the very type of person that they were all trained to protect. The pouting, the trembling lamb, the slumped shoulders, even the seemingly innocuous compliments all worked together to create a very sad, pitiable picture — one that was clearly made to break the heart of a hero.

Dick didn’t stand a chance.

His resolve was crumbling right in front of them and turning to dust as it hit the floor. Cordelia began to straighten in her seat, eyes glittering under the lights of the kitchen. But, luckily for Dick and unluckily for Cordelia, Tim was not the only one who’d hung back to observe their conversation.

“Miss Cordelia, I must object,” Alfred said suddenly. “I think your time will be better spent elsewhere. How about you tag along with Misses Cassandra and Stephanie to go school shopping?”

The girls’ heads swiveled at hearing their names.

Alfred laid a hand on Cordelia's back and guided her over to them. “You young ladies wouldn’t mind adding a third to your group, would you?”

Cass and Steph glanced at each other, communicating silently, before turning back to Cordelia with similar answers.

“Nope,” Cass said.

“Not at all,” Steph said.

“Excellent,” Alfred said, pleased. “I will return shortly with money from Master Bruce and a list of things you will need to buy for school, Miss Cordelia.”

“But…” Cordelia hesitated. “Bruce said that I can’t leave the house without asking him for permission first.”

“Very well,” Alfred nodded. “Come with me and we will plead your case.”

Cordelia glanced one more time in Dick’s direction. Her eyes practically begged him to get her out of this, to drag her to the gymnastics room so that she didn’t have to spend time with the girls. But all Dick did was send her an encouraging thumb’s up.

Cordelia’s face was scrunched up in frustration as she followed Alfred out the door.

“She’s so cute,” Dick said fondly.

“She’s definitely…” Steph paused, searching for the right words. “Something.”

“You don’t like her?” Dick asked.

“Every time I catch her eyes, she stares at me like she wants to murder me,” she said.

That was alarming. Tim hadn’t caught Cordelia giving anyone aggressive stares, and he’d pretty much watched her for the entire meal. Which meant that she’d known when she was being watched. 

It also meant that at least some of her sad, victim behavior was an act.

“I like her,” Cass said chirpily.

“Yeah, because she looks at you like you’re made of sugar cookies,” Steph said, rolling her eyes.

Cass grinned.

“She’s just a little shy around strangers,” Dick said. “Give her a chance. I’m sure she’ll stop contemplating your murder eventually.”

Steph snorted. “Comforting. Remind me never to ask you to defend me in a court of law, Dick.”

“You’d never have to ask,” Dick said gallantly. “I’ll be there bright and early to let the jury know that even if you’re guilty, you’re still innocent in my eyes.”

“I’m sure that’ll convince them.”

They continued joking as Tim shook his head at them.

He couldn’t believe this.

In a house full of detectives, was he really the only one slightly suspicious of Bruce’s new “sister?” Did no one else see her so successfully manipulate Dick? Did no one notice how — how different Bruce was?

Looking at Dick, Steph, and Cass… he saw that they didn’t. Or, if they did, that they didn’t care.

They’d enjoyed their conversations with Bruce, and that was enough for them.

But it wasn’t enough for Tim.

He had to make sure that this new girl was not a danger to them. Sure, she seemed harmless right now — and even a little sad and lonely. But that, like her pathetic pleading with Dick earlier, could be an act meant to disguise something darker.

So it was Tim’s job as Red Robin to make sure that her manipulative tactics would only be used for harmless reasons, and not to one day have them all handcuffed in front of the enemy.

“What about you, Tim?” Steph asked.

He frowned at her. “What about me?”

“How do you like the new girl?” Steph asked. “Your aunt?”

“She’s weird,” he said bluntly. “And she’s not my au.…”

The kitchen door was opening behind him. Steph’s, Dick’s, and Cass’s eyes widened, letting him know that the very person he was talking about was also the very person walking in. And he didn’t have to turn to see her stricken features to know that she’d heard him.

The walls in this old house were frustratingly thin.

Behind Cordelia, Bruce and Alfred stood — and their eyes were fixed on Tim’s reddening face.

“I, um,” he stuttered. “Was talking about a new hire at Wayne Enterprises.”

Steph coughed behind him.

Cordelia looked away.

Alfred laid a hand on her shoulder. “For the sake of everyone involved, we will choose to believe you, Master Tim.”

Tim avoided Bruce’s direct stare. “Um — I should… go. To work.”

“Yes,” Bruce said. “You should.”

Tim winced, feeling like his face could not get any hotter. 

It was one thing to get scolded by Bruce, it was another thing entirely to feel unwelcome in his home. Tim hurriedly grabbed his bag off the table and rushed out of the kitchen before anyone else could say anything about his blunder.

Cordelia stepped aside silently, but not before sending him a look that he could not — with all his training — decipher.

---

By the time Tim walked through his office door at Wayne Enterprises, he had given up trying to decipher that look Cordelia gave him. He’d juggled different emotions in his head; fear, disappointment, resentment — but none of them fit perfectly in his mind.

So he decided that he would consider it later, when he had more data to work with.

Besides, he was not Red Robin when he was at Wayne Enterprises.

He was a CEO.

A CEO who had neglected his duties for more than a few months.

“Welcome back, Sir,” his assistant said. She dropped a tall stack of papers on his desk. “These need your attention. And when you’re done with these, I’ll give you the next pile. I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

Tim calmly flipped through the first few papers as his assistant left the office.

Not for the first time, he realized why it had been so easy for Bruce to step down from Wayne Enterprises. Their nightlife already put them under so much pressure; to be the head of a multi-billion dollar company only added to that.

But Tim liked pressure.

He liked being needed, and being the one to control all the numbers. It allowed him the opportunity to juggle all of it — the funds that were put into Batman Inc., the money being shoveled into charities, and even which business partners got most of their attention. 

To leave decisions this important to anyone else besides Tim would be… a disaster. Because, even though it was Bruce’s company and would one day pass on to Damian, Tim believed that he was the only one who saw its real value.

Bruce saw it as a distraction from Batman; Damian saw it as his birthright.

The others barely saw it as anything but a place that funded Bruce’s mission.

But Tim knew that Wayne Enterprises was the foundation to it all. And that if they wanted to keep their vigilante lives going, then there would need to be a Wayne sitting behind this desk, signing all these papers.

So even though Tim was tired and on his second cup of coffee, he relaxed into his seat — and he got to work.

Hours passed.

Tim read through the stack of papers and signed where he needed to sign. Not much had changed since he last sat at this desk, but he could see a few numbers here or there that would need to be looked into further.

He marked these questions down, and kept working through the stack.

Tim was about halfway through it when his phone started dinging with texts from the family group chat.

Steph: turn on Good Morning Gotham NOW

Dick: oh my god

Demon: I will take care of this, Father.

Cass: 🥺

Alarm bells rang in his ears.

Tim slammed the button under his desk that locked all the doors and closed all the windows, submerging himself in complete privacy. Then, he switched on his computer to watch the news.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting.

Explosions maybe. News on the Joker especially.

But not Gossip Gerty starting her Good Morning Gotham Gossip segment.

The family hated Gossip Gerty.

And not just because she was incredibly frivolous, but because she had a creepy obsession with all things Brucie Wayne.

It did not matter whether he was doing something tedious like visiting an exclusive restaurant, or something scandalous like hooking up with two different women in the same week. Whatever it was that Brucie did in public, Gossip Gerty made sure that she was the one to report it.

Which often meant that the rest of the family was dragged into her reports, as well.

Like today, it seemed.

A photograph of Bruce with Cordelia was blown up on the screen behind Gossip Gerty. It wasn’t the best of photos; it had clearly been taken from a distance and in a dark room. But it was clear enough to see that Cordelia was holding her lamb out to Bruce, and that the lamb’s mouth was closed around Bruce’s earlobe.

It was also clear enough to see that Bruce was cringing so hard that one of his eyes was completely shut.

“I know, right?” Gossip Gerty chittered girlishly in her armchair. Her bulky glasses wobbled on her petite nose. “What I wouldn’t give to be a small lamb nibbling at Bruce Wayne’s earlobe.”

Her in-studio audience clapped and cheered in agreement.

Tim got another text from the group chat.

Dick: im recording this

Steph: Dick, you are my hero 🙏

Bruce: Stephanie, if the situation is not an emergency, then you need to specify that in your text.

Bruce: I exited an important meeting because I thought you, Cordelia, and Cass were in danger.

Bruce: We will need to come up with an adequate texting system when I return home.

Steph: 😑

Demon: I agree, Father. This is all very childish.

Dick: [image attached]

Despite himself, Tim felt his lips twitch in amusement. The image Dick sent was of Bruce kneeling in the grass with two large sheep in each arm.

One of the sheep was biting his ear.

He sent his own text to the chat.

Me: $100 on Gossip Gerty dressing as a sheep this Halloween.

Steph: not all of us have 100 dollars to spend, rich boy

Cass: I am poor

Bruce: Cass, if you need money, then I will replenish your bank account.

Cass: I am not poor anymore. $200 dollars

As Tim read through the texts, Gossip Gerty’s nasally voice continued to sound through his computer speakers.

“As most of you know, the girl he’s eating with is his newest ward,” she said. “But what most of you don’t know… is her name.”

The in-studio crowd buzzed with excitement.

Tim tried not to roll his eyes.

“She calls herself Cordelia Wayne — that’s right! Wayne. According to our source, she is a distant relative of Bruce’s! And, I mean, speaking as your local Bruce Wayne expert, I can see the resemblance.”

The photo of Bruce and Cordelia was expanded even larger, until they both looked fuzzy.

“Look at those eyes,” Gossip Girty covered her red-lipped smile with a manicured hand as she giggled. “Don’t they just make you shiver?”

Another ding sounded from Tim’s phone.

Steph had sent them a picture of her own. It was a candid shot of Cordelia sitting in what looked like the Gotham mall courtyard, where a whole bunch of other families were taking a break from shopping to eat burgers and fries and hot dogs.

Cordelia had a fry halfway to her mouth as she stared up at one of the large TV screens that were hung on the courtyard walls.

Her nose was wrinkled prettily in disgust.

Steph: I think Gotham has gained one more Gossip Gerty hater.

Cass: she said “ew” 🤭

“All jokes aside,” Gossip Gerty continued. “I know that I’m not the only one shocked to see that he’s letting his newest ward out in public after the last scandal she created caused a media storm that even Bruce Wayne’s best PR agents couldn’t suppress.”

The photo of Bruce and Cordelia with the lamb faded away, and the photo it was replaced with caused Tim’s eyes to bulge.

It was Cordelia standing in a street at night with Bruce and a boy around her age. Except… what she was wearing was not something he ever thought a girl like her would wear: a top and matching skirt so tight it left nothing to the imagination; a skirt so short that one wrong move would reveal everything; and heels so thin that it looked like she was standing on her tip-toes barefoot.

“Oh, yes,” Gossip Girty said knowingly. “The photo. The one that has dubbed her Gotham’s new Wild Child, and has launched much discussion about whether or not Bruce Wayne taking in so many troubled children is a good thing.”

Tim got another text — this time from Bruce.

Bruce: Stephanie, you’ve watched enough. 

Bruce: Leave the courtyard.

Steph: Okay geez

“Most child psychologists are in agreement,” Gossip Gerty continued. “As long as their foster parents are providing the right amount of resources and attention, it’s a good thing. But are we completely sure that Bruce Wayne is doing that? I mean, this is a highly sought after bachelor who spends most nights partying and taking trips out of town. And with such an active social life, it’s no wonder that his new ward is acting out for attention. But that’s just my opinion! Let us know what you think on our social media pages!”

Almost immediately after she said that, a pop up appeared at the bottom left side of the screen. It showed a live feed of social media posts about Cordelia as Gossip Gerty continued to talk about child psychologist recommendations.

It’s sad that Bruce Wayne’s foster kids have to compete with socialites for his attention, one user wrote.

Why do rich people give irresponsible children exotic pets? I doubt a girl like that knows how to take care of a farm animal, another said.

Teenagers like this need to get raised with a firmer hand, something that we all know Bruce Wayne is incapable of, yet another said.

Parents these days. They just don’t spank their kids like they used to.

I would lock my daughter away if she ever thought to dress like that. #embarrassing

I don’t get why everyone is mad. If Wayne wants us to get a good look at his ward, then I don’t mind staring 👀

Just tell me when it’s legal.

This is like the Dick Grayson phenomenon but for straight men. I swear Bruce Wayne knows what he’s doing.

Bruce: Stephanie, I told you to leave the courtyard. Why has your location not moved?

Steph: I tried to leave, but Cordelia doesn’t want to.

Steph: She’s angry.

Cass: Angry for you.

Cass: Does not like what they say about you.

Bruce: I’m going to call you. Give her the phone.

“Did that say the Dick Grayson phenomenon?” Gossip Gerty said with an amused smile. “I think everyone in Gotham remembers that. And it looks like Cordelia Wayne is going to get the same treatment! No one knows her exact age, but countdowns have already been made for when people think she’ll turn eighteen. Normally, I’m against things like that. But judging from the outfit she wore, I don’t think she’ll mind this type of attention! What do you think, Anthony?”

The camera switched to a different news anchor. A middle aged man who was shaking his head and grinning ear-to-ear.

“You always try to get me in trouble, Gerty,” Anthony said. “I don’t think anything. At least not for the next three or four years — I’m kidding! I’m kidding! Let’s move on to news about the recent renovations happening over at Gotham Harbor before Bruce Wayne threatens to sue us again.”

Tim sat back in his chair, staring at the screen as it showed helicopter footage of the Harbor. 

To a passerby, they might assume that he was showing an unusual interest in Anthony’s news segment. But, in truth, Tim was somewhere else: in his mind.

Mentally, he was back in the BatCave and combing through Cordelia’s file.

He’d read about her night out with James. It had begun with her stealing the phone of Bruce’s date and ended with her almost sleeping with a boy named James Thompson. 

From Bruce’s description, she’d been half-naked and too intoxicated to walk properly.

His description also showed a lot of concern. He’d listed out the possible impact being taken advantage of might have on her mental health. He’d noted that her acting out was a sign that she suffered from extreme loneliness, and that perhaps having someone closer to her age in the house would relieve her of this pain. 

At the time, Tim had read the events and thought that Bruce’s focus on Cordelia’s feelings was unusual. But, now, he realized that there was something much more unique about the report….

It was biased.

Bruce hadn’t included that photo of Cordelia in her tight-fitting dress. Why? Bruce usually included all data that he could.

But not this time.

Instead, he’d written Cordelia as someone who reacted to her situations with naivety and innocence; someone easily taken advantage of; someone in need of guidance and protection.

But what she was wearing in that photo was far from innocent. And not only that, but Tim had met Cordelia. He’d seen her knowing look when Dick started to succumb to her manipulations, he’d seen the cold way she treated Steph, he saw her fight with Bruce and how she hadn’t hesitated to go in for the kill.

She was not so naive. Not so innocent.

Which meant that Bruce’s report was inaccurate. 

And that Tim would have to start his own.

So he opened a safe-guarded document on his computer, and did just that.

---

Tim decided to return home for lunch. 

He was eager to begin his investigation on Cordelia before she got back from her shopping trip with Steph and Cass. Only… the moment he walked through the front door, he could hear voices in the kitchen — and the familiar sound of Steph and Dick trying to talk over each other.

He sighed. Because if Steph was already back, then so was Cordelia.

Briefly, he mourned the loss of his original plan to set up cameras around the house so that he could watch her at all times. But only briefly. Because every detective had an arsenal of back-up plans when the first ones went wrong.

And, luckily for Tim, Bruce had offered him the perfect opportunity to watch Cordelia closely without garnering suspicion.

Tim walked up the steps to the family wing, and then walked into his room.

His old camera was so dusty from sitting unused on his shelf that it took seven different moist towelettes in order to clean it. But when he pointed his camera outside the window to test it out, he found that it worked as well as it always did.

The photo of two robins bathing in a puddle was crisp. The sun reflected off of their vibrant, wet feathers as one ducked its beak underneath its wing and the other was silting its head to stare inquisitively at Tim.

“Sorry, no more pictures,” he told it as he closed the window and left his room. “I have a job to do.”

The kitchen was much rowdier than it had been that morning. 

His siblings and Steph were now well-rested and pumped with caffeine. They circled the table like hyenas, plucking tiny sandwiches off the row of platters, and speaking to each other with mouths full of food.

“Bruce, you have to sue them,” Steph said as she chewed angrily on her cucumber sandwich. “The way they talked about Cordelia was disgusting!”

“And Dick,” Cass nodded.

Bruce was sitting at the head of the table again. His face was pinched. “I’ll try. But it might not make it to court.”

“Then we should threaten them personally,” Damian said. He lifted a butter knife like a sword. “And in person.”

“Can everyone just stop talking for a second?” Dick interjected. He was leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms folded, frowning around the room in annoyance. “Cordelia. This is your name and your reputation. What do you want us to do?”

Everyone’s heads turned toward the windows.

Only then, did Tim even notice her.

While the rest of the family was surrounding the table, chewing on the sandwiches that Alfred prepared, Cordelia was sitting on the floor beneath the windows in front of five wooden ramps. And on top of the tallest ramp was her lamb, which she’d dressed in a pink tutu and a tiara.

The lamb bent its skinny knees and hopped to the next ramp closer to its owner.

Cordelia leaned forward to press a kiss against its nose.

“I don’t care,” she said lightly. “Look how happy she is.”

The she Cordelia must have been referring to was the lamb, because the thing did look inordinately joyous hopping from one ramp to the other as if it was on a playground. Everyone watched as it went back and forth, only pausing when it was close to Cordelia so that it could receive a kiss, before returning to its game. 

“Cordelia, I know it doesn’t matter to you now,” Dick said, “but the way the public views you has a way of affecting your everyday life. This is something that you should think about carefully.”

The lamb paused in front of her and lifted its head.

Cordelia kissed it again.

“Fine,” she said. “Sue them.”

Dick frowned at her. But she’d managed to say what almost everyone in the room wanted her to say, so there was no point in challenging her.

“Excellent,” Bruce said. “I’ll have my lawyers send out papers within the hour.”

“Bruce,” Dick said. “Do you really think —“

“She wants them sued, Dick,” Bruce said. “So we’ll sue them.”

“I still propose that we threaten them personally, Father,” Damian said. He held up his butter knife even higher so that the sunlight from the windows could glint off the point. “They disrespected the entire family with that moronic segment. We need to teach them a lesson!”

Bruce grabbed the knife from his fist and set it on the table. “I appreciate your… protectiveness, Damian, but it’s not needed. I can take care of Cordelia myself.”

Cordelia looked over at him from the floor. “I don’t need protection.”

Judging from his expression, and the report he wrote about her, Bruce wholeheartedly disagreed with that statement. But he did not seem eager to start an argument with yet another child.

On the contrary, Tim watched as he looked away and subtly searched for a distraction — and found one in Tim.

“Tim,” Bruce said, vaguely surprised. “You’re home early.”

Heads turned in his direction.

Cordelia only looked at him briefly before returning her attention to the lamb.

Tim took this as his cue to enter further into the kitchen and take a seat at the table. “I can say the same about a lot of you. I didn’t know school shopping trips could be so short.”

“Bruce said to come home,” Cass explained.

She offered him a biscuit.

“Which sucks completely,” Steph said, “because we were having a lot of fun getting to know what Bruce is like as an older brother.”

“He’s bossy,” Cordelia informed them.

Her words had no real bite to them. In fact, the smile that she sent in Bruce’s direction was almost teasing.

“But sweet,” she added.

“Sweet?” Damian repeated, scandalized.

“You’re kidding,” Steph said doubtfully.

“He is,” Cordelia said. She looked at Bruce, almost as if asking for backup, but the man’s lips were pressed together so firmly that it would take a crowbar to part them. “And thoughtful. I can see where Damian gets it from.”

That final sentence made Tim choke on his biscuit. “Damian? Thoughtful?”

She seemed noticeably less eager to talk to Tim, but she nodded anyway. “Damian is very thoughtful. He carved these ramps for Little Heart himself. Aren’t they beautiful?”

Cordelia gestured to the ramps in front of her. And now that Tim was looking at them, he saw that they did have a homemade quality to them.

Store bought furniture was usually more uniform and less detailed. But the ramps each had unique and intricate designs carved into the legs and the tops; with the legs made to look as if leafy vines were crawling up them and the tops made to look as if there were hoof marks on them.

Tim’s head was going to explode.

Did Damian really take the time to make Cordelia a gift?

He couldn’t believe it. Yet no one in the kitchen was denying it. Not even Damian himself, although the boy’s cheeks were slightly flushed.

“Why would you do that?” Tim asked Damian. “You made her a gift?”

His words were too blunt; his tone too disbelieving.

Bruce and Dick did not bother to hide the glares that they sent in his direction.

“Tim,” Steph said. “You’re being rude."

Perhaps he was. Perhaps he should feel guilty for the way that his words made Cordelia close off. But — but this was Damian that they were talking about.

His idea of a gift was to not stab you in the gut.

“Father requested that I make up for yesterday, so I followed orders,” Damian said defensively. The tips of his ears were maroon. “That was all. Besides, it was hardly a gift for her. It was more for the lamb. I did not like the role that I played in making it so fearful.”

This answer made the panic in Tim’s brain settle just a bit.

That’s right. Damian liked animals.

He’d create a gift for an animal.

This was not another clue that Cordelia was some — some sorceress or master manipulator or — 

“You did more than follow orders when you created those for her, Damian,” Bruce said. His voice was deep and rumbling. It was warm. “I’m proud of you.”

Tim’s brain felt like it was zapped.

The same shockwave seemed to have taken over Damian, as well. He looked at his father then; expression young and eyes wide.

“You are?” He asked.

It was the most vulnerable and needy Tim had ever heard him.

Tim was completely numb as he watched Bruce soften. “I am. Very proud.”

The kitchen was silent as they watched these words hit Damian, and watched him absorb them.

For as long as they’d known Damian, the kid was always seeking Bruce’s pride. He’d gone up against monsters three times his size as Robin, created successful business plans for Wayne Enterprises, tried to start a new Teen Titans, and developed a safe home for many abused animals — all out of the goodness of his tiny black heart, but also to hear his father say those words to him.

That he was proud.

Those words were so rare, Tim knew. And hard to earn.

Yet Damian had received them twice in a couple of minutes just by getting Cordelia a gift.

It took a while for Damian to get over his shock. But when he did, he seemed embarrassed by his own vulnerability.

He clicked his teeth and turned toward the wall, hiding his expression from everyone in the room. 

“You’ve become sentimental this Summer, Father,” he said. “See to it that it does not affect your work as Batman.”

Bruce did not seem to know how to respond to that. But Tim, who had lost all ability to think at this point, could not blame him.

Across the room, Cordelia picked up her lamb and hugged it close to her chest.

The tail wagged furiously from beneath its frilly skirt.

And Cass, either oblivious to her brother’s inner turmoil or eager to cause more havoc, chose this moment to poke Tim’s arm and say, “I got her the tutu and tiara. Cute?”

---

Tim spent the next few days following Cordelia closely with his camera.

His excuse was that Bruce wanted more pictures of her. And although she did not seem entirely comfortable with having Tim around so often, she did not protest. Which made it easy for the young detective to gather information and note down all the weird things about her.

And there were a lot of weird things.

The first being that Alfred, in particular, adored her.

The butler made sure that every meal had something that Cordelia considered “a favorite,” and would always set time aside on his busy schedule to either have tea with her or visit her garden.

The second weird thing that Tim noticed was that Cordelia did not like to be alone.

Almost every minute of her day was either spent with someone or searching for someone to be with. For example, if she was not having tea with Alfred, then she was watching a movie with Cass and Steph. And if she was not watching a movie with Cass and Steph, then she was playing video games with Dick. And if she was not playing video games with Dick, then she would most certainly be found wherever Bruce was.

Tim was socially exhausted just photographing her spending time with people. He couldn’t imagine having to speak with them himself.

But Cordelia never seemed exhausted with them. In fact, every time someone smiled her way, she lit up.

It was like she was a house cat that fed off of company rather than food — a comparison which only strengthened when he caught her quietly following along as Alfred dusted the house china.

The third weird thing Tim noticed was that Cordelia… actually thought that she was their aunt.

Every single morning, without fail, she asked them how they’d slept. And every single night, without fail, she would wait up for them to return from patrol. And not in the subtle way that Alfred did, either.

While the butler took extra long to clean the BatCave, Cordelia would sit on the steps of the family wing so that, by the time they returned, she was so exhausted from sitting still that she could barely keep her eyes open. But even with drooping eyes and an aching back, she refused to call it quits and head to bed until she saw that they were home safe.

No one said anything about it to her, at first — until two nights ago, after an unusually long patrol.

They’d walked toward the family wing, all of them exhausted and bruised and dragging their feet, to see Cordelia curled up and sleeping on the top step of the stairs.

Bruce had approached her. He groaned quietly as he bent down. And then he’d shaken her awake.

“You can’t wait up for us anymore,” he said in that soft and gentle tone he kept just for her. “This ends tonight.” 

“But I worry,” she said, her words slurring.

“I know,” Bruce said. “But now you are worrying me. You could have rolled and fallen down these stairs.”

“M’sorry,” she mumbled, but went back to sleep.

Bruce carefully lifted her into his arms, pausing only momentarily when she buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, before carrying her to her room.

Which led Tim to another weird thing that he noticed: Bruce treated Cordelia like a child.

Tim had thought it was weird that she needed permission to leave the house. But that was only one of the bizarre rules she had to follow.

Another was that she was required to eat at every meal. While the rest of the family would sometimes skip breakfast or lunch, Bruce refused to let Cordelia do the same. Even when it was clear that she was not in the mood to eat, she would have to find a way to scarf it down.

And then there were the questions.

Bruce’s presence at the family meals usually consisted of him being talked at by his children and Steph. But with Cordelia, he made sure to ask her questions: what she had planned for the day, how she was feeling, if she needed anything.

And if that wasn’t enough, Bruce and Cordelia also had daily chats in his study.

Tim hadn’t been sure what they were talking about in there since he was never invited, but he was clearly not the only one curious because — one day — Damian finally became jealous enough to ask.

“We’re talking about her future,” Bruce explained. “What school clubs she will join, what career she’s interested in, and her top college choices. These are all things she’d never had to consider before, so it’s important that she starts now.”

“You talk about those things daily?” Tim asked doubtfully.

Bruce sent him a look. “Is your opinion that I should deprioritize her future?”

“No, that’s — that’s not what I meant,” Tim said. “I mean — aren’t you… busy?”

“Of course I am,” Bruce said with a frown. “I have a lot of responsibilities. And she is one of them.”

Tim had relented, mostly because Bruce was showing less and less patience with him when it came to Cordelia, but also because — what could he say to that? That he didn’t believe Bruce? That it was unusual for Bruce to sit any of his children down to talk about their civilian future?

That Tim was pretty sure he was brainwashed and that they should quarantine Cordelia until everyone was acting normally again?

Tim shook his head just thinking about saying any of those things.

No. If he was going to convince Bruce that there was something terribly wrong with him, then he would need proof.

Which was hard to get when her entire past had been erased with time.

Tim sighed in frustration. He was usually much more effective during investigations. But it was difficult to investigate someone who had not existed until a few months ago.

So he would have to go the old-fashioned route: interrogate her.

“No,” Bruce had said when Tim brought it up.

“But we know nothing about her,” Tim had argued. “She could be dangerous. She could be a murderer!”

“Cordelia is not a murderer,” Bruce said. “She’s sensitive.”

“You don’t know that,” Tim said. “It could be an act.”

“It isn’t,” Bruce said firmly. “I mean it, Tim. Do not interrogate her. She’s not a suspect. There is no crime. Let this obsession with her go.”

But Tim couldn’t let it go, because every time he saw Bruce send her a gentle smile or ask her how her day was, he felt….

Like something was clawing at his throat and bubbling hotly in his gut. 

He knew that this feeling wouldn’t settle. Not until he found the answers that he was searching for. So Tim did what Tim did best — and created a presentation with the hopes of convincing Bruce that an interrogation of Cordelia was necessary.

The presentation was bulky. It began with why Tim was suspicious of Cordelia in the first place, delved into all the oddities that occurred around her, rehashed the dangers she’d already put the family in, brought up all the other times they’d been manipulated by outsiders, speculated on how she was about to control Bruce so effectively, listed out what her motives might be, and finished by pointing out all the bad things that could happen if they didn’t start questioning her further. 

It was one of his greatest works.

He was proud of it as he presented it to Bruce in his study, standing with a straight back as he moved from slideshow to slideshow and, finally, finishing it off with a slide that said “Thank You For Listening.”

Tim smiled, relieved.

It felt nice to get these things off his chest. All his suspicions and fears and questions. To finally have another great brain to bounce ideas off of.

At least… it felt good until he saw Bruce’s face.

Bruce heaved a deep, tired sigh, and ran his hand over his face.

Tim watched this display, silent. He wondered if Bruce had always had flecks of gray in his hair, or if this was another change caused by Cordelia.

“Tim,” Bruce said, with so much exhaustion that Tim almost offered him a cup of coffee. “You cannot have a crush on your aunt.”

“…what?”

“I understand that it might be confusing,” Bruce continued. “She’s around your age, and you’re not biologically linked, but she’s part of the family now. It’s imperative that you begin to think of her as such.”

“Bruce, please stop,” Tim said. His face felt like it was on fire. “I do not have a crush on your sister. Why would you even think that?”

“On slide 67, you mentioned that you found her scent so intoxicating that it kept you up at night and that you were not ruling out the possibility of her being a Poison Ivy minion.”

“I didn’t say I found her scent intoxicating!” Tim spluttered. “I said that her floral perfume was reminiscent of Poison Ivy’s fumes.”

“Yes. But Cordelia doesn’t own perfume,” Bruce said. “That’s just the way she smells.”

Tim wanted to die. “Okay — so — forget that slide. I don’t have a crush on her. If anything, I find her really annoying and unlikable.”

That caused Bruce’s eyes to narrow. “Do not say something like that in front of her.”

“I won’t — I’m just — I’m saying it to you because you think I have a crush on her — which I don’t.”

“Hm,” Bruce hummed. His eyes did not leave Tim’s reddened face. “….Good.”

Tim’s ears felt like they were being pressed against a hot oven.

He’d hated that conversation.

And he was eager to move on.

“So….” He realized he was fidgeting under Bruce’s stare and quickly hid his hands behind his back. “Can I interrogate her?”

“No.”

Tim stared. “But —“

“That’s my final answer, Tim,” Bruce said.

“So that’s it?” Tim said, more surprised than angry. “You’re going to let her keep her secrets?”

“No,” Bruce said. “She will tell me everything in time, but you will not push her before she is ready.”

Tim couldn’t believe this. He’d stayed up all night creating the most convincing slide show of his life — and Bruce hadn’t even paused to consider that his suspicions might have a ring of truth to them.

All he cared about was her.

Her and her sensitive feelings.

Tim grabbed his projector and equipment, a little more roughly than he normally would, and made to leave the room. But was stopped by Bruce’s voice.

“Wait.”

Tim was tempted to keep walking, to slam the door behind him and not turn around once to apologize, but years of listening to Batman as Robin didn’t just disappear because he was angry.

So Tim turned to face his father.

“The photographs that you’ve taken of Cordelia and Cass,” Bruce said. “I need them.”

Of course he did.

Tim set down his equipment and dug in his messenger bag for the large orange folder that contained all the prints. It was heavy — so heavy that it thumped loudly against the desk when Tim dropped the folder on top of it.

Bruce didn’t mention Tim’s small display of frustration. Instead, he calmly opened the folder and laid the photos across his desk.

Most of them were of Cordelia.

Something that hadn’t made Tim feel self-conscious when he was printing them out, but now that he knew Bruce thought he had a “crush” on her, Tim couldn’t help but see the photos through a new and embarrassing lens.

And not just because the sheer amount he’d taken of Cordelia was bordering on excessive. But because the photos he’d taken of her were almost… romantic.

They showed her at her most tender moments. When she was smiling at his siblings, her face lit up with a delicate inner joy; when she was hugging her lamb and planting kisses on its furry head; when she was at her most peaceful, leaning her head back and closing her eyes; when she caught Tim taking her picture, and had smiled shyly into the camera.

These looked like pictures taken by someone in love.

But it wasn’t fair. 

Objectively speaking, Cordelia was a work of art. Any photographer would kill to have her as their subject; and it wasn’t just because of the way that she looked. The stark contrast between her pale skin and dark hair, the arresting shade of blue that made up her eyes, the soft curves of her body — they were all great. But what made the camera so enamored with her was not any of those things, it was how expressive she was.

How her eyes were always swimming with memories and stories and emotions.

It never got boring to look at her.

And that was not Tim’s fault.

Bruce slowly looked up from the photos to stare at his son.

“You said you wanted pictures of her and Cass,” Tim said defensively.

“I did.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I didn’t say there was,” Bruce said.

Tim felt like his skin was getting peeled off. He’d seen that look on Bruce before — when boys got too familiar with Cass. It was usually followed with a thinly veiled threat that sent the boys high tailing it out of whatever party or social event they’d stumbled stupidly into.

Tim did not want to wait around for the threat.

“I’m going to go,” he said.

His feet felt nailed to the floor.

Bruce hummed. “Go.”

Tim ran.

---

Tim had run all the way to the BatCave, seeking comfort in its familiarity. But when he got there, he realized that he had nothing to do. So instead of pacing around like an idiot, he sat down at the computer and decided to upload the photos of Cordelia to the file he was creating on her.

He watched the screen blankly as more and more photos popped up after they were uploaded.

How was he going to face Bruce after that embarrassing mess?

Footsteps sounded behind him.

Great. If Tim was caught sitting in the dark with a computer full of Cordelia’s photos, then he would never hear the end of it. Luckily, Tim knew Bruce’s computer like the back of his hand.

He pressed the button that would instantly hide whatever tab he was viewing. So by the time Dick joined him at the BatComputer, calmly drinking lemonade, it looked like Tim was staring at a blank screen.

Dick’s next sip of his lemonade was noisy. 

He looked between Tim’s flushed face and the screen.

“Watching porn?” He asked casually.

“What — no!” Tim said, appalled.

Dick didn’t seem to believe him. He leaned over the back of Tim’s chair to press the hidden tab button — the one that Tim thought only he and Bruce knew about.

Cordelia’s file popped up, along with all the photos he’d been uploading of her.

Dick let out a slow whistle. “Nope. Not porn. But infinitely more creepy.”

“I don’t have a crush on her,” Tim said quickly, knowing how this looked.

Dick raised his eyebrows even higher. “Uh, okay? I didn’t think that you did until this very moment.”

“I. Don’t.”

“…Okay,” Dick said. His earlier amusement melted away once he heard his brother’s distress. “I believe you.”

Tim wasn’t sure if Dick was just saying that to make him calm down, but he appreciated it. He didn’t think his heart could take anymore panic attacks.

Dick’s finger tapped lightly on the back of his chair. He was eying his brother in consideration. “But I have noticed you acting weirdly around Cordelia. And now I’m seeing that you’re investigating her….”

Tim tensed, waiting for the next shoe to drop.

But Dick only asked, “What is this about, Tim?”

“I…” Tim sighed. After giving an entire presentation to Batman and having every single one of his suspicions rejected, he wasn’t eager to do a repeat performance for Nightwing. But he’d asked, and Tim did need to explain his file full of photos. “I don’t know, Dick. There’s just a lot of weird things happening at the Manor and no one else seems to think so and they all circle around her, so…. I started an investigation.”

“Weird things?” Dick asked.

“You’re going to think I’m being paranoid,” Tim said. “Or that I have a crush on her or — or that I’m….”

“I’m not going to think any of those things,” Dick said firmly. “You’ve proven yourself as a detective. If you think something is worth investigating, then I’m going to support you.”

“Even if it’s against Cordelia?” Tim asked doubtfully.

“As long as you’re not planning to hurt her,” Dick said. “I don’t see why not.”

Tim still felt doubts, but Dick looked sincere in his promise. And who knew? Maybe Dick was acting like he was best friends with Cordelia because he, too, was investigating her.

“Ever since I came back to the Manor, everyone has been acting differently,” Tim began.

Dick nodded. “Differently how?”

Tim turned to his file on Cordelia, and opened the list of peculiarities that surrounded her.

“First, there’s you,” Tim said, pointing at the screen. “You’ve been away from Bludhaven longer than ever. I’ve known you for Yeats, Dick, and you have never stayed in this house for as long as you have. Why now?”

“I’ve stayed here for Cordelia,” Dick answered honestly. “Bruce needed my help getting her comfortable, and then after her run in with the Joker, it didn’t feel right to abandon her.”

“The Joker attack was a few weeks ago,” Tim pointed out.

“Yeah,” Dick frowned. “Yeah, I know. I thought I was just going to stay until Bruce got back on his feet, but then I pushed it back until Cordelia was out of her wheelchair, and then…. I guess I kept making excuses to push it back. But you’re right. I’ve been here way too long. I need to pack.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Tim said. “Don’t you think it’s strange that you would leave the city for so long for a kid you barely know?”

“It wasn’t all for her,” Dick said. He looked a little uncomfortable. “It was…. Look. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Bruce like this. Like he’s more Bruce than Batman. I just wanted to be around to appreciate it in case he ever reverts back to his old self.”

Tim shook his head. “That’s another thing. Bruce is not acting like himself. He is much more affectionate and — and expressive now. Especially with her. But with everyone else, too.”

This time, when Tim turned to his file, he pulled up photos of Bruce and Cordelia together: Bruce and Cordelia outside with the lamb, Bruce ruffling Cordelia’s hair, Bruce drinking hot chocolate with Cordelia in the kitchen, Bruce smiling at her as she showed him an outfit she’d bought for her lamb.

“There’s also this file he has on her,” Tim said, pulling up Bruce’s report. “Look at how many questions there are — how many ‘unclears’ and ‘unknowns.’ Since when does Bruce let these questions sit for so long?”

Tim looked over his shoulder at Dick, and felt a rush of satisfaction seeing that not only was Dick paying attention, but he was reacting to the evidence.

The indulgent look in his eye had dimmed.

Tim was getting taken seriously.

He powered forward, eager to finally have someone to talk to about this: “And it’s not just you and Bruce who’ve changed. It’s everyone. Alfred bakes almost every day even though he’s usually against promoting unhealthy eating habits. Damian created a gift for her. Steph and Cass have basically accepted her into her group. Dick, it’s — it’s weird. There is something really wrong with Cordelia. She could be tricking us, luring us into a trap. Yet I’m the only one being cautious about it.”

Dick continued to look at the evidence, silent.

Tim waited patiently. He knew that this was a lot to take in all at once.

But they’ve been betrayed before. All of them had. This would be nothing new for the family.

They just had to put their feelings aside and do their duty.

“Do you want to hear my theory?” Dick asked suddenly.

“Uh, sure,” Tim said.

He thought he’d combed through every theory already, but Dick was an excellent detective, too. He might have caught something that Tim missed.

“My theory is that you’ve never seen Bruce like this before,” Dick said. “So it’s making you so uneasy that you’re searching for problems where there aren’t any. But I have… with Jason.”

As always when Jason was mentioned, the atmosphere went dark.

Dick’s eyes were all too knowing as they stared down at Tim. “Don’t worry about it.”

This cryptic message sent Tim on edge. “Don’t worry about what?”

“Why Bruce changed for Cordelia but not for you,” Dick said. His voice was gentle with understanding. “I wasted a lot of years of my life wondering the same thing with Jason. Why I always had to beg for Bruce’s attention when Jason got it freely. Why he adopted Jason instantly when I had to wait until after I moved out to get asked to join the family. And it took me a really long time before I realized that… it doesn’t mean he loved me any less.”

Tim couldn’t look at him.

His stomach felt like there was a disgusting monster trying to crawl its way out.

He hated Cordelia. He hated the changes in Bruce.

He really hated that knowing tone in Dick’s voice.

But he was a detective. And he always had questions.

“Then what did it mean?” Tim asked.

“I don’t know,” Dick said, frustratingly. As if Tim needed any more unanswerable questions in his life right now. “I think Jason just needed Bruce more than I ever did. More than any of us do. And I think Bruce liked being needed.”

“And you think that Cordelia needs Bruce more than we do?” Tim said doubtfully. “More than Damian? More than Cass?”

“Yeah,” Dick said. “I do.”

He leaned over Tim’s chair again to click a few keys on the BatComputer.

A still image of Cordelia appeared, clearly taken by one of the many cameras in the BatCave. She was bloodied and unconscious in a gurney, and was being hurriedly looked over by Dr. Leslie Thompkins.

Beside her, in his own gurney, was Bruce.

His hand was reaching out for her.

“She’s reckless,” Dick said. “Impulsive. Overconfident. The same way Jason was.”

Tim stared at the image. But not at Cordelia.

At Bruce.

He was barely conscious in his gurney, his eyelids drooping nearly shut, but in his face Tim could see that he was haunted.

“Bruce thinks she’s going to get herself killed,” Tim surmised.

“He has reasons to be worried,” Dick said. “Sometimes she says some things that make me think….”

Tim waited silently for him to finish his sentence, but he waited in vain.

Dick changed the subject.

“Anyway, the point is that Cordelia and Jason get reckless when they feel unloved,” Dick finished. “And Bruce knows it. That’s it. That’s my theory: that Bruce changed because he had to.”

Fine. Bruce changed because Cordelia was an emotional terrorist, but that didn’t explain why —

“Alfred changed for her, too,” Tim said. “Why?”

“I have no clue,” Dick said bluntly. “I’m trying not to feel hurt about it.”

Tim didn’t appreciate his joking tone.

Dick grinned and ruffled his hair, attempting in his way to ease the tension. “Try not to think too much about this, Timmy. Just enjoy the fact that Bruce hasn’t only changed for her. Or haven’t you considered why a billionaire chose to have his son’s photography hanging on the wall rather than hiring out the best photographers in the world?”

No, Tim hadn’t considered that.

He’d been too focused on his investigation.

Dick’s grin softened into a fond smile. He ruffled Tim’s hair again, downed the last of his lemonade, and left to the training room.

Tim watched him leave, thinking over their conversation. Was Dick right? Was Tim’s obsession with investigating Cordelia born from jealousy? From unease at having a father who… was fatherly?

Tim didn’t want to think that he was that juvenile. That biased.

But there was a ring of truth to it.

He turned back to the image on the screen. Of Bruce looking over at his sister with very real fear that she might already be dead. And closed it.

The tab behind it was Bruce’s report on her. He read over her physical description, and then read over her disappointingly short origin.

Origin

Cordelia Wayne, 15, daughter of Thomas Wayne (alias: Batman) and unknown, was born in an alternate timeline created by Barry Allen (alias: The Flash) (See FlashPoint Report #1 For More Details On Alternate Timeline).

He stared at the first “unknown.” The first “unknown” of the entire report.

Her mother.

Bruce had said that Cordelia’s mother didn’t exist in this timeline. Which was very likely, considering Cordelia herself hadn’t existed in this timeline until a couple of months ago. But something nagged at Tim. And it wasn’t until he almost closed the tab to head back upstairs that he realized what it was.

Cordelia never mentioned her mother.

Ever.

Not even in passing.

That was… odd.

Tim glanced at the training room doors where Dick left to, making sure that he wasn’t there. When he saw that the doors were closed, he turned back to the computer and opened his own file of Cordelia.

He was not allowed to interrogate her. He knew that now. And he doubted that he would be able to change Bruce’s mind if he hadn’t already.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t dig in other ways.

Tim looked down at himself, searching for something — anything — that would help him. And then he saw it: a strand of Cordelia’s hair.

Maybe spending so much time with her would actually pay off.

Tim carefully plucked the strand of hair from his sleeve and put it into the DNA scanner. 

If the scan turned up blank, then he would let it go. He promised himself that. He would stand up from this chair, walk upstairs, and apologize to Cordelia for his coldness. But if it turned out that she’d been lying to them — that Bruce, by extension, had been lied to — then he would pursue this investigation with more vigor than before.

The screen lit up green. And then showed her biological matches.

On the left side, a photo of Thomas Wayne appeared. The man was serene, his ice blue eyes content and joyful. Beside him was a photo of Bruce, grinning at the camera from what appeared to be a charity gala. And beside him was a photo of Damian gnashing his teeth in what appeared to be a smile.

And on the far right of the screen… was a photo of a beautiful, blonde-haired woman.

Who existed in this timeline.

And who was still alive.

Chapter 53: Late Nights and Early Mornings

Summary:

Cass’s dark eyes softened. She scooted closer to Cordelia, and leaned forward just enough to give her forehead a small peck of a kiss.

“Glad you are here,” she promised.

Cordelia could taste blood on her teeth. It tasted like copper and sadness and pain. It dripped down her lips and smeared her chin.

Tim swiped his knuckles across her jaw.

Her head whipped painfully to the side, but she didn’t stop struggling.

She could overpower him if she wanted — it would be as easy as one well-aimed punch. He was trained, she could tell in the strong stance he took as he fought, but he wasn’t trained enough. There were so many openings, so many ways to kill him.

A part of her wanted to tell him. To correct him. To let him know that if he didn’t block those openings, then he wouldn’t live past twenty.

But the panicked, more primal side of her brain itched to take that one well-aimed punch.

To end this fight and her pain once and for all.

Except — she couldn’t. Tim wasn’t Batman. Tim wasn’t a criminal.

He was Tim. Her nephew.

Her family.

He took advantage of her falter — her hesitation — and slammed her against the wall.

A gasp of pain ripped through the air. She had no opportunity to recover; two swords, crossed like scissors, appeared at her throat and cut into the thin layer of skin.

“Move and I’ll kill you,” Tim snarled.

Eyes like glittering emeralds glared at her from under dark, angry brows.

“Why?” was all she had room to ask.

This wasn’t how meeting her niece and nephews was supposed to go. They were supposed to welcome her as quickly as Alfred, understand her as completely as Jason, bond with her as easily as Dick, and love her as deeply as Bruce.

Seeing them was supposed to be like seeing past the Gotham fog for the very first time; like catching a glimpse of all the stars that hovered above and realizing that there were some things worth waiting up in the night for.

None of them were supposed to hate her.

Yet there was hatred in every syllable as Tim said, “Because he asked me to.”

“He?” Cordelia choked. “Who’s ‘he’?”

There was no point in asking. She already knew who.

It was the same “he” who lingered in the shadows of all her thoughts; the same “he” who haunted every corner of her happiness; the same “he” she could never escape from.

Thomas Wayne.

Over Tim’s shoulder, she could see him appear as if summoned. Eyes red; beard shadowy. His cape billowed around him like polluted smoke. And from that smoke rose other figures: Little Damian with his gnashing sharp teeth, quiet Cass with her all-knowing eyes, mysterious Jason with his gleaming red helmet, and smiling Dick with his thin black Nightwing suit.

“No,” Cordelia said.

She began to struggle, no longer caring that Tim’s swords were scratching at her throat.

All she cared about was that Thomas Wayne was approaching, and that he had one hand raised.

“Tim, you have to let me go,” she said desperately. “I have to get him out of here before he hurts you, too.”

“He won’t hurt me,” Tim said, self-assured. “He’s my grandfather.”

Almost as if to prove his point, Thomas Wayne stopped walking to lay a hand on his shoulder. But Cordelia felt as if she could not breathe. Just seeing those hands so close to her nephew’s throat sent her into an even worse panic.

“Besides,” Tim continued, as calm as could be, “he’s not the one who should leave this house. You should.”

“Tim, no,” Cordelia said. “You don’t understand. He’s a monster, he’s —“

“Our family,” Dick interrupted, playfully bumping shoulders with Thomas in the process. “Our real family.”

“I’m your real family!” Cordelia said.

“No, you’re an intruder,” Dick stated.

“An outsider,” Jason sneered.

“A Cuckoo bird,” Cass chirped.

“An abomination,” Damian hissed.

“A thing that should have never existed,” Tim said. “The only reason why we’re not killing you right now is because you amuse Bruce. But once he gets tired of you, that’s the end. We’ll cut you out the way Thomas and Martha wanted to for all those years.”

“That’s right, Tim,” Thomas said. His strong fingers squeezed Tim’s shoulder. “It’s only a matter of time.”

“No,” Cordelia sobbed. “Get away from them! They’re my family! Mine.”

Her distress seemed to humor them. And she could not stand to see it — the way Dick and Thomas smiled at each other, the way Cass watched her like she was a sideshow, the way Jason’s shoulders shook as he chuckled, the way Damian’s lips stretched even wider every time Tim’s swords spilled more of her blood.

“This isn’t fair! Why couldn’t you just stay dead?” Cordelia cried like a child, closing her eyes. Hot tears soaked her cheeks. “I don’t want you here!”

“Silly Cordelia,” Dick poked her wet nose. “We don’t want you here.”

Laughter surrounded her and filled the air until she felt like she was choking on it.

Cordelia fell forward, her hands at her throat as she tried to force air into her lungs. But blood was coating her fingertips; Tim had sliced her throat and now it was leaking all over the floorboards.

She looked up, searching for help — searching for anyone to save her.

But her family was gone. They were on the other side of the hallway, laughing with Thomas, talking to each other contentedly.

“Help!” She tried to scream, but all that came out was a sickening gurgle. “Get Bruce! Help me!”

Tim glanced in her direction, emerald eyes shining with amusement, and shook his head.

Her body was growing weak. Cordelia fell to her side, her legs curling up to her chest.

The corners of her vision were bleeding black.

“Is everyone dressed for patrol?” Thomas asked.

“Yes, Sir,” they all responded, surrounding him like eager puppies.

Their uniforms started to leak blood.

No, Cordelia tried to say. Her lips were stiff from the cold, but that did not stop her body from filling with horror to see almost everyone she loved at the mercy of her father. Don’t follow him. He won’t protect you. Don’t —

But the next time she blinked: they were gone, and she was dying alone.

---

Cordelia woke up in a fright.

Her breathing came out quick and panicked as she looked around, trying to get her bearings. She was in a dark room on a soft bed; the blankets wrapped around her legs were warm and heavy; the TV across from her was on, showing an infomercial about a miracle perfume that built inner confidence.

This was her room.

She was safe.

A soft snore sounded next to her.

Cordelia’s breath caught in her throat before she remembered — Stephanie and Cass had called off patrol for the night to watch a movie with her.

They must have fallen asleep halfway through, just like she had.

It took a while for her eyes to adjust to the dimness of the room, but when they did, she saw that Stephanie was splayed out at the end of the bed. There was fallen popcorn tangled in the yellow of her hair, and beneath her back and head and knees were most of Cordelia’s pillows.

Beside Cordelia laid wonderful Cass. She slept soundly under a blanket, her legs curled up to her chest in a fetal position. And in her arms was Little Heart, who was quietly smacking her lips as she dreamt her happy, fluffy sheep dreams.

Cordelia watched them sleep. She tried to take comfort in the fact that two of her favorite things in the world were enjoying one another’s company — but in her mind’s eye, all she could see was Cass walking away from her with Thomas and wearing a uniform that was leaking blood from the navel.

Cordelia wanted so badly to shake Cass awake, to demand that she take a scan so Cordelia could be sure no one hurt her.

And to make sure that her dream hadn’t been real.

But from the time she spent with Cass, she noticed that the other girl did not like to be touched without warning. So Cordelia had to wipe her tears, press her palm to her heart, and endure her panic all alone.

That is — until she felt a hand grab her own.

Cordelia blinked past the blur of misery.

Cass had woken up, and she was tugging at Cordelia’s hand, silently urging her to lie back down. 

And so Cordelia did.

Slowly, she placed her wet cheek back on her pillow and tried to control the way her lips quivered and the tip of her nose stung.

After all, she’d already disturbed her niece’s sleep. She did not want to frighten her by having a breakdown just two feet away.

But Cass did not seem frightened or alarmed at all. If anything, she seemed patient. Her thumb, warm and calloused like Bruce’s, rubbed small circles up and down Cordelia’s knuckles; her dark, beautiful eyes glittered with intelligence; and her gaze, although tired, was full of understanding.

“Bad dream?” She asked.

Something in Cordelia’s stomach settled.

Cass was not angry with her. She was not telling her to leave.

A sniffle sounded from Cordelia’s nose as she also thought, I’m not alone.

Cass’s dark eyes softened. She scooted closer to Cordelia, and leaned forward just enough to give her forehead a small peck of a kiss.

“Glad you are here,” she promised.

Cordelia searched her expression, wanting that to be the truth but knowing how easy it was to tell a lie. “You are?”

Her voice quivered like a vase ready to fall off its shelf and crash onto the ground.

Cass opened her mouth — but whatever she was going to say was interrupted by Stephanie letting out a loud, sharp snore from the end of the bed. The girls stilled as the blonde flopped onto her belly, knocking a few pillows to the floor, and started to snore more loudly.

Cordelia stared at her, shocked.

And her expression must have been funny, because only a few seconds later, she could hear Cass begin to giggle quietly into her other hand.

“She’s noisy even in her sleep,” Cordelia said, more out of surprise than criticism.

Cass’s responding snort was adorable.

Cordelia could feel the way it lightened her heart and eased the tensions in her muscles until she was fully sinking into her pillow.

It took a while for Cass to stop giggling.

Every time Cordelia thought it was done, the sound of Stephanie’s snores would rise again, and Cass would dissolve into more breathy giggles. But, similarly to how Cass had waited for Cordelia to stop crying, Cordelia was more than happy to lay back and watch her niece laugh.

And when she was finally done — when both girls were so tired that their blinks began to slow — Cass decided to answer Cordelia’s question.

“I am. Because having an aunt,” she paused to yawn, “is fun.”

Cordelia fought back her exhaustion just long enough to look at Cass, and to see the gentle curve of her smile. But, after that, there could be no more fighting exhaustion as both girls surrendered to their slumber and fell asleep hand-in-hand.

---

The next morning, Cordelia was up before the sun could even rise above Gotham’s horizon.

Her nightmare had been nonsensical. It had been full of dead men and mean Dicks and too many bleeding bodies. But there was a truth to it that Cordelia could not, in good conscience, ignore: that both Tim and Damian did not like her.

She’d thought, after Damian presented her with his gifts, that he was softening up to her — or, at least, that he’d forgiven her for calling him “little.” But that act of kindness had been the first and only of its kind. Because, ever since then, Damian seemed to want to make up for it tenfold by throwing as many insults in her direction as he could get away with in front of Bruce and Alfred.

And, apparently, he could get away with a lot. 

Over the past week, Cordelia had more scathing comments thrown in her direction than she could count. She’d been called a harlot, a waste of space, an idiot, a bore, and a disappointment all in one day. But even that was nowhere near as hurtful as Tim’s behavior, because the way he looked at her was like… the way her father used to look at her.

Like she was an intruder. A creature of familial destruction.

A problem.

She needed it to end.

And the only way to do that was to get Tim and Damian to love her.

So with a determined heart, she got ready for her day hours before anyone else’s alarms could go off. She showered, brushed her hair and teeth, put on her shoes, left her room to walk down the hallway toward Bruce’s door, and knocked.

True to form, Batman woke up at the slightest of sounds.

Cordelia could hear his feet land on the floorboards even before she let her hand fall back to her side.

And, in moments, his door was creaking open.

A shirtless Bruce squinted down at her from the darkness. 

“Hi,” she said. She’d never knocked on Batman’s door before, she realized. But, before she could think too much about it, she continued: “I need your files on Tim and Damian.”

Bruce’s blink was slow and non-comprehending. “Cordelia, it’s three in the morning.”

“I know,” she said.

Her fingers danced nervously at her sides.

Bruce rubbed at his face tiredly. “Give me an hour to get ready.”

“But,” she began, brows crinkling, “this is important.”

He sighed, and Cordelia almost backed off, before he said, “Okay.”

Bruce grabbed a shirt from his room before stepping out into the hallway with her and quietly closing the door behind him. After that, he let her lead the way to his study, where she knew he kept his computer and the files on all his children. And when they finally got there — Bruce was moving so slowly — he sat down on his computer, took too long to stretch and yawn, and then pressed the power on button.

By that time, Cordelia’s patience was wearing thin.

She had to cross her arms to keep herself from tapping anxiously at his desk. But, even then, she could not help the groan of frustration when yet another yawn slowed his progress to clicking the print document link.

He glanced at her.

She stopped. “Sorry.”

Her cheeks were pink.

“Is there a reason why you need these files at three in the morning?” Bruce asked.

She waited until he clicked the link and she heard his printer turn on to answer.

“Tim and Damian don’t like me,” she told him. “So I want to read their files before breakfast and find a way to make them like me.”

Bruce paused in his typing to yawn yet again.

Cordelia frowned at him, disheartened by his lack of enthusiasm when it came to her mission.

“Can you help me?” She asked.

“After I’ve had more than thirty minutes of sleep,” Bruce said, “I’ll give you some pointers.”

Cordelia’s frown deepened. On the other side of the room, his printer began to spit out sheets of paper. “But I want your help now.”

Bruce turned to her with eye bags so dark that they could have been mistaken for bruises. Only then did he come face-to-face with the wide eyed stare that always melted Dick.

“No,” he said.

“Please?” She asked.

“That doesn’t work on me,” Bruce said firmly. He got up from his seat, grabbed the printed files, and handed them over to her. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

She took the files in her hands, disappointed.

Bruce opened his office door and stepped aside to let her out.

“Can I use your stapler first?” She asked.

He nodded. “Be quick.”

She hurried over to his desk, opened the drawer where she knew he kept his office supplies, and started to staple the files together. And while she was there, she also grabbed a bunch of his highlighters and pens.

“I thought that I wouldn’t need to look them up after meeting Dick,” she said as she stacked the supplies on top of her files. “He was so welcoming. But it’s been a week, and I’m no closer to Damian and Tim than I was the day we met.”

“They’re nothing like Dick,” Bruce said. “No one is.”

She walked over to him with her arms full of office supplies. “Really? What else can you tell me?”

He saw right through her. “Cordelia, I will not stay up to help you.”

“Why not?” She said, and couldn’t help the frustration that filled her voice. “You stay up to help Gotham civilians all the time. I’m your sister.”

“That’s different,” Bruce said. He gestured for her to leave his office and closed the door behind them. “You’re not in a life or death situation.”

“But the nightmares are starting to come back,” Cordelia said. “I can’t sleep.”

The look Bruce sent her was full of suspicion. “What nightmares?”

“The ones about…” she hesitated, seeing the realization dawn on her brother’s face, and rerouted her tactics, “It doesn’t matter. The point is that none of your children liked me. Not even Dick liked me. He told me that he wanted me gone.”

“That was just a dream, Cordelia. Dick is excessively fond of you.”

“I know,” Cordelia said. “But it wasn’t all just a dream. Tim and Damian really do want me gone…. Don’t they?”

It was telling how silent Bruce became after that question.

It was also telling how he stopped looking five seconds away from leaving her at the door and walking back to his room on his own.

Cordelia’s hope flared up when he, once again, sighed in that resigned way of his. She grabbed his hand similarly to how Cass had grabbed her hand only a few hours before. “I can make you coffee?”

The suspicion hadn’t entirely left his expression, but some of it receded when he felt her fingers curl around his.

“I’ll ask Alfred to start a brew,” he grunted.

“No, we shouldn’t wake Alfred up this early,” Cordelia informed him. “His first alarm doesn’t go off until five, and he doesn’t start to brew coffee until six thirty. If we wake him up now, it will throw off his entire schedule.”

He was staring at her blankly, but Cordelia did not let that deter her. Because if Bruce was willing to forgo sleep for her, then he was most definitely willing to drink some non-Alfred-made coffee for her, as well. So she tugged her older brother away from his office, and smiled when he let himself be tugged — as docile as a little lamb.

Cordelia continued to guide him down the hallway, toward the kitchen, and through the door. And Bruce said nothing the entire way about the occasional tugs or pulls. On the contrary, the only sounds he made were sighs or yawns.

Her smile broadened.

There was really something so thrilling about bossing Batman around. 

It was like finding a lion in the woods and managing to domesticate it. Objectively, it was unnatural. But when accomplished, it was unarguably cute.

She wondered if Damian felt this way, too, when he sometimes ordered Dick around.

“Why are you smiling at me like that?” Bruce grumbled.

He sat down at the kitchen table, at the head of it like always, and narrowed his eyes at his little sister’s smirk.

“No reason,” Cordelia lied.

She wondered how he would react if she told him the truth.

“You weren’t in my nightmare,” she said instead. “If you were wondering.”

He must have been wondering, because there was a noticeable change in the tension of his jaw.

Cordelia set her files and supplies on the table next to him, and then turned to start brewing coffee.

Alfred’s coffee maker was a newer model. At least ten years younger than the one her father had owned. But Cordelia had always been quick when it came to technology, so she had no problem at all figuring out how it worked.

The kitchen was filled with the smell and sounds of coffee brewing before the minute hand on the clock could move three ticks.

“I was thinking of starting with Damian,” Cordelia said when she returned to the coffee table. Bruce had his face in his hands. “He’s a little…. I mean, he’s lovely. And adorable. And — smart. So I should start with him.”

She set Tim’s file aside, and then immediately felt guilty about it.

“Not that Tim isn’t lovely and adorable and smart, too,” she assured the immovable Bruce. “But I get the feeling…. Bruce, are you listening?”

He grunted into his hands.

“You’re supposed to help,” Cordelia said.

“I am.”

“Is it okay to start with Damian?” She asked. “Since he at least talks to me, I think it will be easier. But I don’t want to make Tim feel bad by giving his younger brother more attention.”

“Damian,” Bruce said. “Start with Damian.”

Cordelia would never admit it out loud, but that was the answer that she wanted to hear. Because Damian’s insults might have been both constant and hurtful, but they were also thrown around indiscriminately. Which meant that it did not matter if it was her or Bruce or even Dick he was talking to — they would all get their fair share of verbal abuse from the smallest Wayne.

Tim was a different story.

From what she could see, Tim had a great relationship with just about everyone except for her and Damian. He never had an issue joining conversations with Cass and Steph; was always being offered favors by Alfred; got asked to hang his photography all over the manor by Bruce; and was treated with deep respect by Dick.

It was just her that he didn’t like.

Well, her and Damian. But at least Tim waited for Damian to insult him before treating him coldly. It was just Cordelia that he looked at with that suspicious, narrowed gaze. Like he thought that everything she said was a lie and everything that she did was weird.

And that’s what he’d called her that first morning after breakfast.

Weird.

Which… she supposed she was.

Because no one else in the house was forced to go to bed early while the rest got to be partners with Batman. No one else had to pretend to get all the inside jokes that were constantly tossed around. And no one else had to ask Bruce permission to leave the house.

She hated those days when everyone had plans. Because it meant standing at the windows of the sitting room and watching all their cars leave down the driveway and through the gates.

All she wanted to do was follow them.

Cordelia shuffled through the highlighters, trying to decide which to use.

“What’s Damian’s favorite color?” She ended up asking.

“He doesn’t have one,” Bruce answered.

“Oh,” she said.

She decided to highlight his file with green since it reminded her of his eyes, and then got to marking.

It was interesting: Damian’s file. 

Bruce had clearly pruned it, much like he did Dick’s, because there were gaps in time and references to events that weren’t marked down. But Cordelia didn’t mind, because what Bruce had left behind was a well-rounded profile about his youngest son: an artist, a vegan, a leader, and a deeply insecure boy who used overconfident language to hide a feeling of misplacement in the family.

She read and reread his meeting with Batman. How the boy had known about his father for years, but had only been able to meet him after defeating his mother in a fight. How one of the first comments he gave his father was an insult — about his height of all things.

Cordelia thought about her own first impression of Bruce, and how she had felt like he was much too tall and much too large.

She marveled at how Damian’s abuse and her own abuse shaped their views of the world so differently. How her father had broken her down so that she could feel small, and how Damian’s mother had broken him down until he felt large.

She wondered what they would have been like without their years suffering under abuse.

Beside her, completely unaware of how deep her thoughts had gone, Bruce sniffed the air. “The coffee is burning.”

He was right.

Cordelia rushed over to the coffee machine and turned it off, before jumping onto the counter to pick out a mug for Bruce.

“Don’t do that in front of Alfred,” Bruce advised. “He’s banned me from the kitchen for less.”

“Do what? Step on the counter?” Cordelia asked. “He’s seen me do this before. He offered me a drink.”

She chose the Batman mug for Bruce and hopped to the floor — just in time to hear Bruce grumble, “I got banned for spilling flour.”

Cordelia beamed. “Do you think he likes me more than you?”

“No,” Bruce said. Then added: “Brat.”

Cordelia laughed, surprised. “Bruce!”

He didn’t seem willing to take it back. His tired blue eyes went to the coffee mug in her hands. “Is that edible?”

“Of course it is,” Cordelia said, and put it in front of him. “You like it black, right?”

His hum sounded more like a moody grunt.

He took a sip — and then grimaced.

“Careful,” Cordelia advised, “it’s hot.”

She sat back in her seat and scooted her chair closer to him until their arms touched.

“Now that you have caffeine, you can be more helpful,” Cordelia said. “I was thinking that the best way to bond with Damian is to do what he likes, since that plan worked so well with Dick and the trampoline park. And you wrote that Damian spends a lot of his free time making art, so what do you think? Should I ask to join him in his art room?”

Bruce set his coffee mug aside. It was barely touched.

“Damian likes to paint alone,” he said.

“Oh,” Cordelia said, disappointed. “Well… what if I ask him to teach me how to paint? He seems to like being assigned leadership roles.”

“He’s also a harsh leader,” Bruce said. “It’s not his fault. It was the way that he was raised. But I don’t want him to treat you as an underling to… to abuse.”

Cordelia was becoming more disheartened. “How did you and Dick get him to like you, then?”

“Damian arrived at this house already seeking my approval,” Bruce said. “With Dick… well, everyone likes Dick.”

That was true — but also unhelpful, since Tim proved that everyone did not like Cordelia.

“He likes Cass,” Cordelia pointed out. “I think.”

“He respects Cass’s strength and technique,” Bruce said. “He’s interested in learning from her, even if he doesn’t say it out loud.”

“But I’m strong, too,” Cordelia argued. “And I have great technique. Bruce, you need to —“

The door behind her creaked before she could finish her sentence. And then — Alfred walked in, dressed in a three piece suit and looking as ready for the day as he always did.

Cordelia glanced at the clock.

It was 6:30am.

She’d been reading Damian’s file for around three hours. And had let the coffee brew for just as long.

“Good morning, Master Bruce, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred paused to bow to them. “You both are up awfully early.”

“Bruce wanted coffee,” Cordelia explained.

“I see,” Alfred said. His face was wiped of emotion when he checked the pot. “Well, I suppose I should remake some so that the other young sirs and misses can have a fresh brew.”

“Okay,” Cordelia said. She turned back to her brother. “Bruce, I was going to say that you need to let me be Batgirl again.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Bruce said.

“But it’s the quickest way to get your children to like and trust me,” she implored. “They’ll see that all I want is for them to be safe and happy. And Damian will be able to see me in action, just like he sees Cass!”

“Being a vigilante is serious work, Cordelia,” Bruce said. “You don’t get into it just because you want Tim or Damian to like you.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Cordelia said, a little sharp. “Like Tim and Damian liking me is nothing. It’s not. It’s everything.”

Bruce pressed his lips together.

Alfred was quietly draining the coffee machine into the sink.

“The answer is ‘no,’ Cordelia,” Bruce said. Firm. “As it’s been everyday for the past week.”

The same old argument was brewing, the one that left both Waynes in a grumpy mood. Alfred intervened before it could begin too early in their day.

“Where is Little Heart, Miss Cordelia?” He asked. “Should I start a bottle for her, as well?”

“She’s in bed with Cass and Stephanie,” Cordelia said, still moody.

“You girls seem to be getting along splendidly.”

Cordelia did not want to allow this subject change, but his words unwillingly made her mind drift to last night. She thought about Cass reaching out to her in the dark, how she’d held her hand until she fell asleep, and how the sound of her giggles had managed to soothe her deepest fears.

She could feel the memory of that night soothe her anger right then.

“Yes,” Cordelia said to Alfred, a tad reluctant to let the argument go, but no longer feeling the heat of it drive her. She went back to marking Damian’s file. “Stephanie snores.”

“Ah,” Alfred said. “Well. That’s unfortunate.”

He, too, went back to his business: refilling the coffee pot and gathering ingredients for breakfast.

Beside her, perhaps trying to make up for spoiling the mood, Bruce decided to be more helpful. He pointed out things that were most important for her in Damian’s file, and gave her more advice on how to approach him and how to tell when an insult had a real bite behind it.

It was with Bruce’s help and with Cordelia’s ideas that they managed to come up with a plan for her that might work: to paint with Damian, but to make sure that Bruce was there so that Damian would be on his best behavior.

Satisfied, Cordelia switched Damian’s file for Tim’s.

At the same time, Alfred switched Bruce’s Batman mug for one with a lady dressed in a catsuit.

“Funny,” Bruce said.

“I thought so, too, Sir,” Alfred said. “What about you, Miss Cordelia? Are you in the mood for coffee this morning?”

“Not today,” she said. “I don’t want to be too jittery when I’m with Damian.”

Alfred nodded in understanding, and opted to serve her orange juice in a tall glass, instead.

“I think I’m running out of time,” Cordelia said. She sent an accusatory frown at the clock as she did. “I won’t have a plan for Tim by the time he gets down here. But maybe you can give me a plan?”

“Don’t push with Tim,” Bruce advised. He took an appreciative sip from his mug. “For him, you will have to practice patience.”

“But I’ve been patient. I’ve waited a week and he talks to me less now than he did before.”

“You’ll have to trust me, Cordelia,” Bruce said. “Let Tim come to you on his own.”

The way he said this made her suspicious. As if there was something he wasn’t telling her.

She decided to pursue this thought.

“What do you know?” She demanded. “Did he say something to you about me? Is he still mad that I bit him? Because I can apologize again —“

“Tim isn’t mad,” Bruce said. “He’s cautious.”

Cordelia stared. The realization of what he was saying made her feel sick to her stomach. “I knew it. He doesn’t trust me.”

“You have arrived under mysterious circumstances,” Bruce allowed. “He’s naturally curious.”

Which would have been fine — Cordelia herself was curious about Tim’s life, too — but Tim wasn’t asking her any questions. 

He was just watching her. Analyzing all her expressions, narrowing his eyes any time she managed to make Dick do something he initially didn’t want to do, turning away from her during mealtimes so that she knew that he didn’t want to talk to her.

So if what Bruce said was true…. If Tim was just curious, then why was he treating her like a problem he’d rather throw away than solve?

“Maybe I should start the conversation,” she said out loud. “Tell him that it’s okay to ask me questions.”

Bruce squinted at her. “Are you ready for that?”

“Of course,” she said. “Especially if it means making Tim feel safe in his own home.”

For some reason, Bruce did not seem to believe her.

“What?” She said, defensive. “They’re only questions.”

“Yes. But they make you…” Bruce hesitated, looking a little uncomfortable, “cry.”

Cordelia pressed her lips together. So he had seen the way her eyes watered in the restaurant last week.

How embarrassing.

“I’ll try to keep my emotions under control when I talk to Tim,” she said awkwardly.

“I don’t want you to,” Bruce said. “I want you to — to be happy. Actually happy. Without needing to fake it.”

At his words, Cordelia felt the warmth of affection quickly chase away the heat of embarrassment.

“I know,” she said.

And she did.

Over the past week, Bruce had spent a few hours every day with her in his study. They both piled over endless documents, trying to map out what her future would look like now that she actually had one.

Some of it was morbid. For example, Bruce had demanded that they think about what would happen to her if he died. Would his guardianship of her transfer over to Alfred? Or would Dick be the better option, considering his younger age and ability to bounce back after losing such an important figure in his life?

Other days, their talks were more heartfelt. 

Bruce had taken what she told him after the explosion of Gotham Harbor very seriously. He did not like the idea that she felt so vulnerable — especially since this feeling of vulnerability had been what made it so hard for her to trust him.

So he’d given her a roadmap to building her own power.

“I was born with wealth,” Bruce had said. “But everything else you listed: my physical strength, my intelligence, my allies, my reputation in this world…. Those are things I’ve built for years, Cordelia. And if you want, I can help you build them, too, so that you can feel less at the mercy of my whims. Starting with giving you your own bank account.”

He’d laid out several sheets of paper in front of her, each of which were full of impossibly high numbers.

“This,” Cordelia said, “is too much.”

“It is,” Bruce agreed. “The Waynes are a grossly rich family. But it’s what you would have inherited from Dad in another life. In one where the both of us grew up together.”

Her eyes widened. She looked back at the numbers.

Her father wouldn’t have given her a fraction of what Bruce did.

“I’m giving you access to this account,” Bruce continued, “but only to use in case of emergency or… or if you ever stop trusting me to take care of you. I want to be clear that I am still going to financially support you for however long you want me to.”

“However long?” Cordelia repeated that phrase. “Don’t you mean until I’m eighteen?”

“No,” Bruce said. His fingers drummed on his desk awkwardly. “There’s a lot of room in this manor, Cordelia. You don’t have to leave. If… if you don’t want to. Alfred stayed.”

His mention of Alfred made a vision form in her head: one of Cordelia and Bruce, gray-haired and grumpy at the kitchen table, waiting for Alfred to make them their tea.

The vision made her smile.

“I’ll think about it,” she said. “But I’m definitely not going to ask you to financially support me past eighteen if I’m already sitting on millions.”

Bruce had nodded in understanding. “That’s fine. Now, moving onto the other things you’ve mentioned…. Physical strength. Alfred and I have put you on a meal plan that is slowly bringing you toward peak health. But if you want to build more muscle, then we will need to put together an exercise schedule, as well. And as for intelligence —“

“I’m not worried about that one,” Cordelia said. “I just need a year familiarizing myself with this world’s new equipment.”

Bruce paused, and then raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying that all you need is one year to become more intelligent than me?”

Cordelia’s smile widened as she nodded.

Bruce shook his head at her, amused. “I was going to say that we put you in more advanced classes at school.”

“I wouldn’t mind that, either.”

“You,” Bruce said, pointing a finger at her, “are spending too much time with Dick.”

She’d laughed because it was true — but also because she felt light and happy and, for the first time, not so dependent on making sure Batman loved her.

But as she sat in the kitchen, with her slim arm leaning against the warmth of Bruce’s bulky one, she also felt like she no longer needed to worry about losing Batman’s love, either.

She couldn’t wait to feel the same way with Tim and Damian.

“I’m still going to let Tim ask me questions,” Cordelia told Bruce. “But… maybe after I let you ask me questions. That way, I’ll know when I’m really ready.”

“You don’t have to tell me everything first,” Bruce said immediately. “I think it will make you feel safer to let Alfred or Dick know everything before me. You’re much more comfortable with them.”

Cordelia’s entire body felt warm, from her head down to her wiggling toes. 

She scooted even closer to Bruce so that she could lean her cheek against his arm, close her eyes, and silently thank Barry Allen for what he’d given her when he dragged her out of Hell.

She never would have guessed that there was someone else in the world who would overthink her safety more than she did.

But here he was.

And Cordelia was content.

“No,” she said. “I want to talk to my brother first.”

Bruce didn’t move. But on the other side of the table, where Alfred began to set the plates and forks, Cordelia could see that the butler’s eyes had become a bit misty.

Chapter 54: Painting Murder

Summary:

“You’re trying to bond with Damian over murder?” Tim asked, eyes narrowed.

“No,” Cordelia said. “Over painting.”

“Painting murder.”

Alfred was outdoing himself today.

As Cordelia and Bruce read over Tim’s file, highlighting and writing notes where they could, he worked briskly around them. He set out the best silverware, laid down the prettiest plates, and crafted the most delicious of breakfast options. Until it seemed like every time Cordelia gave her eyes a break and looked up, there was something new and yummy to see — from classic blueberry and banana pancakes to the more interesting strawberry-filled velvet crepes.

Even Bruce could not help but look over in interest when Alfred placed what he called “Moroccan baked eggs close in front of him.

“You should put those away and start eating,” Bruce told Cordelia soon afterward. “From my experience, none of my children enjoy having their files read over.”

“Okay,” Cordelia said.

And after hiding all of the files and the office supplies in Alfred’s pantry (with his permission), Cordelia returned to her seat and started to pick out her breakfast meal.

She ate slowly. Both because she did not want to finish before everyone else arrived, and because she was thinking about what she was going to say to Damian.

From what she gathered over the past week, having a pleasant conversation with her tiniest nephew was as difficult as walking through a minefield blind. He seemed to enjoy flattery — but only if it came from Bruce or Dick, who he considered more credible sources. Yet he also hated insults, even if something said to him could only be interpreted as an insult if someone was feeling particularly creative that day.

This left Cordelia with the restrictive option of being very blunt and straightforward, which… also had the potential to provoke little Dami.

Because what if he asked why she wanted to spend time with him? Would honesty hurt her cause? Would he like her answer — that he looked so much like Little Brucie, the younger brother she used to daydream about, that seeing him made her feel like she could have everything she’d ever wanted all at once: a little brother and a Batman who loved her?

No. He would certainly not like that.

If there was one thing she learned about Damian, it was that the kid was proud of who he actually was — not who others imagined him to be.

“You’ll do fine with Damian,” Bruce said beside her. “You’ve already done better than most.”

Cordelia went to respond, to tell him that she wanted to do much better than fine, when her ears pricked up.

Footsteps.

The family was coming.

Cordelia straightened in her seat, pushed food around her plate to make it seem as if she hadn’t eaten a bite, and then waited.

She didn’t have to wait long.

Dick was the first one through the door. He wore basketball shorts and a fitted t-shirt (as he always did on mornings he planned to hit the gymnastics room), and had hair so tousled that it was clear he hadn’t brushed it yet. Behind him, Cordelia could see the others walking in, too: Cass in her black pajamas, Stephanie in her clothes from yesterday, Damian in a comfortable day outfit, Tim in his suit and tie, and then — finally — with her dainty hooves slapping soundly against the tiled floor, Little Heart came trotting in wearing her new Flash onesie.

Bruce stared.

Cordelia scooped Little Heart up from the floor and settled the lamb on her lap. Around her, the others began to circle the table like a pack of hungry wolves. Predictably, Dick piled his plate with the sweet and sugary food, while Damian went for the vegan options, and the rest, much like Bruce, went for savory.

All the while, Bruce continued to stare a hole into Cordelia’s head.

“Stop it,” she insisted. “You said I could use your card to buy anything I wanted.”

“And you wanted a Flash costume for your pet.”

It wasn’t a question, so Cordelia didn’t answer. Her attention was back on Little Dami, who was filling a fruit cup with berries at the other end of the table.

There was so much intensity in his large green eyes as he held each berry up to the light. He twisted them to and fro in his fingers, analyzing every part of their skin, trying to find a blemish or a flaw drastic enough to make him want to toss them.

It was terrifying in its implication.

Dick sat next to her and scratched her lamb’s forehead. “Mornin’.”

“Good morning,” she said.

Damian walked around the table and claimed the last seat next to Bruce. He did not spare Cordelia a glance as he set his plate down, nor as he picked up his knife and fork, nor as he began to eat with a straightened back.

Laser-focused and perfect; that’s what her youngest nephew was — and that’s what he expected from everything around him.

Cordelia would have to be calculative in her approach.

No stuttering, no falters.

No weaknesses.

Much like her father, Damian would not be patient when facing deficiency.

Cordelia took a deep breath, and began to speak. “Damian?”

A flash of green, and Damian was glaring at her from across the table.

She powered forward.

“Do you have plans for today?” She asked.

“Tt,” Damian went back to cutting his food into small pieces. “Obviously.”

His knife sliced through the potatoes with ease. Cordelia couldn’t help watching as he moved onto his next potato; pinning it down with the points of his fork, and then cutting through it with a clean stroke of his knife.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see the others watching, too — unable to hide their interest as the newest member of the family tried to have a civil conversation with the most volatile.

“Are they plans that can be postponed?” Cordelia asked. “Because I would like to spend time with you.”

His response was cruel in its bluntness: “No.”

Another potato was sliced in half. She tried not to think about how, only a few days ago, he’d wanted to do the same thing to her throat.

“That’s disappointing,” Cordelia said honestly, but didn’t miss a beat in enacting her backup plan. “Then would you mind if Bruce and I used your art room? We wanted to paint today.”

His hands stilled. As suspected, Damian did not like to pass up on opportunities to spend extra time with Bruce.

“Father doesn’t paint,” he said.

They’d planned for this, too.

“I dabbled in it a few months ago,” Bruce said calmly from beside them. Damian’s knife was poised to strike through the last of his potatoes. “I can see why you enjoy it so much, son. It was a great way to disconnect from the outside world and strengthen my connection to the self.”

Damian’s knife lowered. “That’s exactly how I feel, Father.”

“Is it?” Bruce sipped his coffee.

Damian nodded. “A painter’s portfolio reveals more about himself than it does about the world around him. You should remember this if we ever have an artistic rogue. One look at his work and we will be able to see what his fixations are, what he yearns for, and what he fears.”

“Hm,” Bruce said. “I will have to make sure that you’re by my side if that ever happens.”

The expression on Damian’s face wasn’t quite a smile, but it was very close.

Bruce turned to Cordelia. “Once you’re finished with breakfast, we can begin painting.”

And, with that, the trap was set. Damian’s non-smile dropped upon seeing the moment he just shared with his father being transferred onto someone else.

It was only a matter of time before he changed his mind and demanded that they include him in their planned activity. If not to paint, then to ensure that Bruce’s interest in painting would always be linked to his youngest son.

Cordelia waited with anticipation. 

Unfortunately, Damian was not the next person to speak.

“I’d like to join.”

It was Tim. And his voice startled everyone at the table.

It was not usual for Tim to speak in the mornings. Breakfast, for him, was quietly drinking coffee as the family monologued and bickered around him — not engaging in conversation or looking up from his phone long enough to show an interest in a topic.

Yet he spoke up today, and it was to invite himself to an event that Cordelia was planning.

Not that she didn’t want to spend time with Tim. Quite the opposite, really. But there was something about him this morning that was… off.

His eyes were blood-red where they should have been white; his hair was tousled when it was usually neatly combed; and his under-eyes were so dark that it looked as though he hadn’t slept a wink since arriving at the manor.

Cordelia felt a stab of concern. And then guilt.

Was he that disheveled because of her? Did he really feel so unsafe with having her around that he couldn’t sleep?

These questions caused memories to resurface in her mind: Tim looming over her, trapping her beneath him; hands pinning her down, not letting her escape; her father, hurting her; and then the taste of blood as she bit any part of Tim that she could reach.

He’d shouted from pain every time her teeth sunk into his skin.

She still hadn’t stopped until they forced her to.

“If Damian isn’t going,” Tim was saying. “Why not?”

“I am going.” Damian scowled at having someone speak for him. “And you can’t.”

Tim looked at him wryly. “Don’t you have plans that ‘can’t be postponed’?”

A flush appeared on Damian’s cheeks. It was always the first sign that a classic Tim and Damian fight was brewing. 

Bruce stepped in before it could start. “I thought you worked today, Tim.”

“I can take the day off,” Tim shrugged.

“You’ve taken the past couple of months off already.”

“Not to rest,” Tim said.

“If you’re that tired, then maybe you should plan a nap, instead,” Bruce said, “and leave painting for another day.”

It was a logical recommendation. One that Cordelia would agree with, considering how exhausted her nephew looked. But judging from the look on Tim’s face, it was not the recommendation that he wanted to hear.

“I’d prefer to join you,” he said.

His voice was firm, and a quick glance in Cordelia’s direction told them why: he didn’t trust her to be alone with Damian and Bruce.

This thought would have amazed her a month ago. That Batman ever had to be threatened by her. But after what happened in the bunker, after her actions almost got him blown up, she knew that power wasn’t always in the physical or even the mental.

She had emotional power over Bruce now. Because he loved her, and would die for her.

And maybe that made her dangerous to him.

“Cordelia,” Tim said.

She jumped in surprise. He so rarely spoke to her.

“Don’t you want me to join?” He asked.

Bruce stiffened. But Cordelia was already answering, not wanting Tim to think that she favored Damian, “I do. Please, come.”

Tim didn’t smile. His reddened eyes looked directly into hers as he said, “I will.”

“Great,” Cordelia said. She felt awkward and guilty and concerned all at once. Everyone was staring at her. “Do you… know what you’re going to paint?”

“Yes,” he said. “Something that reveals who I am as a person. Just as Damian said paintings should.”

He was being about as subtle as a brick through a window, but Cordelia had no clue what to do about it.

The tension between them was obvious now. The others were glancing from Tim to Cordelia, trying to read between the lines and understand the tones; Damian with reluctant intrigue, Stephanie with amazement, Cass with empathy, Dick with trepidation, and Bruce — Bruce looked irritated.

Dark eyebrows were pulled together, creating a thin line between them. A large hand was laid out on the table, one pointer finger tapping consistently against the wood.

Cordelia’s stomach was cramped with uneasiness.

She didn’t know what bothered her more: Bruce’s tapping or Tim’s red eyes. But what she did know was that they bothered her. So she was more grateful than she could say when, out of nowhere, Alfred appeared over her shoulder holding a tall baby bottle.

“A bottle for your lamb, Miss Cordelia,” he said as he handed it over, face blank. He turned to her brother. “Master Bruce?”

Bruce’s eyes snapped over in his direction.

“I believe you had an announcement to make,” the butler said pointedly.

It was a distraction. A polite way to change the subject, and to get the attention off of Tim and Cordelia.

Bruce took it without much pause.

“Hm, I do,” he hummed. Mercifully, his fingers stopped tapping on the table as every single person in the room focused on him. “I would like you all to clear your schedules for this Saturday evening.”

“What?” Stephanie said. “Why?”

“We’re going to host an Introduction to Society ball for Cordelia, and I need you all to be there. Alfred, the invitations, please.”

“Right away, Sir.”

Once again showing that he was always prepared, Alfred withdrew a stack of cream-colored envelopes from his inner jacket pocket before circling the table and neatly placing one in each of their hands. 

Cordelia was the last to receive one. And when it was given to her, she was surprised about how thick and heavy it was. The envelope itself was made of authentic parchment, and at its center, keeping it closed, was a sage green wax seal that had a small, delicate design of a lamb with a single flower stem in its mouth.

This seal was very gently broken, since Cordelia did not want to damage it as she withdrew the invite — which was green, too, and had gold detail trimmings at its edges and dark black ink making up the words.

“Most of the Gotham elite was sent the same invite a few days ago, and almost all will arrive,” Bruce continued. “It’s important to have you boys there. You’re more experienced with these types of events than Cass and Cordelia, so your presence will lessen the pressure on them to act normally and keep our secret.”

It did not go unnoticed how his request for them to join was made into a mission. But it didn’t make them back out, either.

On the contrary, because, one by one, they all agreed to go.

Dick’s nod was firm and serious. “I’ll be there.”

Damian’s expression was proud. “You can count on me, Father.”

Stephanie’s blink was blank. “Wait. Do I count as one of the boys?”

Cass’s smile was beaming. “Sounds like fun.”

And Tim’s smile was fake. “I guess I’ll go, too, then.”

Everyone then looked to Cordelia for her response, and she did not know what to say other than, “Can Little Heart come?”

Some light left Alfred’s eyes at that. He always did have a hard time bonding with her little lamb, especially since it destroyed so many of his favorite vases. “I suppose it is your party to decide, Miss Cordelia.”

Cordelia looked down at the lamb in her lap, who was dirtying the front of its onesie in the process of drinking formula. It was silly and clumsy and oftentimes disobedient, but it made her happy and comfortable and loved in ways that she did not know how to describe.

“Then we will come, too,” she said, and gave her lamb a kiss.

The rest of breakfast went by much more smoothly than the beginning of it as the discussion shifted from painting to what a ball at Wayne Manor would look like. 

It had been so long since Bruce used their ballroom. Therefore, the furniture was covered in white drapes, the floors needed to be polished, and a new chandelier needed to be lifted. But all these things were just side notes to the younger crowd, because what they were more interested in was who would be there and what they should wear.

“I don’t have a single ball gown, just to let you know,” Stephanie said to Bruce.

She was standing beside his chair, loudly chewing on an apple.

Bruce didn’t react as he took small bites of his Moroccan baked eggs. “Unfortunate.”

This less-than-empathetic response did not deter the young girl. She extended her hand to his face like a child asking for candy. “Cough it up, old man.”

His hum was low and threatening, but he did as he was told. Stephanie was given one of his debit cards, and she spent the rest of the meal talking about “secretly” using the money to buy a small mansion on the coasts of South America.

Cass seemed very pleased, as well, since Stephanie promised to get a mansion that had a dance studio in it.

“You want a dance studio?” Bruce asked with a troubled frown. “You’ve never mentioned a dance studio before.”

“I dance,” Cass informed him seriously.

His frown deepened, but nothing more was said about it.

At the end of breakfast, everyone parted ways as they always did. Dick went to the gymnastics room, Stephanie went to her room with Little Heart to do Summer homework, Cass went for a jog around the grounds, and Alfred went to do more party planning.

That left only Bruce, Tim, Damian, and Cordelia to head over to the art room.

Without speaking, they passed by the hallways where Bruce’s study was, went up the long spiral staircase to the third floor, made their way through several different hallways with several empty rooms, and finally to the room that contained all of Damian’s painting supplies.

It was a beautiful room. The windows were wide and the curtains were thrown open, allowing them to see the sun rising and all the colors that this event came with. Blue and yellow and orange all shone brilliantly in the horizon, as if begging each of them to draw inspiration from its prettiness, and lighting up the space with warmth.

“Did you choose this room, Damian?” Cordelia asked, breaking the silence. “It’s perfect.”

Damian’s sniff was imperious. “It’s far from perfect. The lighting in Gotham is the worst thing about this city.”

“Apart from the high crime rate, you mean,” Tim muttered.

Cordelia, who did not want her quality time with Damian to turn into a fight with his brother, said very quickly, “I like the lighting. It sort of matches the tone of your work.”

She pointed to the painting she’d overanalyzed before: the one of Batman standing over a broken body in an alley and glaring at his own bloodied fist. The shadows were dark, the red of the blood gruesome.

It stood out, even now, from the rest.

Bruce seemed to look at it with new eyes.

“I do what I can with the lighting that I’m given,” Damian said.

That statement would have been received as modest if he hadn’t chosen to stand beside the painting with his chest puffed out, prideful.

“You may choose any canvas to begin,” he declared. “Father, I suggest this one for you.”

Bruce was handed a wide linen canvas.

“Thank you, Damian,” he said. “What about for Cordelia and Tim?”

The boy was less excited about finding them canvases to use, but he did not say so verbally — which was a hint toward improvement in Cordelia’s eyes. She was practically flushed with pleasure at having Damian approach her with a canvas just as wide as Bruce’s, even though it was made from cotton instead of linen.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely.

But Damian was already back at Bruce’s side. “We should sit in front of the window, Father. I always paint best there.”

“Whatever you prefer, Damian,” Bruce said.

The boy’s eyes began to gleam with happiness. He led Bruce to the window, and started setting up seats and easels with him. All the while, letting him know what he planned to paint, and giving tips on what tools they should use on their linen canvases.

Cordelia tried not to interject while this happened.

Her and Bruce had expected that Damian would give more of his attention to his father than his aunt, and it had been agreed that trying to curb this would only hurt the way he viewed Cordelia. So she was silent as they set up their seats and sat down.

But silent, for her, did not mean unhappy. Because when Bruce chose the seat at the far left, that meant that Damian chose the seat beside him, and Cordelia got to choose the seat between her two nephews.

“Should we have a theme for what we paint?” She asked Damian. Then turned to Tim so that he didn’t feel left out. “Or would it be more fun to have no theme?”

“Painting isn’t about what’s fun,” Damian said dismissively.

Cordelia tried not to let some of her happiness deflate at that. “How do you usually decide what to paint, then?”

“I paint whatever I can’t get out of my head,” he answered. Then looked at her darkly to add, “Most of the time, it’s murder.”

His honesty surprised her, but she supposed that murder would be something that he thought about constantly. He had grown up in the League, after all, and likely saw so much of it. So she latched onto this morsel of information he provided her, and asked, “Do you paint yourself as the murderer, the victim, or the witness?”

Damian blinked. For some reason, her question had caught him off guard.

“The murderer,” he said slowly.

Cordelia smiled wider than she normally would, trying to put him at ease. “Who do you paint yourself murdering?”

Damian’s eyes were widening.

“Cordelia,” Bruce said, suddenly and sharply.

She flinched at the unexpectedness of it, and then faltered when she saw the way Bruce was staring at her: as if she had five extra heads.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

Awkwardly, she fiddled with the hem of her shirt. “Bonding.”

Bruce searched her face.

There was disbelief written all over his own.

“Did I say something wrong?” Cordelia asked.

She must have, because Bruce wasn’t the only one looking at her strangely. Damian and Tim were, too — only, Damian was giving her a look of appraisal, as if reassessing what he thought about her, and Tim was looking at her as if she had finally shown him who he thought she was.

“You’re trying to bond with Damian over murder?” Tim asked, eyes narrowed.

“No,” she said. “Over painting.”

“Painting murder.”

“That’s what he paints,” Cordelia said.

This was becoming increasingly confusing.

“And you just accepted that he paints himself murdering people?” Tim said, flabbergasted.

“Of course. He’s my nephew.”

Tim threw his hands up in the air out of pure and startling frustration. “He is not your nephew.”

Cordelia pulled her eyebrows together, befuddled. “Yes, he is.”

“You’re delusional,” Tim accused. “And a liar. What were your real intentions asking Dam a question like that?”

Cordelia was still stuck on being called delusional. “You’re mean.”

“Stop pretending to be so innocent,” Tim snapped. “Answer my question.”

But she was over speaking to Tim. Nothing she ever said seemed to be right when it came to him, anyway. From the moment he’d met her, he’d hated her. And maybe he was justified for that — maybe her first impression had left a permanent rift in their relationship. But that did not stop it from being any less disheartening.

She looked down at her paint supplies. It would be best to just get up and leave, and plan a different activity to do with Damian.

“Cordelia,” Bruce said, cutting off her thoughts of escape.

Reluctantly, she met his eyes beneath her lashes.

He was still surveying her, trying to see something that Cordelia did not know how to show — simply because she did not know what he was looking for. Or what, really, was so alarming about her questions.

“Why did you ask that?” He asked.

It was the same thing Tim asked her. And even though it was spoken in a softer tone, hearing it from her brother felt like a betrayal.

“You’re on his side?” She asked.

Bruce pressed his lips together unhappily. “This isn’t about sides, Cordelia.”

Cordelia disagreed. This felt very much like Bruce taking a side — and the side wasn’t hers.

She looked away from him.

“I’m bonding,” she repeated.

It was the truth. All she’d wanted to do was learn more about Damian’s interests; the same way she’d taken the time to learn about Cass’s interests in ballet, Dick’s interests in gymnastics, and Alfred’s interests in tea.

How was she supposed to know that they weren’t allowed to talk about murder? They were Bats living in Gotham. It wasn’t like any of them had a right to be squeamish about gore.

“Bruce, this is more proof that we need to interrogate her,” Tim was saying. “There’s something off about her.”

“I already told you my opinion on that, Tim,” Bruce said.

“But —“

“No.”

“Bruce —“

“Tim,” Bruce said. “Enough.”

His tone was cold and his gaze was direct. And even though these things directed toward the older son, it caused both Cordelia and Damian to look down at their shoes, as well.

“We’re going to take a walk,” Bruce said.

Those six little words caused alarm to overwhelm every single one of Cordelia’s senses. But when her head snapped up to argue her way out of punishment, she saw that it wasn’t her that Bruce was speaking to.

It was Tim.

And he looked stricken.

“You can’t be serious,” he said.

“I am.” Bruce stood up, set his unused art supplies on the easel, and began walking to the door. “Follow.”

Tim did not get up immediately. But it must have been hard for them to disobey Batman’s direct orders, too, because he didn’t stay seated for longer than five seconds.

Cordelia watched them leave anxiously, confused about what had just happened — but also confused about how she felt. A part of her wanted to chase after Tim, to apologize for upsetting him and making him feel unsafe, but another part of her was… glad to see Tim go. 

Because he was making her feel unwanted. And she was so tired of feeling unwanted.

“Are you really upset that Drake is leaving? Father was right about you. You are sensitive."

She closed her eyes at the sound of Damian’s voice. In all the insults and accusatory questions, she’d managed to forget the most important person in the room.

The person she’d planned this entire event for.

“I’m sorry, Damian,” she said. “I thought this would be more fun.”

Damian sucked his teeth. “And I thought it would be less entertaining.”

His callousness surprised her, although it shouldn’t have.

Cordelia opened her eyes to stare at him, only to see that he was staring at her, too. And giving her that look of appraisal she’d seen from before.

“You asked about my more violent pieces of art,” he said. “You have an interest in killing?”

Cordelia wanted to lie. To tell him that she did because he clearly did. But she’d read his file, and knew that lies for him would not lead to friendship. So she said, “I don’t. I’m more interested in knowing what you’re interested in.”

“To what end?”

“To…” she hesitated. Damian was not a feelings person like Dick was, but if she was going to take the path of truth with him, then she needed to remain consistent. “To make you feel loved. I want to care for you.”

He wrinkled his nose. “I do not need your love or your care.”

“I know,” she said, refusing to let that hurt her. “You have Bruce, and Alfred, and so many siblings. You don’t need me at all. But… but I’m here. And I already love and care for you, so… so I’m offering it to you, anyway.”

Damian narrowed his eyes, analyzing the trustworthiness of her words in a way so similar to Bruce that her chest ached. 

Didn’t he see that they were already connected? That he was her brother’s son, and therefore a living piece of her heart?

Why couldn’t he and Tim see that?

“You also have a large family,” Damian pointed out. “Logically, that would mean that you don’t need me, either. So why have you been trying so hard and so obviously to get into my good graces?”

“Because you’re important,” she said. “Like all your siblings are important. But if it’s making you uncomfortable, then… then I’ll stop. I promise.”

He believed her. She could see it in his eyes that he did. 

And not just about his importance, which everyone in the house knew he would believe instantly — but also about her leaving him alone if he asked her to.

Cordelia waited with bated breath to see what the results of this belief would be. Would he tell her to go? To never speak to him again?

Or… would he ask her to stay?

He did neither.

“Father appears to care for you,” he said.

Cordelia nodded slowly, surprised by this shift in topic. 

“And he’s… changed,” he looked away from her. “Since you arrived.”

She thought so, too. The man who had gotten up so early in the morning to help her read over his children’s files was a lot different from the man who avoided her every time she walked into a room.

“Do you like the change?” Cordelia asked, going along with the conversation.

“I find it intriguing,” Damian said.

It was a non-answer and, clearly, not the full one. Whatever feelings he had about his father’s change must have been complicated — but Cordelia had promised him not to be pushy, so she let it go without further questioning.

“You created this plan to paint,” Damian said, “didn’t you?”

Again, she hesitated. “I did. Does that bother you?”

It was hard to miss the way Damian glanced at Bruce’s now-empty seat. There was bitterness in that glance, and bitterness in his eyes when he turned back to his aunt.

“My father is a busy man,” he said. “I don’t expect him to always have time for me. But it would be easier if he collected less of his strays.”

“Your siblings?” Cordelia couldn’t help but ask. “Or… me?”

He looked at her, unflinching: “Both.”

That answer stung, but she did her best to hide it.

“I don’t mean to take time away from you and your father, Damian,” Cordelia said. “I never even wanted to live with him in the beginning. I was only brought here because he’s my brother.”

“And I’m his son,” Damian said. There was something in his eyes, a seriousness, that told her that there was more to this statement than the obvious. “His real son. And his heir.”

The mention of being Bruce’s heir made everything click in Cordelia’s mind.

She decided to be blunt: “I don’t want anything from Bruce but a place in his family.”

Her truthfulness, once again, worked in her favor. Damian’s scowl lessened just enough to make some of the anxiety in her chest disappear.

“Good,” he said, “because even with the temporary infatuation he has with you, there is no replacing his blood son. You will do well to remember that.”

Cordelia didn’t say this out loud, but if there was one thing that she never needed a reminder of, it was that she could never replace a son. She had enough recurring nightmares to know that this was the truth of her life.

But she nodded anyway.

This satisfied him. One corner of his lips pulled up into a victorious smirk that was neither warm nor welcoming, but conquering.

“Then I will allow you to stay,” he decided.

Cordelia wondered when being kicked out of the family was ever up for discussion. But Damian had already moved on from the conversation, grabbing his painting tools and leaning forward to begin his next piece of art.

So Cordelia, who had just taken a big step forward in their relationship, followed suit.

“Lately, I’ve sketched the death of Deathstroke,” he confided. His brush trailed long, garish red lines across his linen canvas. “I think I will paint that exact concept today.”

“Who’s Deathstroke?”

She’d asked the question partly to avoid the topic of murder again, which was apparently forbidden in this household, but also to hear about who had irritated her nephew so badly that he fantasized about killing them so often.

It was the right question to ask. Damian began his tale about a strange man who liked to target Batman’s Robins, about a team of teen heroes who frequently fought against that strange man, and how this team fell apart.

She listened quietly, not wanting to interrupt when he was speaking about something he was so passionate about — but she also jumped in with questions when the conversation seemed to lull.

Damian was approving of this.

He seemed to like attention, and to being listened to. And although Bruce had warned her against behaving subservient to Damian, Cordelia couldn’t help but enjoy how letting him lead the conversation meant that she wouldn’t be insulted every other sentence.

But that did not mean that the conversation was entirely without insults. They were just not directed at her.

Instead, Damian insulted his old teammates, Deathstroke, other villains they’d fought against, and even the tower that they’d stayed in. And it was only after he’d finished cursing every single member of the Wilson family line that he bothered to ask Cordelia anything.

She was shocked that the question was about his grandfather.

“He was Batman,” she told him.

His expression was full of contempt. “He was an old Batman, then.”

“Yes,” Cordelia said. “I guess he was. Although, he didn’t move like it.”

That caught his interest. “Was he as good as Father?”

“No,” she said.

The answer was instantaneous. She’d fought against both Bruce and her father on the training mat, and only one of them had felt impossible to land a hit on.

Damian seemed smug about that. “And when I am Batman, I will be the very best.”

“You want to be Batman?” Cordelia asked.

What a strange desire to have.

“Of course,” Damian said. “It is my birthright.”

She supposed that made sense in a way. After all, hadn’t Cordelia also wanted to follow in her own father’s footsteps? Back when he was more a retired doctor to her than the very personification of fear and darkness.

“I wanted to be a doctor like my Father,” Cordelia said. “I used to heal him after patrol. His hands were too shaky from alcohol to do it himself.”

Those had been special times for her: when her father would let her close enough to touch him without the intention of hurting her.

She’d loved it; being needed.

Being able to exist in his presence without the promise of pain.

She never stopped hoping for a “thank you.” Even after years of never hearing one, she would wait a few moments after the job was done, holding her breath, waiting for her father to acknowledge that she’d done something for him — and that he appreciated it.

“He was weak,” Damian said suddenly.

She blinked at him, confused.

Her father? Weak?

The strength of his fists crashing against her cheekbones proved otherwise.

“Alcohol impairs you,” Damian continued. He gave her a look that was both superior and full of pointed judgment. “You were a fool to drink it yourself when you visited the Bowery.”

She blinked again. Who had told her twelve year-old nephew about her trip to a nightclub in the Bowery?

“You’re a Wayne,” Damian said, either ignorant to her disbelief or uncaring about it. “A real Wayne. And if Father is going to begin showing you off as one of us, then you better begin acting like one of us. That means no more sniveling to Drake, no more lowering yourself by meeting nobodies in the Bowery, and no more letting people get away with disrespecting you. Is that understood?”

She didn’t think she could be anymore amazed if Damian sprouted wings and offered to grant her three wishes.

Was he… was he accepting her?

Were these critiques of her behavior and condescending notes about her personality forms of acceptance?

She could not be sure. Damian wasn’t even looking at her anymore. Instead, he was focusing on covering his linen canvas with different shades of bloody red.

Cordelia looked over at her own painting. Some time, throughout their conversation, she’d begun to paint her father.

She’d begun painting what she couldn’t get out of her head.

“I’ll do my best, Damian,” Cordelia said, quietly disturbed to see how much control her subconscious thoughts had over her body. “Bruce has changed a lot for me, so I want to make him proud, but… sometimes I falter.”

The face glaring out at her from the canvas was unmoved by her words, but Damian paused long enough for it to be noticeable.

He never explained why. So whether it was his hand getting tired from painting, or a raw reaction to what she said, Cordelia would never know. But she was okay with that — because if Damian was unhappy with her, then he would have said something.

He didn’t say a thing.

They spent the rest of their time finishing their artwork in silence.

Bruce and Tim never did return. Not even when it began to rain, and the droplets from the sky covered the windows in the cloud’s tears. Or even when the room dimmed and Cordelia had to dig out candles to bring back the light.

No. It was just Cordelia and her nephew painting their obsessions in silence, and without being overanalyzed by suspicious detectives.

It was nice.

And, in the end, they both stood back to view their work.

On Damian’s canvas, Cordelia could see a decapitated head flying through the air. There was a headless body there, too, crumbling to the grassy floor with blood spurting down the shoulders. And in front of the body stood a short boy dressed in black, green, red, and yellow.

The boy held a bloody sword, and was standing with it raised in the air, full of victory.

It was not an… artistic piece. At least, not by the standards the other canvases in the room set. But there was an attention to detail in it that was awe-inspiring.

Cordelia could not say the same for her own.

Although her talents in healing ensured that she had a steady hand, and her skills as a detective ensured that she focused on the small important things, nothing could really beat the years of experience Damian had when it came to painting. His lines were better, his colors more accurate, and the setting more inspired.

But that wasn’t why she hated it.

She hated it, not because it looked amateurish next to her nephew’s painting, but because her painting was not a fantasy — it was a nightmare.

A nightmare of her and her father out on patrol.

Of Batman and Batgirl.

There they stood in the dark shadows of an alley, their red eyes glowing ominously in the night. A tear was trickling down the black cheek of Batgirl’s cowl, but it was not a normal tear — it was red like blood and shimmered like a light.

Behind her, Batman loomed. Tall and bulky; hands curled into fists.

He was glaring at her.

Batgirl’s chin was lowered, too frightened to meet his eyes.

Below them, at their feet, was a man begging to be spared. He was a robber; there were jewels and weapons falling from his pockets, along with money and coins.

He would not be spared.

Cordelia knew this, even though the painted canvas didn’t reveal this fact.

Her father would tell her to kill him. And the blood dripping from Batgirl’s hands in the painting showed that she would listen.

Damian was quiet.

She waited for his verdict.

“You’ve killed for him,” he said.

“Yes,” she admitted. “It’s what I was trained for.”

“As was I.”

She knew that, so she asked, “Do you regret it?”

Damian looked down at his hands. “Sometimes.”

“Me too,” she said. “But other times….”

“Yes,” Damian said. “Other times.”

Cordelia found that there was nothing else to say to that.

Notes:

The first chapter of What Was I Made For (Bruce's POV) is back up!

That work will update randomly, since completing this story is my top priority, but I hope you enjoy the random updates, anyway 😊

Chapter 55: Family Portrait

Summary:

He looked so sympathetic, like he’d just found a starving dog wandering around for a place to die. Except, she was not a starving dog. She was a girl trying her hardest to be happy, but every time she closed her eyes a vision of her past came back to haunt her and to remind her of everything she had to live without.

The week that passed was a happy little blur for Cordelia.

After painting with Damian, she returned to her room with a lightened heart and wrote down everything that transpired into her journal. She told the journal all about how sweet Damian had been, how open with his issues he was, and how he’d asked her if he could keep the painting afterward.

She’d said yes, even though she wanted to say no. Because, in the end, Damian’s desire to know his grandfather was more important than her fear of Bruce finding such a disparaging image of Batman lying around.

No one disturbed her as she wrote in her journal. Not until a few hours later, when Bruce came to tell her to start getting ready for their weekly lunch out in the town.

He’d taken her to a Japanese restaurant that time, where they tried out different sushi and talked about how painting with Damian went.

“We bonded, Bruce,” Cordelia stressed after telling him what they talked about. “Actually bonded.”

He’d smiled, and then said that he was glad.

He made no mention of Tim, or the argument that had led them both to leave the art room. And since he didn’t mention it, Cordelia decided not to mention it, either, in case it somehow reminded Bruce that he’d been upset with her, as well.

But he did not seem upset with her.

He acted normally. He let her get dessert, he shared stories about his school days, he drove slowly back home to prolong their conversation, and — when it was time to get out of the car and walk into the rain — he held the umbrella above her head so that she wouldn’t get wet.

It was a nice few hours. Quiet mostly, like her time with Damian had been, but with the comfort of knowing that Bruce was almost always quiet.

When they returned home, that quietness completely disappeared. Dick and Stephanie were in the sitting room trying to change Little Heart’s diaper, but were failing miserably as the lamb kicked her skinny legs out from under her and wiggled her plump body with vigor. All through the air, Bruce and Cordelia could hear the sound of a disgruntled lamb and two disgruntled Bats.

“I said I would hold her legs,” Stephanie said, exasperated.

“She didn’t like when you held her legs,” Dick argued. “How about I hold her legs, and you put the diaper on.”

“Do you really think that she’d prefer you holding her legs over me?”

“She loves me.”

“Excuse me? I just spent the entire day with her! What were you doing while I made her lunch and put her to sleep?”

“Don’t say that like I’m a neglectful sheep cousin. I do so much for this little lamb.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Like —“

Dick’s response, whatever it was going to be, was cut off the moment Little Heart spotted Cordelia standing at the door. With an impressive leap, she flew from Dick’s arms and landed on top of the carpeted floor.

Everyone flinched, expecting her to tumble, but the little lamb did no such thing. Her feet, solid and steady beneath her, moved at a trot toward her mother.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Cordelia bent down to pick her up. “Are you causing trouble?”

Little Heart responded with a playful nip at her nose.

“You silly thing,” Cordelia said with a fond smile. “Let’s get you dressed before you ruin Alfred’s new carpet.”

Bruce agreed, and held out his hand for a diaper.

Stephanie, still startled by his and Cordelia’s sudden appearance, fumbled before handing it over. Then both she and Dick watched as the Wayne siblings wrapped Little Heart’s bottom neatly in the clean diaper.

When they were done, Little Heart was happily snuggling into Cordelia’s shoulder, and Bruce was calmly scratching her furry back until her tail wagged.

“Show offs,” Stephanie coughed.

Bruce quirked an eyebrow at her. “Did you finish your homework?”

“Ugh,” Stephanie blinked, surprised at the question. “No.”

“Then save the jokes for when you do.”

Dick snorted.

But Cordelia ignored all of them. She was much too engrossed in the sound her lamb made when she yawned; first a tiny squeak, then a slow exhale of grass-scented air, and finally the soft smacking of lips as her chin rested back on Cordelia’s shoulder.

Slowly, the young girl walked over to a seat near the window, and settled in.

The rain was pitter pattering on the windows around them. The droplets of water that landed on the glass were racing each other to the bottom. From a distance, Cordelia could hear the sound of a crow cawing loudly for its family. And, somewhere deep in the woods, she knew that her other sheep were sleeping soundly in a fluffy huddle underneath their enclosure.

Life is good, she thought as she relaxed.

Life is really good, she thought again when Dick, Stephanie, and Bruce sat around her to continue their bickering.

Life couldn’t be better, she imagined as she pressed sweet kisses to her lamb’s soft fur.

That night, after dinner, these thoughts circled her brain the entire time she showered, and brushed her hair, and pretended to go to sleep as the family left for patrol. It didn’t leave her brain, either, when she tip-toed down the stairs to make herself coffee. Or when she camped outside of Bruce’s study to listen for his returning footsteps. Or when, once she heard the familiar sound of twelve feet heading in her direction, she sprinted back to her room.

Life is good, she thought as she snuggled underneath her covers, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that every single member of her family was alive and well. Life is good, life is good, life is good.

In the days that followed, nothing could change Cordelia’s mind about this.

Her body had healed from the Joker’s attack. She no longer flinched when getting out of bed, or saw horrible black stitching when she got dressed, or saw Bruce’s eyes darken when he noticed a scrape that was taking too long to fade.

She felt great. She felt like she looked great. And, even though she had yet to bond with Tim, she felt more optimistic about building a relationship with him than ever. 

In fact, if it wasn’t for the lack of Jason and Batgirl, Cordelia believed that she could say — with complete honesty — that life was… perfect.

“How are you feeling, Miss Cordelia?” Alfred asked.

Cordelia blinked.

They were standing in her bedroom and staring into her wardrobe mirror. Alfred had spent the past hour getting her ready for their family portrait; choosing the most timeless dress, styling her hair in the most elegant fashion, and thoughtfully picking out the most beautiful jewels in the Wayne collection to decorate her neck and hair and ears with.

The results were astounding. Cordelia could barely recognize herself in the mirror — so unused to seeing her hair in anything other than down or in a braid.

Now her hair was half-up and slightly curled, with an antique diamond headband sitting proudly on top of it like a tiara.

“Are you nervous?” Alfred asked.

“No,” Cordelia said, and was surprised to feel the truth of it in her heart. “I think I’ve wanted this for my entire life.”

Alfred’s smile was sad, but Cordelia could not share in this emotion. The past was the past; from here on out, unchangeable and dark. But the future was looking bright, and she was eager to meet it.

“Is there something I should know?” She asked. “Are there rules or steps that I should take?”

“I do not believe so, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said. “Master Bruce is very particular about his family’s paintings, so all you will have to do is follow his direction and you will be fine.”

Cordelia nodded. The girl in the mirror did the same, causing each diamond on her headband to twinkle in the light.

She turned away from the girl and the diamonds to face Alfred.

“Thank you for helping me get ready,” Cordelia said. “I know you’re busy.”

Alfred’s smile melted fondly.

“I will always make time for you, Miss Cordelia,” he said.

He pinched her cheek gently, prompting a smile from the young girl.

I love you, she thought, and almost said it out loud when her bedroom door burst open — revealing a disheveled blonde-haired girl with wide, frantic eyes and frumpy clothes.

“Is my laptop charger in here?” She demanded, and started to search under the bed for her wires. “If I don’t charge it right now then all my work will go unsaved.”

Cordelia almost glared. “No.”

“Are you sure?” Stephanie threw up the bed clothes, accidentally waking up Little Heart from her nap. “This is the last place I remember using it.”

“It was,” Cordelia said. “But I found Little Heart chewing on it so I asked Dick to give it back to you.”

“You asked Dick to give it back to me?” Stephanie shot up from her kneeling position, her blonde hair so frazzled that it stuck out in every direction around her face. “Great. Do you have any idea how many favors he says ‘yes’ to? He probably got your favor mixed up with Tim’s and Tim’s with Bruce’s and Bruce’s with — oh, forget it. I’ll track him down.”

Stephanie sprinted out of the room.

This time, Cordelia was glaring.

“She left her charger in my room yet is blaming me and Dick for losing it?” Cordelia scowled. “That’s rude.”

“No, my dear,” Alfred chuckled. "That’s family.”

And with that, he fixed a tendril of hair that had gotten misplaced when Stephanie startled them, and gathered his things to leave.

Cordelia watched him go, partly sad that he could not stay longer, but also content knowing that she had years of time to spend with Alfred — talking to him, learning from him, and just being around him.

So she allowed herself to feel that sadness, but she did not let it consume her as she once would have. Because downstairs, in the conservatory, her family was waiting for her, and she was finally ready to join them.

Little Heart wobbled to the edge of her bed and lifted one hoof prettily in a silent request to be carried.

Cordelia smiled and obeyed.

The lamb, once as small as a cat, was now plump and sturdy in her arms. Regular feedings (and delicious treats that were given a little too frequently) had caused her to grow splendidly over such a short period of time.

But growing for Little Heart did not mean growing up.

Because Little Heart was just as much a baby as she had been when Cordelia first set eyes on her. She still liked to cuddle all night long, and sprint around the room whenever she could, and follow Cordelia wherever she goes. Whether that was to the bathroom or to the theatre room, it did not matter — because if Cordelia walked out the door at any time of the day, then she would soon be followed by the sound of tiny hooves stomping on the wooden floors.

Which was why everyone expected her to be a part of the portrait sitting, as well.

Cass had even recommended Little Heart wearing a tiara.

Cordelia paused to right the tiara on Little Heart’s fluffy head, before continuing down the hallways toward the conservatory.

The conservatory was a beautiful room. More modern than the rest of the house, since it was requested for and designed by Martha Wayne herself, but classical in its theme. The walls were made entirely of windows that let in the dim Gotham light from every angle; the floors were tile, some sage green and others an off-color white; the plants were almost entirely lavenders, purple shrubs, and clematis flowers; and the furniture was made mostly of ivory.

But that was not all — because it smelled beautiful, too.

Unlike the other rooms, which were rich with wood and designer candles, the conservatory had a lighter scent. Like a garden, but more contained and orchestrated.

Cordelia silently took a sniff as she walked in, at peace and happy and —

“B, no offense, but you’re starting to drive me crazy.”

Cordelia blinked.

The family was on the other side of the room. Most of them were sitting awkwardly on the white-cushioned sofa, facing an old man holding a paintbrush. But Dick and Bruce were standing off to the side, glaring at each other with nearly identical frowns.

“We go through this every year,” Dick said, exasperated. “Either we’re all standing or we’re all sitting — make a decision.”

“Those two aren’t the only options,” Bruce said gruffly.

Cordelia tilted her head. She never noticed before, but with their matching suits, blue eyes, and neatly combed black hair… they could have been related.

“You’re right,” Dick rolled his eyes. “How could I forget the Bruce Sits While His Children Stand Behind His Chair pose we all love so much.”

He turned to his siblings.

“Do any of you guys want to do that pose?” He asked.

Tim, Damian, and Cass shook their heads.

“I rest my case,” Dick said.

“Fine,” Bruce agreed, but he didn’t look happy about it. “We will do something else this year.”

“Great,” Dick said. “I vote sitting. Last year my foot caught a cramp.”

“Tt.” Damian crossed his arms in an attempt to look intimidating, but Cordelia thought that the way his feet dangled from the sofa ruined that effect. “I refuse to sit for a subpar portrait because of your delicate foot, Grayson.”

“How is sitting a subpar pose?” Tim said. “It’s natural.”

“It does not evoke power.”

“Queens sit,” Cass pointed out. “And kings.”

Damian’s green eyes lit with interest. “Perhaps we should purchase thrones, Father.”

“No.”

Bruce’s refusal was blunt, but it did nothing to dissuade his children from coming up with even more ideas for the portrait. Some of them were good, like Tim’s idea of everyone posing as naturally as possible around the conservatory. But others were simply ridiculous, like Damian’s idea for everyone to kneel around him and his dog as he held up a gleaming sword.

Cordelia was very glad everyone shut that idea down. Although she loved Damian, she had absolutely no desire to kneel to him.

He did not seem to share in her relief.

“Reconsider, Father,” he said. “There is no better pose to declare me as your blood son. It will strike fear into the hearts of all your enemies.”

“Assuming that he has any enemies, you mean,” Tim said dryly.

None of them actually looked at the painter, but all of the attention shifted to him for the briefest of seconds.

“The answer is ‘no,’ Damian,” Bruce said. “Besides, where would we find you a sword at such short notice?”

Damian scowled. There was no doubt that he was thinking of several different rooms where they kept those sorts of weapons.

“Which brings us back to the same two options,” Dick said. “Standing or sitting.”

He probably meant for this statement to bring a conclusion to the bickering.

It did the opposite.

With renewed vigor, the family started to toss around even more ideas. Like standing back-to-back with their arms crossed, or in a line with their hands on each other’s shoulders.

Every idea was denied; every idea was snorted at.

No one wanted to stand too close to each other — but they also didn’t like the ideas that made them stand too far apart, either.

It was odd. And Cordelia did not know what to say or do about it.

So she didn’t say or do anything. With Little Heart snuggled in her arms like a giant stuffed animal, she quietly made her way to Bruce’s side and took up camp near his elbow. Wide, watchful blue eyes gaped at the family’s attempt to compromise through insults and condescension and pure stubbornness. Fingers absentmindedly ran through the soft fur of her sheep.

This was nothing at all like she’d expected.

Beside her, Bruce twitched in surprise.

“Cordelia,” he said, and she looked up to meet his stare. “You’re here.”

She hummed. “Yes.”

He hadn’t noticed her. She wasn’t sure if that was a testament to her sneakiness or a jab at her lack of noteworthiness.

The others certainly hadn’t noticed her, yet. A few feet away, Dick was waving his hands around as he described his brand new idea in great detail. Tim, meanwhile, had his head thrown back and his eyes to the clouds, almost as if he were asking the heavens why he was put in this situation at all. Cass, sweetly, was kicking her feet as she listened to her older brother with the attentiveness of an entertained audience. And Damian, true to form, was cutting Dick’s monologue off every now and then to make a snide remark of his own.

“Is it always like this?” Cordelia asked her brother.

Bruce glanced at her. “Lately.”

“Should we do something about it?”

They both watched as Damian stood up from his seat and pointed a finger an inch away from Tim’s irritated face.

“It will pass on its own,” Bruce said.

Cordelia didn’t think so, but she decided to take Alfred’s advice and listen to Bruce’s direction. He was their father, after all, and would know their habits the best.

Her silence made Bruce look down at her thoughtfully.

“You had expectations,” he surmised.

“Well,” she hesitated. “Yes.”

“And an idea for a pose?”

“Nothing as… creative as your children’s.”

“Tell me.”

She adjusted Little Heart in her arms, suddenly shy. It was one thing to be invited into a family portrait; but it was something completely different to be asked what that portrait should look like.

“I wanted it to be like your other family portraits,” Cordelia admitted. “Where you all stand close.”

It was simple. It was boring. But all Cordelia’s life she’d stared at that portrait of Bruce and Martha and Thomas huddled so close together that there was no place for a fourth person to fit — not even in their imagination.

Not until this timeline. Not until Bruce made room for her. 

And now that she saw that extra space, she wanted to claim it.

“Okay,” Bruce said.

“Okay?” Cordelia repeated.

He turned to his children. Dick was standing between Damian and Tim, who looked like they were two minutes away from taking swings at each other.

“Boys,” Bruce said. “Enough.”

“He started it,” Tim said.

“Maybe. But you didn’t have to call him a pint-sized tyrant, Tim,” Dick said disapprovingly.

“He called me Bruce’s least welcome back-up son!”

“I wasn’t aware that it was a secret,” Damian said, snippy.

“Boys.”

They clamped their mouths shut.

Bruce was pinching the bridge of his nose, reigning in his obvious irritation with no small amount of effort.

“We’re standing,” he decided. “Get in line.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dick muttered, but was the first to find a place to stand.

The rest of them quickly followed suit, basing where they stood on their height and how close they wanted to be to each other. Damian, for example, stood a little in front of Dick with his chin held high; Tim stood beside Dick, with his eyes squinted in annoyance; and Titus, the dog, took a seat at Damian’s right, with his back as straight as if he were sitting at a dinner table.

Bruce was the next to find his spot, easily fitting himself into the empty space on the other side of Dick, leaving both Cordelia and Cass — the newcomers of the group — to look around for a place to go.

Cass did not have to look for long.

With one hand, Bruce reached out for her.

“Stand with me,” he requested, his voice softer than usual.

Cass’s dark, beautiful eyes lit up like Gotham stars before she crashed into her father’s side with a hug so affectionate that her ballerina bun became a bit untidy upon impact. But no one paid any mind to that, because the looks of admiration father and daughter were sending each other made everything else appear so trivial by comparison.

“‘Kay,” she said sweetly.

Cordelia felt an uncomfortable twinge in her gut at the sight.

“Your turn, Little Bat,” Dick said, unintentionally chasing her bud of jealousy away. His smile was mischievous. “Don’t be shy. Most of us don’t bite.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “I doubt she’s worried about that.”

Dick elbowed him.

“Stand in front of me,” Bruce ordered.

And so she did. With a little nod, Cordelia shuffled into the space beside Damian and faced the painter, who was staring blankly at the family as if he found them all terribly annoying.

“All set?” The painter asked.

A large, warm hand settled on Cordelia’s shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze.

Little Heart let out a small, happy bleat and nuzzled Bruce’s knuckles.

“All set, Mr. Benioff,” he said.

“Fan-tas-tic,” the painter said.

Cordelia and Damian tensed at his sarcasm — something that did not go unnoticed by either Bruce or Dick, who’s hands at their shoulders became a little more restrictive than comforting.

But their worry was unnecessary.

Cordelia had no plans to attack civilians today (no matter how disrespectful they were being). Because although the painter was an integral part of the process, he did not actually matter. What mattered was her family surrounding her, including her, welcoming her into their group. What mattered was that she was finally going to be in a family portrait; that her image would live on the walls like all the other Waynes’ — both biological and adopted.

What mattered was that, even though she could not stand by Bruce’s side, she could stand in front of him and beside his children.

What mattered was… all of this.

It took hours for the portrait to be finalized.

They took many breaks between then. Not just for lunch or dinner, but also for snack time and tea time and a second snack time, too.

And also bathroom breaks.

Many, many bathroom breaks.

And, sometimes, they took breaks just because one of the pets got a little too antsy. Whether it was Titus showing small signs of fatigue from sitting on a tile floor for too long, or Little Heart suddenly feeling the urge to hop around — it did not matter, because Damian was always quick to declare a break if he noticed either of these things happening.

Something that really annoyed the painter. Which was why he ended up sketching the animals first, and telling the family that both Titus and Little Heart were free to walk about if they wished.

That did not work out well for him.

Little Heart instantly developed an interest in his wooden paint brushes, and stole quite a few of them before he got the chance to notice.

They were each returned to him chewed up and destroyed.

“We will reimburse you for these, of course,” Bruce promised.

Mr. Benioff’s eye twitched. Little Heart was staring at him from Bruce’s arms with her tiny pink tongue poked out and her tiara askew.

“Of course,” the painter replied.

At the end of the day, Cordelia was glad to see him go. But that feeling was just a shade compared to what she felt when the painting was revealed.

It was beautiful.

Grounded in reality like the other portraits, but with whimsical elements. Like the sun rays that reflected in the conservatory glass windows, creating a natural-looking spotlight on the family. And the exaggerated sparkles in the jewels that both the girls wore in their dark hair and their pale necks. And the brighter blue of the sky — brighter, by far, than Gotham had ever seen in either timeline.

But, most of all, it was beautiful because of the people in it.

At the very center, Bruce and Dick stood tall, almost as though holding the family together the same way the heart and the bone kept the body alive and functioning. At their sides, they allowed Cass and Tim to come in close — Bruce by giving Cass his arm to hug, and Dick by wrapping his own arm around Tim’s shoulders. 

And then, at their fronts, were Cordelia and Damian.

Like a mirror, they’d reached forward to lay their hands on the younger Wayne’s shoulders. A gesture which, at the time, had felt at some points comforting and at other points restrictive. But in the portrait, it did not give off either of those emotions.

Instead, the gesture looked proud. As if Bruce and Dick were telling the watchers: Yes. These are our siblings. These are our pride.

They are family.

Cordelia could hardly take her eyes away from it.

Something large was lodged in her throat.

“I must say, Sir,” Alfred said. He was the first to break the silence. His voice echoed around the darkened conservatory. “This is the best portrait yet.”

“Totally,” Stephanie nodded. “You guys look great. Especially you, Little Heart.”

“Baaa.”

“Titus also looks great,” Damian said.

“Each and every one of you looks outstanding,” Alfred said, before another argument could break out. “Now. Where would you like this hanged, Master Bruce? I can have it up within the hour if you wish.”

They all waited to hear a response arise to meet his question. But they all waited in vain.

Bruce was standing a little behind everyone else, staring into the portrait as if staring into another reality. Seeing what they all saw, and seeing something more — or, perhaps, seeing something less.

Eyes, usually ice blue like glaciers, now appeared dark and melted with a complicated mix of emotions that were too jumbled for Cordelia to decipher on her own.

So she did not try to. Instead, she looked over to Alfred for answers — only to find that the old butler’s attention was fixed solely on his employer.

“My boy,” Alfred said. “This is a happy moment.”

Despite his words, Cordelia could hear a bit of heartbreak in his tone. And when he stepped forward to put a gentle hand on Bruce’s arm, it was not out of joy — but out of camaraderie. Out of comfort and understanding.

Out of fatherly concern.

“We can decide on the location another day,” Alfred said.

This did not entirely pull Bruce out of his trance, but it did give him a powerful enough tug for him to say, “No. I’ve delayed enough.”

He turned — away from the portrait, away from the family, and away from Cordelia.

“Hang it in the sitting room,” Bruce said firmly. “Above the mantelpiece.”

“…But Master Bruce —“

“That’s an order,” Bruce said. “Boys. Cass. Start getting ready. Now. We’re late for patrol.”

“Bruce,” Dick started, but it was too late.

Bruce was already gone.

Cordelia did not stay long after that. She did not want to hear the silence that consumed the family after Bruce’s departure, because she imagined that she could hear accusations with every chirp of the night crickets. And she did not watch as Alfred hung up the painting, either, because that meant watching Thomas Wayne getting replaced with her — and remembering him say to her, over and over again, that she was a worthless Cuckoo bird forcing herself into families that she didn’t belong in.

But she did sneak down an hour later.

She did want to… see it.

To see herself above the mantelpiece. To see herself included.

To see herself in that place of honor, where once only Bruce and his parents were ever allowed.

Above the mantelpiece. Overseeing the room. Being the first impression of the family that their guests would have.

It was dark when she opened the door to the sitting room, and she did not turn on the light to close the door behind her. Years ago, this was because she was not tall enough to reach the light switches. But, now, it was because she was used to sneaking around at night.

Used to so much.

But not used to what she saw when she walked over to the carpet and turned toward the fireplace.

Because there she was.

Up there, with Bruce and Dick and all the rest. Dressed like them; looking like them; smiling like them. Not bruised, not terrified, not excluded.

Just holding Little Heart and being held by Bruce.

Being happy.

Her eyes felt like they were on fire as she let them trail over the painting, taking in every detail like her life depended on it. She saw a charming chip in Dick’s tooth, an awkward tilt to Tim’s smile, the intelligence in Bruce’s eyes, the smugness in Damian’s, the slight scrunch of Cass’s nose as she pressed it into her father’s arm.

She saw everything.

She saw herself.

And she could not believe that she saw herself. But oh God — she was there.

It was not a figment of her imagination or a trick of some kind. Bruce had really wanted her there, and Alfred had, too. And because they’d wanted it, it had happened within the hour.

Something she’d yearned for her entire life — something that she cried for — and it was done within a snap of Bruce’s fingers.

Cordelia could not breathe. She lowered herself to the ground, her hands curled into the fabric at her belly like she’d been stabbed.

It did not help to subdue her pain. Or to quiet the questions that filled her mind: Like why now? Had she never existed before this moment? Had her life not mattered before Bruce decided that it did?

The answer was served right in front of her, but it did not go down smoothly.

It tasted bitter; like vinegar and tears and all things wrong with her very being. It choked her — ten gloved fingers wrapped around her throat and not releasing until the only sounds she could make were pathetic sobs and strangled cries.

She leaned forward on her knees, trying to be smaller. One of her hands was pressed against her mouth, trying to be quieter.

But her cries were loud in her ears, and being smaller never meant being invisible.

Someone was grabbing her, shouting out in anger, pulling at the hand she kept pressed against her stomach.

“What happened?” They said. “What did you do?”

They twisted her, forcing her to face them, searching for a wound. But the wound was old and deep and had already ripped her to shreds from the inside out.

It was too late to save her.

They must have realized this, too, because they let go. Let her curl back up, sobbing and in pain. Too damaged to comfort; too troublesome to revive.

“You’re not damaged,” they said gruffly.

She shook her head. She was. She was.

“Cordelia, look at me.”

She did not.

Two large, gloved hands suddenly appeared on either side of her head, cradling her cheeks gently. She saw the Bat symbol first as they lifted her face so that her eyes could meet theirs, and then the black kevlar armor that made up the heavy uniform, and then — finally — the ice blue eyes.

“You’re not damaged,” Batman said. “Do you hear me? You are not damaged.”

Her lips were wobbling. “Then why?”

His dark eyebrows were furrowed. The thumb of his gloves pet her cheeks soothingly the same way she pet Little Heart before they both went to sleep.

“Why what?” He asked.

“Why did no one care? Father, my teachers, my babysitters, my — my mom. None of them cared. I never mattered to them at all.”

Cordelia had never seen those blue eyes so sad before. Not on anyone but herself.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“But you know everything,” she said. 

Batman glanced off to the side. “I can’t know that.”

Through her tears, she could spot his lie.

“Is it me?” She asked. “Am I — wrong?”

“It’s not you. It was never you.”

“Then tell me,” she begged. “Please.”

He looked so sympathetic, like he’d just found a starving dog wandering around for a place to die. Except, she was not a starving dog. She was a girl trying her hardest to be happy, but every time she closed her eyes a vision of her past came back to haunt her and to remind her of everything she had to live without.

It felt inescapable.

It felt cruel.

Batman brought her close for a hug. Her cheek rested against the symbol that had once terrified her as he wrapped her shoulders in his heated cape, trying to stop her from shivering even though they both knew that she was not shaking from the cold.

“It was never you,” he said again.

And he repeated that promise, over and over again, until her cries quietened into small sniffles and her shivering became nothing more than the tiny sound of chattering teeth.

Around them, the room darkened further.

“Are you alright?” Bruce asked.

She hiccuped into his chest-plate.

“I can get Alfred,” he said.

Cordelia shook her head, and clung onto his cape for good measure. She had the strangest feeling that she’d die if another person tried to leave her behind.

Bruce hugged her closer.

“You worried me,” he said, voice rough. “I thought you were hurt.”

She certainly felt hurt, but she did not say so.

“What brought this on?” Bruce asked. “You seemed happy. And then….”

And then she was sobbing in the middle of a darkened room at the sight of her portrait on the wall.

“Cordelia. Speak.”

She hated when he talked like that. Her throat felt tight.

“M’sorry,” she said.

“That’s not good enough,” he said.

She buried her face in his cape. “Yes, it is.”

“Cordelia, I just found you in the middle of the night saying that no one cares about you and crying so hard that you couldn’t breathe,” Bruce said. “So believe me. That apology was not enough.”

“I’m sorry.”

He tore his cape away from her and forced her chin up. Ice blue eyes, filled with fear-induced rage, searched her own.

“Was it something I did?” Bruce demanded. “Was it my reaction to the portrait earlier?”

“No,” Cordelia mumbled.

“Then what,” he snapped.

“Stop yelling at me.”

She could hear his teeth click together when he clenched his jaw.

Cordelia tugged the cape out of his grip and buried her face in it again.

“I was not yelling at you,” Bruce said tightly.

“Felt like it.”

“Cordelia, this is no laughing matter. I need to know what happened.”

“It was nothing,” she said. “It was stupid.”

“You’re not getting out of this that easily,” he said. “I’ve let other things slide, but this was extreme.”

Cordelia pressed her lips together, refusing to speak.

“Fine,” Bruce said. “If you don’t want to tell me what upset you, then I’m canceling our next lunch.”

She tensed. “You can’t do that. Those were gifts.”

“Yes, I can. And if you don’t speak up in the next thirty seconds, then I’m canceling the rest of the month.”

Suddenly, the cape was no longer comforting. Cordelia threw it aside and elbowed her way out of his hug.

Her aggression was unnecessary. Bruce let her go easily.

“You’re always manipulating me,” she accused. “Every time I think you’re giving me a gift, it ends up being a trap.”

“Ten,” Bruce said. “Nine. Eight. Sev —“

“Stop.”

“Five. Four. Three —“

Cordelia felt a flash of anxiety.

“Okay!” She said. “Okay. Don’t cancel them, Bruce, please.”

Bruce stopped counting, but he did not look moved. “Then tell me.”

Cordelia did not want to. The idea of telling Bruce everything that she’d felt as she looked up at their family portrait was as appealing as the idea of setting fire to Alfred’s kitchen. But there was nothing she could do about it — unless she was willing to let Bruce cancel every single one of their lunches until the end of time.

And that was something that she really did not want to let happen.

“It was too easy,” Cordelia said.

Bruce frowned at her suspiciously. “What was too easy?”

“Putting up the portrait,” Cordelia answered, unable to meet his eyes. “I’ve wanted that for so long. Yet you were able to make it happen in a day.”

Her words were cryptic, skirting around the real issue — the real reason why Cordelia had cried so hard that she couldn’t move. But that was the good thing about being in a family of detectives, she supposed: not everything needed to be spelled out for them.

“You wanted Dad to do it,” Bruce realized.

“I told you it was stupid.”

“It’s not,” Bruce said. “It’s understandable. He should have done it.”

Cordelia had nothing to say to that, because he was right. There had been nothing stopping Thomas Wayne from making her feel at least a little like his daughter.

She wiped her wet nose with her pajama sleeve.

“I like seeing it up there,” she promised. And this was the truth. Even now, with her face stained with tears, her blood pumped warm knowing that a painting of her and the family together existed. “But it also felt like a reminder of how much I didn’t matter to anyone in my timeline.”

Bruce was still frowning. But it was no longer suspicious — it was sympathetic.

He opened a pocket in his utility belt and gave her a tissue.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said as she blew her nose. “I should have been here with you when you saw it. We should have made it a family event.”

Cordelia shook her head. “You can’t always be there for me, Bruce. You’ve already done more than enough.”

“You’re right,” Bruce said. “I can’t. But I could have been there for you with this. Instead, I….”

“Was mourning,” Cordelia finished his sentence, knowing without him needing to say it that he’d been just as upset as her about their father — even if he didn’t express it in the same way. “I should have been there for you, too.”

“It’s not your job to be there for me.”

“Yes, it is,” Cordelia said. “I’m your sister.”

At that, he looked away. And, for a moment, she thought that he was going to tell her his troubles. To unload his own trauma, and receive the same comfort that he gave her so often.

But that wasn’t what happened.

He hadn’t looked away because he was considering her words. He’d looked away because a white light was shining in the night sky outside the windows. And at the center of that light was… a Bat symbol.

“Is that…?” Cordelia said, squinting.

“They need me,” Bruce confirmed.

He got to his feet and moved swiftly toward the door, his cape fluttering quietly behind him.

“Wait!” Cordelia said, standing up, too.

“You can’t come,” Bruce said immediately.

“I wasn’t going to ask that,” Cordelia frowned. “I was — I was wondering if you were really canceling next week’s lunch. You aren’t, are you?”

He turned to her, pulling his cowl down so that the white eyes of Batman lit the room dimly. “I am. From here on out, listen to me the first time I give you an order. Is that clear?”

Cordelia wanted to throw something. But with Batman’s eyes on her, she didn’t dare.

“It’s clear,” she said.

"Good," he hummed. "Now go to bed. And drink your tea. Alfred sent me here to give it to you."

Cordelia had no idea what he was talking about, but she didn't get the opportunity to ask, because he was gone before she could even blink — as silent and quick as a shadow. Only later, when she was wiping the last of her tears from her cheeks, did she notice a small tea cup sitting at the carpet where her and Bruce had been.

Notes:

She's a living work of art.

Chapter 56: A Masquerade

Summary:

“I’ll remember the rules,” Cordelia promised Alfred. “All eighty-six of them.”

Stephanie chuckled, but stopped when everyone looked at her.

“Wait… are there actually eighty-six rules?” She said. “I only know five!”

Cass patted her shoulder sympathetically.

Notes:

An extra long chapter for my extra special readers 🥰

Cordelia was never an imaginative girl.

She liked facts. Cold, hard truths that could be plucked and pulled and picked apart like dead rats ready for dissection. So when she saw the Wayne Manor ballroom for the very first time in her own timeline, she never imagined that it could be anything more than a place doomed to crumble and decay.

Alfred proved her wrong.

Because the ballroom that he designed that night looked as if it had emerged straight from a fairytale.

It was garden-themed, like most things Alfred made special for Cordelia. Except… it looked more like a garden that was ballroom-themed.

Tall cherry blossom trees could be found everywhere she turned, along with rose bushes and vine-covered walls. Pillars stood tall on either side of the room, keeping the foundation strong, and next to the pillars were pedestals that held white marble statues. These statues were beautiful and finely detailed, each depicting a single, unique flower: one was a rose, another was a lily, and the next was an iris and the next after that a tulip.

Cordelia kept walking through the room, her heels clicking against the polished floors, so she could see even more of them. It was difficult for her to believe that this was all for her. But it was. Only she and Alfred cared about gardening in this house; only she and Alfred bonded over it.

This was hers.

She stopped walking just beneath the large, twinkling chandelier to look up. It hovered like a crown jewel about her, like a gleaming silver moon.

It reflected the dancing lights of the candles.

Cordelia turned in a circle, wanting to see it from all angles. And, across the room, Little Heart was doing the same: racing about in her pink ribbon collar, sniffing curiously at the dessert tables and bleating sharply at the musicians every time the harpist stopped playing.

The young woman glanced nervously at Cordelia before beginning yet another song for the spoiled pet.

Cordelia hummed happily.

The music was beautiful. Her lamb was pleased. And the catering tables smelled like every tasty treat she’d ever eaten in her entire life.

Intrigued, Cordelia followed her nose toward the smell of chocolate, determined to swipe something to chew on — only to find that Alfred was already there, closely inspecting each dish like a scientist would a new experiment.

“This will do,” he decided as she approached. “Although I doubt this event’s attendees will request hot chocolate at this point in the year.”

On the other side of the table, the caterer began to show his nerves. He pulled a napkin from his breast pocket and dabbed at his shiny forehead.

“My apologies for not informing you beforehand, Mister Pennyworth,” he said. “It was very last minute. But the hot chocolate was a request made from Mister Wayne himself. He insisted that the young lady, his ward, would like it.”

“Of course he did.”

It was easy to miss the fondness in Alfred’s clipped and professional reply, but Cordelia didn’t.

“Then, by all means,” the butler said, “serve hot chocolate.”

The caterer’s shoulders unstuck from his ears. At least, they did before he saw Cordelia standing silently at the edge of the table.

“Goodness!” He exclaimed.

Cordelia slipped a chocolate truffle into her mouth, ignoring him.

“Hi, Alfred,” she said.

“Miss Cordelia,” Alfred greeted calmly. “You look happy. Is everything to your liking?”

She chewed a little more on the truffle. The center was hazelnut with a bit of espresso.

“It’s good,” she nodded.

“Splendid,” Alfred had never looked more smug as he turned to the caterer. “Well done, Mr. Morris.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Mr. Morris bowed deeply, “and Miss.”

Cordelia was trying a chocolate eclair when she caught the pointed look Alfred was giving her.

“You’re welcome,” she said to the caterer, obedient. And then, to the butler: “I missed you.”

It was the truth. As excited as she was for the party and as charmed as she was by all of Alfred’s hard work, she couldn’t help but feel his absence deeply. He was usually so constant and dependable — usually right around the corner for her to seek out — but, today, every time she caught sight of him, he was already rushing off to complete another task.

She was glad to finally get a moment with him.

From his smile, she knew that he was glad, too.

“And I missed you, my dear,” Alfred said. “Come, let’s have hot chocolate. I think I can spare a moment to catch up.”

She smiled, and rushed over to tuck herself into his side.

His suit was cool to the touch. It looked new, too, even though she knew that he would not partake in the festivities of the night. He’d already told her that she could not address him once the party began; that he would be busy overseeing the events and that she should be busy enjoying them.

She’d fought him on that. It didn’t seem fair that she could talk to the rest of her family and not him. But, in the end, he’d won.

And then handed her a booklet on more etiquette rules she’d have to memorize before the event.

Cordelia thought over those rules as the smell of melting chocolate filled the air. There were so many of them, and they were obviously made for clueless civilians, but she’d memorized every single one down to the number they were listed as.

Alfred worked too hard on this party for it to go wrong over something Cordelia did.

So even if the rule was as trivial as staying attentive throughout an entire conversation, then she would do it.

For Alfred.

Two teacup-sized mugs were placed on the table in front of them. The chocolate inside was milky and swirling and looked absolutely delicious.

Cordelia hummed pleasantly, picking hers up. The cup warmed her thin fingers.

“Would you like to take a walk around the room, my dear?” Alfred asked.

“Yes, please,” she said.

It was an activity that people from a Jane Austen novel would do. She imagined telling Jason about it when they finally met again, and seeing that boyish grin that he’d kept from his childhood.

“You look beautiful, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred was saying as they listened to the harpist and sipped on their drinks. “The color blue suits you.”

“It’s one of the dresses I bought during our first shopping trip,” Cordelia said. “Do you remember?”

“Certainly,” Alfred said. “You were very moody that day.”

“Is that all you remember?”

“No. I also remember a flock of boys following us out into the parking lot,” Alfred said. “But that is a memory I would sooner like to forget.”

“I met James that day,” Cordelia reminisced.

“Indeed.”

She laughed under her breath at that, enjoying Alfred’s disdain of everyone that was not a part of their family — even if it was for a boy that she might have begun a sexual relationship with.

“I don’t think I miss him,” Cordelia said thoughtfully. “I thought I would. But, ever since Cass and the boys arrived, there have been a lot less moments of me feeling lonely.”

“You haven’t a clue how happy I am to hear that,” Alfred said. “There were times when I considered packing your bags in the dead of night and taking you on a permanent trip to the East.”

“You offered to take me on a trip once,” Cordelia said.

She didn’t specify when. She knew he remembered that horrible night just as clearly as she did — the night her and Bruce attacked each other in the Cave. The night she almost got both of them killed by setting off the Joker’s explosives.

“I did,” Alfred confirmed. “And it is an offer that is still on the table, if you are interested.”

This was not something that she needed to think about. The answer was clear.

“I’m interested,” she said. “But… next Summer. I want to stay close to the family for a while.”

“I will be here if you change your mind.”

She was smiling so wide that her cheeks hurt. There was no one like Alfred — no one that could ever try to replicate him.

He was everything the world expected of a butler. And, also, everything she needed in a friend.

Cordelia linked her elbow in his and leaned her cheek against his arm. Behind her, the blue train of her dress rippled like the clear blue sea reflecting the sky. Above her head, the crystals of the chandeliers clinked along with the delicate thrum of the harpists’ strings.

The entire room was working together, creating music.

Creating a dream.

But not her dream. She never, in a million years, could have imagined any of this.

“Miss Cordelia, why are you crying?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, quickly wiping away her tears. “I didn’t mean to.”

Alfred stopped walking next to a catering table, set their cups aside, and handed her a handkerchief from his pocket. “It is quite alright.”

“They’re happy tears,” she said, dabbing at the corner of her eyes so as not to wipe off her makeup. “I think.”

“That was very reassuring.” 

She laughed again. Through the blur of her tears, she could see Alfred relax.

“The ballroom is amazing, Alfred,” she said. “In my timeline, it was so broken down that tripping over a stone would have sent it all crumbling down.”

“That sounds dreadful,” he said.

“It was,” Cordelia said. “But I didn’t think much about it back then. It was just another room that I couldn’t walk into without getting hurt.”

The wrinkles on Alfred’s forehead deepened. He looked full of sorrow.

“I don’t mean to make you sad,” Cordelia said. “I just wanted to let you know what this room used to look like. That way, you’d know how much it means to me that… that you’ve decorated it with so much care and… and love.”

She said the word nervously, timidly, even though she knew that she shouldn’t.

Of course Alfred loved her. He spent so much time with her, was always a listening ear, and even told her that he was willing to leave everything behind in a heartbeat just to make her happy.

In her heart, she knew that there was no one who would love her more than Alfred. No one who ever had loved her more than Alfred.

So why did she feel so awkward saying it?

Anxiously, she looked down at her fingernails, and picked at her dress. The thin fabric slid between the pads of her fingertips, barely causing friction.

“Alfred,” she said, her voice just shy above a whisper, “I love you."

There was a moment that was no longer than a second, but it stretched on for eternity. It lingered like a pause between them, holding onto the sound of a harp’s strings being plucked and a lamb’s bleat vibrating off the walls, and then —

A sniffle.

Cordelia looked up in surprise.

The affection that she saw in those pale blue, tear-filled eyes nearly took her breath away. Hands, covered in gloves, reached over to cup her face in a gesture so gentle and familiar that it caused even more tears to drip past her lashes.

She was a mess, but Alfred was smiling.

“Alfred,” Cordelia said softly. “Why are you crying?”

“Oh, you sweet, kind-hearted thing,” Alfred said, shaking his head at her. “Never mind why I am crying. All that matters right now is that you know how much I love you, so that you never have to be nervous to say it to me again. You, my dear, have become one of my most precious friends. A growing source of my pride. A member of a family that I serve most dearly. And, if you don’t mind me saying so, someone who I have begun to think of as one of my own.”

His thumbs brushed the tears from her cheeks as they fell, not minding at all that her mascara was ruining his gloves or that his handkerchief dangled uselessly in her hands.

Not minding anything above taking care of her, as he’d always done.

“When Master Bruce told me what happened to the other me during your timeline,” Alfred said. “It broke my heart. I cannot express to you how sorry I am, Miss Cordelia. I should have taken you from that house long ago, and I cannot fathom what it was that made me stay long enough for them to hurt you. But I am sorry, my child. I am so, so sorry.”

“Alfred,” Cordelia protested, her voice weak, “that wasn’t your fault. You were my hero.”

“I was a disappointment,” Alfred said. “One day, when you are an adult and you love someone as much as I love you, then you will truly understand why I say this. But, until then, please accept my apology. And know that I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

Cordelia couldn’t accept that apology. It wasn’t right to apologize for saving someone’s life.

It would be immoral for her to pretend like Alfred was ever in the wrong.

“You did what my father didn’t want to,” Cordelia said. “You stood up for me. My mother… she used to tell me stories about a hero. She said that Batman would protect me, that he loved me. And when she took me to my father’s house, she said that I was finally going to meet the hero from her stories. But I didn’t. My father wasn’t a hero.”

Cordelia sniffled, her nose snotty, but was too overcome with emotion to care about wiping at it.

“You were, Alfred,” she said. “Before Barry and before Bruce, there was you.”

He did not agree with her. She could see the denial shine as clearly as the unshed tears that moistened his eyeballs. 

But Alfred was a gentleman.

It was against his etiquette rules to argue with a lady about her feelings.

“You are extremely generous with your view of me, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said.

“I can say the same for you about me.”

“Yes, I suppose you would. But that does not make my vision of you any less true.”

Cordelia thought that it did, but she’d read that it was also against etiquette rules to argue with a gentleman at a party. So she just smiled and sniffled some more, basking in the glow of his affection, and letting him think that she was sweeter than she actually was.

Her sniffling drew his attention to her nose — and then to her running mascara.

“Oh dear,” he said with a fond smile. “I fear you will have to run back to your room and freshen up. The party will begin soon.”

“Okay,” she said.

Alfred wiped the last of her tears away before letting go of her face and handing her another handkerchief.

“When you return, meet me and the rest of the family at the top of the ballroom steps,” he said as she cleaned her nose. “We will have a brief check-in prior to joining the festivities so that we can collect ourselves and ensure that we are all ready for the charade. Do you need anything from me before then?”

“No,” she said softly. “You’ve already thought of everything.”

He gave her hand a tight, comforting squeeze and a very fond smile. “Then I will see you when you are done.”

She returned the smile and watched him go, before calling over her lamb and heading back to her room.

Somewhere off to the side, the harpist let out a relieved sigh and massaged her fingers.

---

 It was a little over half an hour when Cordelia and Little Heart met Alfred at the top of the ballroom steps. By then, the butler had changed his gloves for a different pair and had washed away all signs of his own crying.

Now, he was back to business, and fully prepared to quiz Cordelia on all the etiquette tips she’d crammed over the past week.

Cordelia thought that he should not be so worried. She’d always had an excellent memory — meaning an entire week to read one booklet was more than enough time necessary to memorize every single word.

But that did not stop Alfred from worrying.

With hands folded neatly behind his back, he asked Cordelia question after question and prompt after prompt, determined to find gaps in her knowledge.

“Alfred, I promise I’m not going to ruin this night for you,” she swore when his quiz started to become repetitive. “I remember everything from the booklet and know how to apply it to realistic situations.”

“It is not my night that I am concerned about, my dear,” Alfred said. “Today is about you, and making sure that the public knows how kind and special you truly are.”

“But even if they decide not to like me, they won’t write badly about me in the news anymore. Bruce would just sue them.”

“Master Bruce cannot sue every single publication who views you unfavorably, Miss Cordelia.”

“Of course he can,” Cordelia said. “He’s a billionaire.”

“Oh dear,” Alfred sighed. “Let me go over the tips one more time.”

As the butler stayed true to his word, and went over each tip with an excruciating amount of detail, noise began to filter through the cracks of the ballroom doors. Gasps and murmurs and hums floated together like a strong Summer wind, filling Cordelia’s heart with excitement and promise for fun.

Their guests were beginning to arrive. And judging from the happy tones in their exclamations, they were almost as impressed with Alfred’s work as Cordelia was.

“Also, you must remember, my dear,” Alfred said as the young girl grew more and more distracted by the sounds of her party beginning without her, “when you’re introduced to someone, always say that it was nice to meet them.”

“Yeah. Even if it wasn’t.”

Dick’s voice, full of mirth, broke Cordelia out of her entranced spell.

Her eldest nephew was making his way through the hallway toward them. He looked very handsome with his smart black tuxedo and blue-trimmed bow-tie, but Cordelia’s favorite feature on him would always be his mischievous grin, which only grew wider when he saw Alfred nodding in agreement.

“Correct,” the old butler said. “In social situations such as these, I encourage you to lie.”

“Okay,” Cordelia agreed easily. The noise on the other side of the doors was becoming louder. “When can I dance?”

“Only after a young gentleman invites you to,” Alfred said.

That answer did not make her happy. “That’s not fair. What if no one invites me to?”

A familiar, loud snort once again drew their attention down the hallway. It was Stephanie, wearing a floor-length, off the shoulder, pretty lace gown the color of lavender. Her hair, still blonde, had been curled and let loose so that the ends of it reached just above her breasts.

“You won’t have to worry about that,” she said when she joined them.

“You are a Wayne, Miss Cordelia,” Alfred said sagely. “Every young man’s father will demand that his son ask you to at least one dance.”

“Not exactly what I meant,” Stephanie said. “But sure.”

Cordelia knew what she meant. Ever since she made it to the new timeline, there had been plenty of people who referred to her as attractive. But she was not delusional; she knew that being attractive to some people did not automatically mean being attractive to everyone.

Barry, for instance, had found it extremely easy to reject her.

Granted, she’d only admitted to her feelings when she had dirt smudges on her face from gardening, and now she was wearing a beautiful blue ballgown with her hair done up with real diamonds….

“Who’s coming?” Cordelia asked Alfred with false casualness.

“An astute question, Miss Cordelia,” he said approvingly. “You are not required to know everyone on the list, but it will charm the adults to see that you are somewhat familiar with their family names. Let’s see…” he patted his pockets “I could have sworn that I had the list on my person, but I must have misplaced it somewhere.”

“You? Misplace things?” Dick asked. “Alfred, I never thought I’d see the day where you slipped.”

“Unfortunately, it has been proven to happen from time to time,” Alfred said. “Although, I hoped that today would not be that day.”

“It’s fine,” Cordelia was quick to assure him. “I just… wanted to know if Bruce invited Barry.”

“Ah,” Alfred said. His eyes held both understanding and sympathy. “I’m afraid not, my dear. Mister Allen is quite busy at the moment, taking care of his newborn children.”

“Oh,” Cordelia said.

Disappointment tasted like pennies on her tongue. She’d forgotten about those infants — and Iris.

Down the hall, more footsteps were heading their way. Bruce, Tim, Cass, and Damian turned the corner — each dressed as impeccably as the next, and appearing as calm as if they were entering their living room and not about to enter a high society ball.

“I’ll never understand how the Flash of all people can be too busy for anything,” Stephanie was saying. “I’d do everything I ever wanted to do in a day and still have time to waste by the end of it.”

“Your logic is ridiculous,” Damian said. “If the Flash never slows down enough for any of us to see him, then what would be the point of showing up to a party?”

“I don’t know,” Stephanie said. “To pants some people and eat our food?”

“Tt.”

The last four to arrive closed the semi circle that Cordelia, Little Heart, Alfred, Dick, and Stephanie had unconsciously made.

They were a stunning group, Cordelia had to admit; all dressed in rich fabrics and styled with attention to detail that only true detectives would be able to accomplish. Cass, across from her, wore a black gown with matching gloves that covered all her skin except for her face, making her appear like a gothic princess born from the shadows. The boys, each wearing tuxedos, managed to individualize their looks with differently colored neck-ties: Bruce’s being an ice blue, Damian’s being a sage green, and Tim’s being a deep red.

They looked around at each other, taking in appearances — but also taking in moods.

Bruce seemed the most interested in Cordelia’s.

“You were talking about Barry again?” He asked.

His disapproval was clear even if he wasn’t sharing it with the group. Cordelia thought that the best course of action would be to shrug the question away.

Alfred disagreed.

“Don’t shrug, Miss Cordelia,” he said. “Many people will consider it rude.”

There was hearty laughter coming through the door now. It sounded like everyone was having fun in the ballroom. Meanwhile Cordelia was being scrutinized by Batman. 

She could not help but sigh.

“Or appear frustrated,” Alfred added, frowning worriedly. “I was afraid of this. Would it be best if we went through the rules one last time?”

“Geez, Alfred, I’ve never seen you so nervous,” Dick teased.

The butler did have a tenseness around the eyes that was easy to miss. Cordelia, apologetic, grabbed his hand in comfort.

“Don’t you worry, Alfie, we will make sure that nothing bad happens to our Little Bat,” Dick promised. He threw his arm around Cordelia’s shoulders and gave her a small shake. “As far as you’re concerned, we’re her bodyguards.”

Alfred — who did not like to be called “Alfie” — sniffed stiffly.

“I’ll remember the rules,” she promised him again. “All eighty-six of them.”

Stephanie chuckled, but stopped when everyone looked at her.

“Wait… are there actually eighty-six rules?” She said. “I only know five!”

Cass patted her shoulder sympathetically.

“Brown is going to humiliate us,” Damian said darkly. “I suggest we leave her here.”

“You know, for once, I’m not totally against the idea of being left behind,” Stephanie said.

“You’ll do fine,” Bruce said, and there was a confidence to his words that no one had when they were talking about Cordelia. “Dick, Tim, Stephanie, you’re veterans when it comes to behaving like civilians. You know what to do, and what not to do. Damian, Cass, Cordelia…. No knives. No fighting. No gymnastic tricks. No stories from your childhood. Tonight, you’re normal children.”

“And don’t be surprised if Bruce acts a little weird,” Dick advised. “That’s his Brucie act. Just enjoy the show.”

Cordelia squinted. “You mean that dopey look he gets when he’s around civilians?”

“Well, that and the womaniz —“

“Yes,” Bruce said, swiftly cutting his son off with a narrowed stare. “My public persona is one of… lesser intelligence. If you hear me say something vapid, don’t appear alarmed.”

Something clicked in Cordelia’s mind. Something that had bothered her since the day she witnessed it until now. “Is that why you said nothing while Miss Everlott was being rude to you? Bruce, I was worried.”

“Who is Miss Everlott?” Damian scowled.

“No one that any of you need to be concerned with,” Bruce said. “But, yes, Cordelia. As far as Miss Everlott is concerned: Brucie Wayne is not respectable enough nor mentally capable enough to be Batman, and most of the public would agree.”

Cordelia did not like that. Not because it wasn’t a well thought out plan, but because he called it the Brucie Act. 

It felt disrespectful to the memory of the shy boy she’d grown up imagining. That boy, in her mind, had been serene and curious about the world — not an idiot.

But there was nothing she could do about it. The damage in this timeline was done. 

“Are there any other questions?” Bruce asked.

There were murmured no’s around the group, and a short bleat from the lamb.

Bruce glanced down at Little Heart with a surprised frown, before shaking his head and telling everyone: “then we’ll begin.” That was really all it took for Cordelia to move on from his ill-named Brucie Act, because it was really all that she’d been looking forward to for the entire day.

The party.

She was practically vibrating with excitement as Alfred nodded and went to open the two doors that led to the ballroom.

This was it. A night of dancing, and chocolate treats, and music, and her family. There would be no having to watch as every member left to the Cave and into the night; they were going to be here with her, have fun with her, laugh with her, eat chocolate with her, stay with her —

The noise of the ballroom tripled. The cracks in the doors were widening into an archway. Her niece and nephews and friend and brother were crowding around her to walk through. And then….

The beauty of it hit her all at once.

At the top of the ballroom steps, Cordelia could see Alfred’s true vision. Not just with the room itself, but also with the people who would be in it. He’d thought of the colors their guests would wear, and how the flowers around the room would make their multi-colored fashions seem less out of place. He’d thought of the movement the ladies’ dresses would make, and how the music should match them like a dance to a song. He’d even thought of the lighting that the room should have, and how this lighting would make the white marble statues glow like small moons on mortal land.

He’d thought of everything.

“Cordelia.”

It was Bruce’s voice, speaking from beside her.

“Take my elbow,” he said.

She glanced over. Bruce was offering her his elbow, like he did when they were walking through a crowd of paparazzi into a restaurant. 

On his other side, Cass was already clinging to his arm, a wide smile on her face.

“It’s expected,” Bruce explained.

Alfred, who stayed behind in the hallway, nodded encouragingly.

Cordelia did not need further prompting. Curling her fingers in the crook of Bruce’s elbow, she waited eagerly for him to start walking down the steps so that she could enjoy her night — and get people to like her, since Alfred was especially concerned about that. 

But her second priority wouldn’t be difficult at all. Because, as her father alway stated, she was a manipulative little beast capable of influencing anyone. So what were a bunch of rich civilians compared to her?

Bruce took the first step down, and the rest of the family was quick to copy him.

Eyes turned in their direction. Faces, most of them unfamiliar yet some of them Cordelia knew surprisingly well, tilted upwards to watch the Waynes descend.

She could hear the hush beneath the music. The slight lull in conversation.

The attention.

They were looking at Cordelia; judging her. Openly critiquing her face, her dress, her body, the way her hand was holding onto Bruce’s arm. Trying to see if she was someone that they would welcome into their circles. If the stories that were told about her were true.

At Cordelia’s feet, Little Heart let out a bleat louder than the music.

The guests below flinched at the sharp noise.

But Cordelia smiled indulgently.

Heads leaned toward each other quickly at the sight, reacting to her smile like fire touching gasoline. Whispers were being said into each other’s ears. Verdicts, speedily made, were being spoken out loud.

It was impossible to hear what they were saying from Cordelia’s place above them, but she could guess which civilians viewed her positively and which did not. The slanting of their lips, the crinkling of their foreheads — she might have been liked by some, but she was already disliked by most.

Cordelia looked up at Bruce, instinctually gauging his reaction at her unexpected slip up.

She was surprised to see him beginning to grin.

“Mr. Bettencourt!” He said suddenly, his voice loud and boisterous as they reached the last step and joined the crowd. Her nephews and Stephanie quickly retreated to more secluded parts of the ballroom. “Mrs. Bettencourt! I didn’t know you two were coming!”

An elderly couple, presumably the Bettencourts, stirred in surprise at being addressed. The others around them made a show of returning to their own conversations, not wanting to be too obvious with their eavesdropping.

“We RSVPed, Mr. Wayne,” Mr. Bettencourt said.

“Did you?” Bruce said. “I really should think about reading my guest list before I come to these things.”

“It’s a very good habit to have,” Mrs. Bettencourt said.

“Helga, dear, don’t lecture the poor boy,” Mr. Bettencourt chided.

Mrs. Bettencourt stuck her nose in the air, but Bruce did not seem offended.

“It’s alright,” he chuckled humorously. “Although, I’m hardly considered a boy anymore. Look, I have my own children now.”

Bruce lifted his elbows, showing off Cordelia’s and Cass’s arms like they were brand new toys.

“This is Cassandra, my daughter,” he said proudly. “Cass, these are the Bettencourts. They’re both professors at Ivy University.”

“Hi,” Cass said.

“Hello,” the Bettencourts said back.

Their eyes snapped to Cordelia, awaiting their introduction to her.

“And this is the girl of the hour.” Bruce said, smiling down at his sister. “Our Cordelia.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” she said.

The Bettencourts glanced at each other — once again, assessing if they liked her or not.

“You haven’t adopted that one yet?” Mr. Bettencourt asked.

Cordelia forced herself not to bristle. That one? Weren’t people supposed to be polite at these parties?

“Not yet,” Bruce said, so good-naturedly that it stung a bit. “Contrary to what the Gotham Gazette prints, the courts aren’t entirely under my thumb. Even I can’t speed up the adoption process to only a month.”

“Really?” Mrs. Bettencourt’s white eyebrows rose. “One would think that they’d give you any kid you asked for the moment you walked through the door.”

“That would certainly be convenient,” Bruce said. “But it doesn't matter. Having Cordelia join the family has been worth the trouble. All my children adore her! Isn’t that right, Cass?”

Cass leaned around Bruce to smile sweetly at her aunt. “Adore you.”

The words felt like balm on a blister. Cordelia’s sourness at the earlier slight became less potent.

“I adore you, too,” she said softly.

Cass’s smile became even sweeter.

“Well, I can see what you mean, Mr. Wayne,” Mrs. Bettencourt said, her voice lacking some of the coolness from before. “And how are you adjusting to your new foster family, Ms. Wayne?”

It startled her to be addressed, especially after being talked about like she was Bruce’s unwanted rescue, but she was quick to snap out of it. Her job, tonight, was to play a role. And she wasn’t about to fail her first Alfred-assigned mission just because she didn’t like the way two old professors were behaving.

“It has been difficult,” Cordelia said, lowering her chin. “Things are entirely different here in Gotham. I feel like there’s a lot that I need to learn.”

The professors, predictably, reacted to seeing a young mind wanting to educate itself. The corners of their eyes crinkled with true sympathy.

“Oh, that is perfectly understandable,” Mrs. Bettencourt said. “I’ve noticed that my foreign students have the most trouble getting used to life at our university, especially within the first semester. There’s a steep learning curve for all outsiders, Ms. Wayne, and that is nothing to be ashamed about.”

“I’m sure the media being so cruel towards her at this important time in her life has only made the transition more bothersome,” Mr. Bettencourt theorized.

“It has,” Cordelia said, making sure to glance up at her brother timidly. “But Bruce tells me that even he’s gone through this with the media. That it’s… normal?”

Her shy plea for guidance pulled on their educator heartstrings. 

“Things that are normal are not always right,” Mrs. Bettencourt said sagely. “It is appalling what the news channels are able to get away with in this day and age.”

“I’ve stopped calling them ‘news’ channels long ago,” Mr. Bettencourt nodded.

“I certainly would not allow any of my students to use them as credible sources,” Mrs. Bettencourt said.

“I would have to agree,” Bruce added. He brought his hand to Cordelia’s shoulder in a show of comfort. “As a matter of fact, I’m in the process of suing them as we speak.”

“A wise choice,” Mr. Bettencourt said. “Your family deserves time to adjust to a new foster child without the rest of the world peeking in to judge.”

Rather than pointing out the sheer hypocrisy of such a statement, the three Waynes bowed their heads gratefully.

“Thank you,” Bruce said. “I’m always glad to have your support.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Bettencourt said seriously. “With all that you do for Gotham’s educational programs, Mr. Wayne, our support is the least you can have.”

It was amazing. The Bettencourts were practically eating out of the Waynes’ hands.

Cordelia wished that Alfred was close by to see it.

“We should let them mingle, Helga,” Mr. Bettencourt said. “I’m sure there are plenty of people who would like to get to know Wayne’s ward.”

“If they must,” Mrs. Bettencourt said. “Although, I hope that this won’t be the last time we see you in person, young lady. Perhaps you’re interested in joining Ivy University in a few years?”

The idea of going to college was as appealing to Cordelia as this conversation, but she said, “Bruce and I haven’t talked about higher education yet. Do you think now is too early?”

“It’s never too early,” Mrs. Bettencourt said.

“Never,” Mr. Bettencourt emphasized. “I myself began thinking of college at the young age of seven, if you can believe it.”

Cordelia could definitely believe it.

“Then it sounds like I’m behind,” she said.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Bettencourt said. “Most girls your age wouldn’t even consider thinking of college. Count yourself among the special few.”

A grateful smile plastered itself onto Cordelia’s face. And then, just to make sure that they were completely under her thrall, she said, “You two are so kind.”

The flattery took effect within the blink of an eye. Both the Bettencourts looked at each other, their approval of her clear across each of their expressions.

They would be her advocates during this party. She was sure of that.

“You have a good foster here, Mr. Wayne,” Mr. Bettencourt said. “Take care not to let her stray.”

“And to get those adoption papers signed,” Mrs. Bettencourt added. “Foster children become reckless when they’re in the system for too long. I’ve read somewhere that it’s because the undefined relationship with their guardian tends to make them feel like their home isn’t stable enough.”

It was a rude thing to say. First to imply that Cordelia was reckless — or would be reckless — and, secondly, to imply that Bruce’s home was unstable. But Bruce took these insults with practiced grace, and a bit of false carelessness. His smile did not drop the entire time he shook their hands and said his good-byes, nor did it drop when he ushered his daughter and sister and lamb deeper into the room and away from the professors. 

But Cordelia could see that their words had some sort of effect on him, especially since the next people that they stopped to talk to were part of the few who seemed to already like her.

“You have a beautiful family, Bruce,” one of the strangers said. She was an old woman with hands that shook and glasses so thick that they made her hazel eyes appear three times as large. Bruce had introduced her as Lizzie. “These are such lovely girls.”

Her friends, who both looked to be around the same age give or take a decade, murmured their appreciations of Cordelia’s and Cass’s beauty, as well.

“Pretty dresses,” the one introduced as Debbie said in a tinny sort of voice.

“Pretty eyes,” the one introduced as Alice added, pointing her thin white fingers too close to the girls’ faces.

“I saw their eyes, too,” Lizzie said brightly, turning to her friends. “Like a starry night and an early winter morning.”

“Beautiful description,” Debbie complimented.

“Very nice,” Alice agreed. “Write a poem, Lizzie.”

“Yes, Lizzie,” Debbie said. “Write a poem about their eyes.”

“I will,” Lizzie decided. “I’ll call it… the Sky in their Eyes.”

“Lovely name,” Debbie gushed.

“I like it very much, too,” Alice hummed.

“I shall write it down before I forget,” Lizzie said happily. “Bruce, my sweet boy, can I borrow a pen and paper?”

Cordelia glanced at Bruce, curious about how her brother would respond to these ladies and their slipping mental states.

She really should not have been surprised to see his compassion.

“Of course, Lizzie, anything for you,” Bruce said, and snapped his fingers. A waiter carrying a tray of finger food appeared at his side. “Bring us a notepad and a pen. This artist here has discovered two new muses.”

“Oh, Bruce,” Lizzie’s cheeks were pink at being called an artist. “You really do know how to make an old girl blush.”

“He is a charmer,” Debbie said.

“With a very handsome face,” Alice said.

Bruce was smiling, his expression fond as the friends talked amongst themselves.

They were an odd group to be around. Somehow, they seemed both aware of the Waynes’ presence and unaware that the Waynes could hear them. Especially Lizzie’s two friends, who began to talk about Cordelia and Cass like they were paintings on a wall and not two girls standing in front of them.

“The parents did a very good job mixing genes,” Debbie said. “I have never seen such pretty little girls.”

“Look at the definition in their arms, Debbie,” Alice said. “I think they work out.”

“Splendid observation,” Debbie said, adjusting her horn-rimmed glasses and leaning in closer to see. “I think they do, too.”

“Mama never let me exercise when I was a girl. She said it would make me look manly.”

“Horrible times. These are lucky girls.”

“Very lucky. And very pretty.”

“Yes, with eyes that inspire poetry.”

Unexpectedly, Cass tittered.

Cordelia didn’t think she was laughing at the senile old women, but knew how easy it was to interpret it that way — and Cass must have, too. Her hand flew to cover her mouth, trying to smother the sound. But she didn’t need to, because her giggles did the opposite of offending the old ladies… it charmed them.

More compliments were born from Cass’s giggle. They compared it to wind chimes and the innocence of youth. They said that it reminded them of their girls when they were freshly adults, and how they would like to bottle the sound forever so that they could listen to it whenever they liked.

It was… nice… talking to them. Or hearing them talk to each other.

Every sentence was a compliment; every intention a good one.

Cordelia was sad when their conversation turned darker, but she shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, every story in Gotham either began or ended with tragedy. And the fate of their three daughters was a very tragic one, indeed.

“The last thing I heard from my daughter was her laughter,” Lizzie said, dabbing the wetness from her eyes with a handkerchief. “I kept telling her that I didn’t understand the joke, but my girl only laughed harder until her face turned white and her lips turned red.”

“That terrible Joker,” Debbie said.

“He took all our girls at once,” Alice said.

Lizzie passed her friends the handkerchief. They each took turns dabbing their eyes with it.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said. It was his normal voice that he was using, not his Brucie voice. “It’s not easy to lose a child.”

“It is a parent’s biggest and most unexpected trial,” Lizzie agreed. “But here the four of us stand, remembering our girls and remembering your boy.”

Bruce nodded, but Cordelia was confused.

Her brother didn’t lose a boy. Most of his sons were standing next to the catering table, sipping hot chocolate and talking amongst themselves. The only boy who wasn’t there was Jason, and that was because he didn’t want to come.

Yet the old ladies seemed very sure that Bruce was one of them: a parent who had to bury their child. And Bruce… was agreeing with them.

Why would he do that?

“Mister Wayne?”

The waiter from before had come back, his tray of finger food now replaced with a thin notepad and a black fountain pen.

He bowed when he presented it to Lizzie.

“Delightful,” Debbie said.

“We cannot wait to read it,” Alice said.

Lizzie’s shaking hands grabbed the notepad and pen from the waiter and hugged them to her chest. “Thank you, Bruce. You are a very thoughtful host.”

A bit of the Brucie Act returned at this compliment. “You are the only person who ever describes me as thoughtful, Lizzie.”

“I might be blind as a bat,” Lizzie’s thin lips pulled into a tender smile. “But I know a good man when I see one. You cannot fool me, sweet boy.”

She reached up and Bruce leaned down so that her quivering, wrinkled hands could pat his cheek affectionately. Her hazel eyes glimmered with maternal sadness.

“Thank you for stopping to talk to us,” Lizzie said. “Not many do nowadays.”

Bruce took her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “I’ll always stop to talk to the most beautiful women in the room. It is an impulse that has gotten me into much trouble over the years.”

“Such a charmer,” Debbie sighed.

“With a very handsome face,” Alice added.

Bruce took the time to press a kiss against each of their hands. And then, unfortunately, they had to move on.

It was much harder to leave Lizzie, Debbie, and Alice behind than it was to leave the Bettencourts. There was a sweetness to them that Cordelia didn’t think possible in a city like Gotham, and especially from parents who lost their children.

Grief had a way of corrupting people. And yet… they were not corrupted. Even with their minds slipping, they were more polite than either socially trained professor.

“Something happened?” Cass asked Bruce. She tapped her temple gently. “They’re lost here.”

“The Joker crashed a party that they attended,” Bruce explained quietly. “He sprayed his own mixture of laughing gas around the room. Many died that night, but others… like Lizzie… survived. The gas did most of the damage to her mind, but I suspect that holding her only child as she laughed herself to death had an impact, too.”

Cordelia frowned, and glanced behind them at the three women.

They were crowding around the notepad, watching Lizzie scribble a poem about Cass’s and Cordelia’s eyes. Other guests walked by them, whispering and pointing, judging, not realizing that those three women showed more strength in their grief than even Batman was capable of.

Or, at least, her Batman.

Her father.

“What did they mean when they said you lost a boy?” Cordelia asked. “What boy did you lose?”

Bruce looked surprised by the question, like he thought that she already knew. But that was ridiculous. She would have remembered being told about a fifth nephew that she’d arrived too late to meet.

He opened his mouth to answer her question, to tell her the story about the son that he’d lost and never mentioned again, when a loud shout cut him off.

“Brucie!” A red-haired man exclaimed.

He was pushing through the crowd with the arrogance of wealth. Three people — a young man, a teenaged boy, and a middle-aged woman — hurried to keep up with him from behind.

“Good ole Brucie,” the man said with a wide grin. “Why am I not surprised to see you with two lovely ladies on your arm?”

A flip of a switch — and then Brucie was back.

“Christopher,” Bruce chuckled deeply. “How have you been?”

“I think I’ve been better than you,” Christopher said, amused. “I heard your parenting technique is being questioned. Not enough discipline, they say.”

His wife elbowed him in what she probably thought was a subtle way.

“What? Brucie knows I’m joking,” Christopher laughed. “In about a week, the rumors that he abuses his kids will start up again, and everyone will rally to get these poor helpless girls out of his devilish grip.”

The people eavesdropping on the conversation looked alarmed at Christopher’s boldness. Cordelia, herself, wanted to punch the smile off of his face. But Bruce laughed again, as if this joke aligned well with his own humor.

“You say that like those rumors are any better,” Bruce said. “I’d prefer if my parenting wasn’t under the microscope of all of Gotham.”

“Sure you do,” Christopher smirked.

Bruce shook his head at him, outwardly amused, before redirecting the conversation back to calmer grounds.

“Silly me,” he said. “I haven’t introduced you to the girls yet. Have I?”

“No, Mr. Wayne,” Christopher’s wife said.

“This is Cassandra and this is Cordelia,” Bruce gestured to his daughter and sister. “They’re the two newest members of my family. Cassandra, Cordelia — this is Christopher, his wife Marie, their eldest son Alexander, and their youngest son Oliver. Cordelia, you’ll attend school with Oliver in a few weeks.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” she lied.

“You, too,” Oliver said.

Christopher, seemingly incapable of not being in the spotlight for even a second, snorted loudly. “Well, that was dry. Oliver, ask her to dance. The girl didn’t get dressed up for a night of standing around talking.”

At the word “dance,” Cordelia perked up. Because no, she didn’t get dressed up to talk to civilians like Christopher and his son.

She got dressed up to dance with them.

But the word, or the command, had the opposite effect on Oliver. He blanched, becoming white like paper; and his eyes, wide and embarrassed, stared at the floor as if they were glued to it.

Cordelia couldn’t help feeling offended.

An uncomfortable silence stretched between the group.

That is, until Marie — Christopher’s wife — nudged her younger son forward. “Sweetie, you’re being rude. Ask Ms. Wayne to dance.”

“She doesn’t want to dance with me,” he hissed back.

His ears were turning a dark red color.

Beside him, his older brother let out a Christopher-sounding snort. “God, kid. The worst she can say is ‘no.’ Watch.”

He stepped forward, startling Cordelia at the sudden movement in her direction. But there was no reason to be alarmed. The civilian was bowing to her like she was a queen, and offering her a large, tanned hand.

“Miss Cordelia Wayne,” he said with an arrogant half-smile, “may I have this dance?”

She looked down at his offered hand, and then up at his face.

He was around Dick’s age. Maybe a little older but definitely not younger. His smile, although arrogant, was handsome, with full lips and straight white teeth.

The freckles along his nose interested her.

Cordelia accepted his hand.

“Actually,” Bruce said suddenly, the tension in his voice perhaps not as hidden as he would have liked it to be, “Cordelia was just complaining about being hungry. I’m about to take her to the catering table now.”

Alexander’s fingers closed around her own, trapping her to him and blatantly ignoring her guardian’s protest.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Wayne,” he said. His eyes did not leave Cordelia’s. “I’ll take her after the dance.”

She was smiling. She should not be smiling, since Bruce clearly didn’t approve and her mission was to get people to like her, not to make enemies of mothers like Marie who didn’t enjoy watching their younger sons get rejected.

But the man in front of her was handsome. And he was offering to take her dancing.

So Cordelia smiled anyway.

“I’ll be back, Bruce,” she said. “Watch Little Heart for me?”

She pretended like she did not see the look of disbelief her brother sent her way, so that she could later claim that she’d been ignorant of his disapproval, even though they both knew that she was not.

“Cordelia —“ he started.

But it was too late. 

She was being pulled away from the group and toward the designated spot for dancing.

It was a wide clearing, with no trees or flowers breaking up the ground and no small tables where people could lay their purses. Instead, it was circular, with a smooth ground and a brilliant view of the band.

Alexander swept her onto it; one hand holding hers and the other holding her waist as they joined the small group of couples swaying in each other’s arms.

“Thank God you said yes,” he said, shaking his head. “If I had to stand there and watch as my brother got rejected by one more girl, I swear I would have disowned the entire family.”

Cordelia ignored him in favor of watching the other couples.

They were dancing differently than the couples at the nightclub. At the nightclub, everyone had been pressed together — belly to belly, bottom to crotch — grinding into each other like they were hoping their clothes would disappear. But the couples around Cordelia now were holding each other at respectable distances. And none of their hands strayed far like James’s had.

That was good.

That was better.

She did not feel like being groped in front of her family.

With a smile, she looked back up at Alexander, who was still complaining about his little brother and his parents.

“They only came here to see you, by the way,” he was saying. “Especially Dad. The guy has a thing for skinny girls. He probably wanted Oliver to dance with you so he could see you around the house more.”

He complains a lot, Cordelia thought, but enjoyed the dancing anyway.

Later, she would need to report to Batman that Christopher was a creep. And, later, she might have to deal with the consequences of dancing with Alexander. But, right now, she could enjoy the reprieve from playing her Ladylike Orphan Wayne role — and enjoy the music as her body was swayed and held.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Alexander said after a while. “I’ve got to say, I was expecting something entirely different.”

“You read the newspapers?” She guessed.

“No,” Alexander snorted. “I’m not fifty yet, kid. But I have seen what people are saying about you online. They call you the wild child.”

She hummed, recognizing the nickname.

His eyes glanced down at her lips with interest.

“So, uh,” he said, pressing her a little closer. “Want to show me what you did to earn that name?”

His chest squished against hers reminded her of James as he laid down on top of her and showered her face with hungry, hot-lip kisses. He’d been so eager, and felt so much desire for her that he would have taken anything that she was willing to give. And, Cordelia — lonely, lonely Cordelia — would have given her entire life away for one single friend.

That felt like such a long time ago.

Cordelia took a step away from Alexander and kept dancing.

“No,” she said.

Alexander snorted and stopped pressing at her back. “It was worth a shot, I guess.”

Cordelia couldn’t see how, but she wasn’t about to ask. The music was becoming livelier and, as it did, more people joined the dance floor. Soon it was not just Cordelia and Alexander dancing with five other couples — but Cordelia and Alexander dancing with over two dozen other couples.

They surrounded them, laughing and giggling and talking, until Cordelia could no longer see beyond the dance floor.

And, apparently, until the people outside of the dance floor could no longer see her, either.

This didn’t bother her. She knew, without a doubt, that her brother was capable of holding his own against these stiff-lipped civilians. And that she was crafty enough to get her family out of danger if something went wrong.

But Bruce was never as confident with her capabilities as she was with his, which was why he sent her eldest nephew to come and get her.

“I’m not done dancing,” she said, tightening her grip around Alexander’s neck.

Alexander grinned smugly, his hands sliding up her arms to adjust her hold.

Dick’s face was carefully blank.

“Sorry, Cordelia,” he said, although he didn’t sound sorry at all. “But Bruce said that two dances were enough.”

“Not for me,” she said. “The first two were too slow. I want to try a fast dance now.”

“You have all night to try fast dances,” he said. “Right now, there are people who still want to meet — look, Alexander, was it? Can you stop dancing for a second?”

If he hadn’t called him out on it, then Cordelia was sure that she and Alexander would have been able to disappear into the crowd of couples, leaving Dick behind. But Dick, watchful Dick with his detective training and his surprisingly protective nature, had seen their plan before they could enact it.

“What’s the big deal?” Alexander said. “She has all night to talk, too. Let her have some fun.”

Dick narrowed his eyes, the blue of them almost black with annoyance.

It made her feel guilty. She was not used to seeing her most carefree nephew upset.

“One more dance,” she implored. “And then I’ll go with you.”

He looked down at her, his eyes still narrowed, and then looked at her fingers fidgeting with the back of Alexander’s collar.

His annoyance deepened.

She thought, without a doubt, that he would continue to argue with her on it. Which was why it was such a shock to hear him say: “Okay.”

Cordelia blinked — and then beamed up at him. “Really? Thank you, Dick. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Great,” he said, then held out his hand. “Now come on.”

“But you said…” she began, confused.

“I said you can have one more dance,” Dick said. “But you’re dancing with me.”

The confusion wore off quickly. It didn’t stand a chance against her excitement.

“Hold on —“ Alexander objected.

But he was shoved aside in Cordelia’s eagerness to trade partners. One moment, she was trapping Alexander against her, and the next: he was stumbling backwards, arms empty and ego bruised.

“What the f—“

“Let me text Bruce first,” Dick said calmly, taking out his phone as they moved away from the swearing man. “I don’t need B pulling the fire alarm because he thinks you’re being felt up by a thirty year-old.”

“There was no ‘feeling up,’” Cordelia said. “And was he really thirty? I thought he was your age.”

“That’s offensive,” Dick said, putting the phone in his pocket. “And still inappropriate.”

She grinned and shrugged, taking her nephew's hands so that they could start dancing. 

From her experience, every male she showed an interest in was given the label “inappropriate.” First it was Barry, who was too old and married and fatherly for her. And then it was the group of boys at the shopping center, who were too attracted to her. And then it was James, who gave her too much alcohol. And, now, it was Alexander, who danced with her for too long. 

But, no matter, Alexander was not someone worth fighting for, especially since Dick was willing to dance with her, instead.

And Dick was a great dance partner. He didn’t stay in one spot like Alexander did. He weaved their way through the crowd, as energetic with dancing as he was with everything else. And he didn’t use the time together to complain, but to actually have fun — to spin and dip and lift Cordelia in the air when the music suggested it.

He spun her a lot, too, because she giggled every time he did.

“I was going to ask if you’re having fun,” Dick said, dipping her and bringing her back up with a fun swirl. Cordelia, laughing hard, had to grab onto his arm to keep from tripping over her skirts. “But I think the answer is obvious.”

“Is it?” Cordelia said. She reached for his hands and looked up at him expectedly. “Twirl me again.”

“Fine,” Dick said. “But I expect to be twirled, too.”

The idea of twirling someone so much taller than her made her laugh even harder.

“What?” Dick said, bemused. “I’m serious.”

“I’ll twirl you,” she vowed. “But you’ll have to bend down.”

They did try it, later, but had to stop when it almost resulted in Dick landing flat on his butt in the middle of the dance floor.

She was disappointed when the song ended. She thought that she could have danced with Dick all night long and never got bored. But a promise to her nephew was a promise she planned to keep, so when he suggested returning her to Bruce, she nodded and followed him off the dance floor.

They made their way through the couples, carefully avoiding flailing limbs and the occasional dip. Then, when they reached the edge of it, looked around for her brother.

Bruce, with his height and his bulk, was easy to spot.

He stood tall at one of the small tables with a group of ladies surrounding him. At his feet, Little Heart was hopping around in circles. And in his fist was what looked like a tall glass of champagne — only, he’d told Cordelia that he didn’t drink alcohol, so it had to be fake.

“Hi, Bruce,” she said sheepishly, her eyes flickering up at Bruce to gauge his anger levels. “You wanted to see me?”

Thankfully, it was not Bruce who responded — but Brucie.

His grin was instantaneous and as lopsided as the glass in his hand. “Cordelia! You’re back! Ladies, this is who I’ve been telling you about. My new ward!”

The ladies, who were all around Bruce’s age, cooed when they saw Cordelia.

“She looks just like you, Bruce,” one said.

“It’s astounding,” another said. “None of my cousins look anything like me. Especially not my distant cousins.”

“The Wayne genes are strong,” Bruce said with a proud laugh. “But I’m not the only person Cordelia has a lot in common with.”

“Oh?” One lady said, raising a pretty brow.

“Cordelia,” Bruce said. “Tell them about your gardening.”

“You like to garden?” One lady said with interest.

Cordelia glanced at Bruce, still searching for anger, but only saw Brucie’s eager nod of encouragement. So she turned to the ladies, and did as she was told.

She explained how often she gardened and her favorite types of flowers. She watched as the women nodded with delight at her knowledge; and listened as they explained their own passion for gardening, and how they had a gardening group that met twice a year to catch up, gossip, and plant flowers around Gotham in hopes of fighting against pollution.

It was such a noble cause that Cordelia could almost overlook the fact that all these women were attracted to her brother.

Almost.

“Wow,” Dick said, looking in shock as he, Bruce, Little Heart, and Cordelia left the ladies to walk over to the catering table. “That was… good. You did good, Cordelia.”

“Why do you sound surprised?” Cordelia asked.

“Um,” he glanced at Bruce, who stared back at him. “No reason.”

Cordelia hummed suspiciously, but was too hungry to interrogate her nephew. When she got to the catering table, she went straight for the tiny sandwiches.

“Dick is right,” Bruce was saying as his sister filled her plate. “You’re doing a good job, Cordelia.”

“Thank you,” she said, mouth full. “Do you want a sandwich?”

She held one up for him.

It was ham and Swiss cheese between sourdough bread.

She smiled when he took it.

“How was your dance with Christopher’s son?” He asked.

Her smile wavered. “Nice. It was nice.”

Bruce hummed, the sound deep and mysterious and nerve-wracking. But, when he spoke, his voice was as calm as the pond in her secret garden.

“You knew I didn’t approve,” he said.

“No, I didn’t,” she said hurriedly.

The look he sent her was deadpan, but there was no way to prove that her lie was a lie, so she held onto it.

“It would have been rude to tell him ‘no,’” she argued. “We would have made enemies with his family.”

“We already did,” Bruce said. “Someone saw you push him away to dance with Dick. Marie was offended enough to leave the party early with her husband and children.”

“Oh…” Cordelia pressed her lips together, thinking quickly. “But… you’re the one who told me to stop dancing with him.”

“She’s right,” Dick piped in. “Clearly, this is your fault, Bruce.”

Bruce turned to glare at him.

Dick, smiling, raised his hands in mock surrender.

“I wanted her to stop dancing with him, not to shove him,” Bruce said.

“Didn’t you, though?” Dick asked.

To answer that, all Bruce did was grunt and turn back to Cordelia.

“From now on,” he said, pointing a finger at her. “Only dance with people that I approve of. The media is already painting you out to be… rebellious. Dancing with someone twice your age will only damage your reputation. Understand?”

“Yes,” Cordelia said. “I understand.”

She wondered if her relief at only getting a lecture and not a punishment was obvious. Bruce was certainly looking at her like it was.

“Good,” he nodded. “Then we will keep this up. I’ll continue to introduce you to well-respected members of our circle, and you will charm them. If anyone asks you to dance, look to me first, and I’ll let you know if you can.”

Dick was watching them talk, quietly chewing on a pastry.

“Got it,” Cordelia said. The orders were clear; the instructions easy. She turned to see the rest of the room. “Who are our next targets to manipulate?”

Dick choked, but Bruce took the question in stride.

“The Romanovs,” he said. “They own a quarter of Gotham’s media empire. Are you ready?”

She swallowed the rest of her sandwiches and laid the plate on the table, feeling — for the first time in a while — like Batgirl.

“I’m ready,” she said.

---

The next four hours for Cordelia were very busy. Bruce dragged her from family to family and from respected member of society to respected member of society, hoping to charm each of them into liking her.

And, for the most part… it worked.

The sober adults thought she was impressive, while the drunken adults thought she was adorable. And the teenagers… the teenagers thought she was interesting.

Her being related to Bruce Wayne definitely worked in her favor when it came to the latter group. The teenagers couldn’t wait to get her alone on the dance floor to ask about him. To question what he was like at home, if he was really as stupid as he seemed, and why he adopted so many children.

She had to work hard not to be outwardly offended by their invasive line of questioning, especially since most of it was focused on her brother and not herself, but — in the end — it did not truly matter.

Cordelia was having a great time. The guests weren’t difficult to influence, and the music was great to dance to, and her family….

Her family looked happy.

Alfred was serenely appearing and disappearing around the room, checking in to make sure that his party was running smoothly, but also not wanting to look like one of the guests. Damian was talking to a girl around his age near the catering table, hopefully not calling her a harlot, but most likely not since the girl seemed to like him. Little Heart was bleating at the harpist, again, trying to get her to stop taking breaks. Meanwhile Tim and Stephanie were dancing together, with Stephanie’s head on his shoulder and Tim’s arms wrapped around her waist. And, beside them, was Cass and Dick dancing, too, although they were acting more silly than serious.

“I think we should have more parties,” Cordelia suggested.

Her and Bruce were sitting at one of the tables, resting after so much dancing and working.

It was the first time in four long hours where they both were able to let their guards down. The adult guests who usually approached them were too intoxicated to care about networking with Bruce Wayne anymore, and the teenagers who were interested in dancing with Cordelia were too intimidated by her brother to do anything more than glance in her direction.

“You’re having fun?” Bruce asked.

She nodded.

“Little Heart is, too, I think,” she said. “She really likes the harpist you hired.”

“So I see.”

His sardonic tone made her smile.

“She’s a little spoiled,” Cordelia allowed. “But it’s cute. Right?”

Her brother’s nod was slow. “Yes… slightly.”

Cordelia’s smile brightened before she turned her attention back to the party around them. The room was dimmer than before, the lights reflecting the change in time outside, and petals from the cherry blossom trees were fluttering to the ground like pink-tinted raindrops.

It was the most beautiful room in the world.

“Alfred couldn’t have decorated a better party,” she said sincerely, watching as a man plucked a flower from a vase and carefully slid it into his date’s curls. “Or maybe he could have with more time, but I can’t imagine how.”

“He had more time to plan for this party than you think,” Bruce said. “He’s wanted to throw an Introduction to Society party ever since I made Dick my ward, but I didn’t think it was important, so we moved on.”

Cordelia hummed in acknowledgement.

Near the catering table, Damian extended his hand to the girl, and guided her to the dance floor.

“I’ve forgotten how much he liked to do these things,” Bruce said about Alfred. “Planning parties, teaching etiquette, preparing meals for the family to eat together…. Or maybe I ignored it in favor of treating Alfred more like Batman’s butler than Bruce Wayne’s.”

“You’re not ignoring it now,” Cordelia pointed out.

“No. I’m not.”

They watched the party for a bit longer; brother and sister, side-by-side. The music was lively, and the cups of hot chocolate in front of them were becoming empty. 

In a couple more hours, the guests would go home, and talk about the night that they spent at the Waynes.

Cordelia hoped that they would only share positive stories.

“I thought that you would need more support tonight, Cordelia,” Bruce said as his kids danced together on the other side of the room. “A party this big would be a lot for anyone to deal with, but you’ve kept your composure and listened to all the advice Alfred and I gave without argument. I’m proud of you.”

A happy hum made its way through Cordelia’s throat at those words.

“But that isn’t all,” Bruce said.

The seriousness in his voice made her analyze his expression, but Bruce wasn’t upset with her. She could see it in his eyes; the way that they met hers, direct and sincere. Open like she’d begged them to be.

“I also want to thank you,” he said.

“Thank me?” Cordelia repeated. “For what?”

“For reminding me of how many hobbies Alfred had to leave behind when I became Batman,” he answered. “And for being the reason why I took down that old family portrait. It was hard, I’ll admit, and not something that I think I would have ever done on my own. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but I have a habit of living in the past.”

“We all do,” Cordelia said. “I think about my past all the time.”

“Possibly. But you do not neglect your family in order to honor the one you’ve lost,” Bruce said.  “There’s a lot that I’ve done wrong as a father to my children, and as a son to Alfred, but choosing not to focus enough on them has been one of the biggest mistakes of my life.”

Cordelia stared. For all her talents at knowing what to say to who, she did not know what to say now to comfort her brother.

From what she’d seen, Bruce was the best of fathers. Every single family meal consisted of his children clambering over one another for his attention, wanting him to know what their plans were for the day and funny conversations they had with their friends.

Bruce listened, too, with unwavering attentiveness. Never interrupting and never forgetting what he’d been told.

But she’d done her research on him. She knew that things weren’t always perfect in his house, even if she didn’t know the specific details.

Jason’s absence tonight, in particular, spoke volumes.

“You’re a special girl, Cordelia,” Bruce said. “Capable of so much positive influence.”

You’re capable of positive influence, too, Cordelia thought, but her lips wouldn’t move to form those words. Because Bruce was about to tell her something important, and whatever he was going to say was going to change her life forever.

She could feel it.

“And I wanted to ask you,” Bruce hesitated, but only slightly, “what you thought about me a —“

Whatever he was going to say, Cordelia would never find out.

Around the room, hisses of astonishment were mixing in with the strings of Alfred’s hired band. It created a horrible sound; eery and hair-raising, like snakes slithering through tall grass. But that was nothing compared to the looks on the guests’ faces.

The horror as they all stared, transfixed, at the ballroom’s entrance doors.

Alert, both Cordelia and Bruce jumped to their feet, their bodies tense for a fight.

But the person at the doors did not look physically threatening.

It was a woman; short and thin. She wore a dress that looked like it was taken straight from a high fashion magazine with the complicated bodice and the daring slits that ran all the way up to her hips. Her jewelry, too, was unique: a string of antique pearls, yellowing with age, hung over her collar bones, and her hat — the only hat in the room — sat atop her head, wide and dipping slightly over her face.

Her face… which was covered by a mask.

Cordelia tensed further.

In Gotham, the people who wore masks were either the villains or the Bats. And this woman did not look like a Bat.

Cordelia made to rush forward, to get this woman out of the ballroom before she could attack her guests or her family — but was stopped by a large hand locking around her arm. It was like a steel trap. Impossible to escape even as, instinctually, she tried to tug herself free. 

Dick, across the room, turned at the movements she was making. His eyes, deep blue even in the dim lights, locked on the person behind her.

It made her stop struggling: that look in his eyes.

The hardened look of a soldier who knew that he was needed.

Cordelia turned, trying to see what caused that look.

It was only then that she realized.

Because while almost everyone else in the ballroom was looking at the masked woman, Dick was looking at Bruce, and Bruce… was looking at Cordelia.

With his steel grip, he kept her in place. And with his icy eyes, he tried to hide his true emotions.

But his own mask didn’t work as well as it used to. He’d revealed too much to her already. Whereas once he was an enigma, now he was her brother — someone that she was getting to know as well as she could. Someone who clenched his jaw when he was holding back anger, looked away when he was trying to keep secrets, showed his hands when he was trying to make her feel safe, and who — most of all — tried to put on a mask when he was scared.

He was scared.

Bruce was scared.

Because he didn’t want Cordelia going up to that woman.

It was like an awakening. Her detective mind took over her protective one; she stopped struggling, stopped trying to get away, and turned her analytical stare back on the woman with the mask.

Short. Thin. Blonde. Fashionable. The mask on her face was made of porcelain; pure white except for the ruby red of the heart-shaped lips and the droopy cut-outs that showed the woman’s real misty blue doe-eyes.

She was young. Older than Bruce, but without the strands of gray hair.

No. Her blonde was honey-like and perfect. Smooth. Curled in an old-Hollywood fashion….

Familiar.

A memory pulled at Cordelia. Of honey blonde hair that smelled like strawberries. Of burying her face in that scent as a manicured hand gently pet the back of her head and told her that she was loved, that she was beautiful, that she was her Little Heart —

There was a ringing in Cordelia’s ears.

She tried to push aside her memories, to not look at this woman and think the impossible. But now that she saw the similarities, they couldn’t stop blaring out at her.

Thin. Blonde. Fashionable. Doe-eyes. Perfect hair. 

Thin. Blonde. Fashionable. Doe-eyes. Perfect hair.

Thin. Blonde. Fashionable. Doe-eyes. Perfect hair.

Cordelia didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until her next one came out shaky and gasping. “…Mommy?”

---

Notes:

Here comes Cordelia's mommy, fashionably late to the masquerade :)

Chapter 57: Cordelia's Mother

Summary:

That was her mother’s name. That was who she was — beyond being the woman who’d given birth to Cordelia, she’d been a person. A human. A name. Someone that Thomas had tried to erase, just like he’d tried to erase Cordelia.

And now they were here. In Wayne Manor. With Bruce. With Alfred. Two survivors of her father’s cruelty.

A family… reunited.

Notes:

Hi, darlings! Just a PSA that I began a third part of this series where I post artwork for What Was I Made For.

Originally, I was going to add them to these chapters, but then I realized that you're wonderful minds are definitely picturing things much more beautiful than my hands are capable of drawing, so I didn't want to impose these images onto you. But, if you're interested in seeing them anyways, then they're available on my profile.

“…Mommy?”

Her voice came out small, like a little girl’s, hardly daring to hope.

Bruce tightened his grip on her arm.

“Cordelia,” he whispered. He sounded faraway, as if speaking to her from an entirely different universe. “Listen to me: that is not your mother.”

Cordelia shook her head faintly.

He was probably right. Her mother was dead — had been dead for a decade of Cordelia’s life. She’d passed away in a plane crash, leaving her daughter to live a life of pain and misery with the man who was supposed to protect her.

But….

The woman across the room had hair the same exact shade of honey blonde as her mother’s. The blonde mane bounced softly around her shoulders as she turned her head, surveying the decor and the guests, reviewing the party as the party reviewed her. The dim lights glinted off the porcelain white of her mask, making her look ethereal next to the marble statues at the entrance.

Everyone was watching her.

Just like everyone always watched Cordelia’s mother.

Because that had been a talent of hers: catching awe. It was one of the things she’d tried to teach her daughter whenever she had the patience to.

Women in a rush are rarely approached, she had once said, but beautiful women who linger will capture the attention of everyone in the room.

I’m not a woman, Mommy, little Cordelia giggled.

Her mother had scrunched up her nose playfully at the sound. I know that, silly girl. But you will be. And sooner than you think.

Little Cordelia had smiled at the thought, imagining a future where she would be able to go to all the parties with her mother, and not just the ones they couldn’t find a babysitter for. Her mother, decorated in her best jewels, had smiled back.

This was one of the better nights, despite the circumstances.

It was becoming harder and harder to find people who wanted to take care of Cordelia as her mother networked, which meant that her mother had to take her to more and more parties. Usually, this made her irritable and cranky. After all, no one wanted to work with a woman who had a toddler on her hip, no matter how beautiful and talented the woman was or how well-behaved her child.

But that night, her smile as she gazed upon her daughter was bright and her words were sweet.

Then how about this, my little heart, Cordelia’s mother had said. A flower caught in a gust of wind will be disregarded as trash, but the Cordelia rose that stands tall and proud for everyone to see will be the most cherished rose in the garden.

Cordelia had listened attentively, as she always did when her mother spoke. But when she heard her own name in one of her many beautiful metaphors, she could not help but gasp, Me?

Her mother planted a soft, red-lipped kiss on her forehead before confirming, You.

“Cordelia,” Bruce was tugging her backward and into his side, almost as if trying to hide her from her own memory, but Cordelia stood her ground. “Go upstairs to your room and wait until I get you. I’ll take care of this.”

“Take care of what?” Cordelia said. Even her own voice felt detached from her body. Everything felt so unreal. Everything except the perfect, honey coils settling delicately above a tanned collar bone across the room. “She’s my mother. I know she is.”

“She isn’t,” Bruce said, and forcefully turned her to look at him.

His eyes were on fire, she noted absently. The icy blues smoldered with unfamiliar heat even as the rest of his face stood still and smooth like solid stone.

He was terrified.

He was blunt: “Your mother passed away during a plane crash when you were five years-old. She left you with our father. She never came back. The woman over there, wearing the mask, is a stranger. She doesn’t know anything about you. She never gave birth to you. She has no memory of who you are.”

Cordelia did her best to listen to him. But as he spoke, out of the corner of her eyes, she could see her mother’s gaze land on her.

We’re connected, she thought, and was mesmerized by the realization. Even across timelines, even across rooms, we’re connected.

“I’ll remind her,” she decided.

Bruce’s fiery eyes flitted across her features. Whatever he saw made him press his lips firmly together and say, “She won’t listen. You mean nothing to her, Cordelia.”

His callousness was a slap to the face. Cordelia reared back, but could not go far with both her arms trapped in his grip.

“You’re mean,” she said, surprised.

“Hm.”

It was not the apology that she wanted, but his calm response to her hurt was enough to remind her of one very important detail. A detail almost as important as the discovery of her mother coming back to life.

“You knew.”

Her words came out in a bone chilling hiss. The same hiss that she used exclusively when she was Batgirl, and talking to the criminals was unavoidable. It was a tone meant to strike fear into the heart of her enemies, and to intimidate them into submission when pure silence and a glowing red stare was not enough.

She’d never used it on Batman before, and hadn’t really meant to use it on Bruce now, but she could see the effects of it flash in his eyes. First the surprise, and then the darkened look of disturbance.

He straightened up.

And Cordelia realized, belatedly, that he’d stopped standing so tall around her ever since the Joker Incident.

He never got the chance to say anything — or maybe he was never planning on saying anything — about the hiss, because it was not long after his posture change when Dick arrived to stand beside them both.

His position partially covered Cordelia’s mother from her view.

“What’s going on?” He asked Bruce. “Who’s the woman in the mask?”

Bruce broke his stare from his sister’s face to glance at Dick, and then around the room. Their guests were beginning to stir in a drunken restlessness; no longer interested in just watching the woman, but wanting to get answers about who she was and why she was here. 

Most of them appeared to be getting these answers from each other. The younger crowd was eagerly stumbling on over to the older generation, and communicating in silent whispers — almost like Dick was doing with Bruce now — but others, who did not want to miss a single moment of the woman’s actions, were still staring with their drinks in their hands and their attentions on the mask of the woman slowly making her way deeper into the party.

Tim, Stephanie, Damian, and Cass were doing much of the same.

Cass, after one single look in Bruce’s direction, decided to stay put on the dance floor to watch the happenings from a distance. Stephanie and Damian, meanwhile, were on their way to Bruce’s side when Cass intercepted them, and gestured for them to keep dancing with her. And Tim….

Cordelia suddenly could not look away from Tim. Because while everyone else was showing some measure of shock or surprise — Tim was not.

On the contrary, he looked as if he’d prepared for this very moment. 

With a calm, easy pace, Tim walked over to say a few words to the musicians, who quickly began to play louder, more upbeat music that drowned out the whispers of the room and shook a few of the more stunned guests out of their stupor.

“I need you to get Cordelia up to her room,” Bruce was saying to Dick, as Tim turned away from the musicians and caught Cordelia’s eye. “We’ll tell everyone that she had a headache.”

Tim paused, looking over her expression with the clinical coldness of a doctor reviewing an anatomical drawing in his textbook.

“You’re explaining everything to me after this,” Dick demanded.

She could feel Bruce let go of her as he said, “Fine.”

Tim was looking away from her now. Apparently, he’d lost interest in her expression, and had gained interest in the masked woman walking deeper into the room — and straight toward Cordelia.

Cordelia’s breath caught in her throat. She tried to inch around Dick, to get a better view of her mother as she, for the first time in ten years, approached her daughter. But Dick took one step to the side, completely covering her from Cordelia’s view.

“Let’s go,” Dick said.

There was a bit of confusion coloring his eyes at her behavior, but overall he spoke gently. 

Cordelia’s frown was sharp. “I’m not going.”

“Don’t worry about her,” Dick said, misunderstanding the situation. “We’re used to taking down party crashers. She’ll be in Arkham before the hour ends.”

Cordelia imagined Dick hitting her mother with one of his strong, flipping kicks and made a sound of offended panic. Her mother, while toned, was not a fighter — and perhaps had never fought a day in her life. Dick, meanwhile, had gone into multiple Joker attacks all on his own and had barely gotten a scratch because of it.

Suddenly, Cordelia was not viewing her nephew as the young boy who needed her protection. In fact, Dick with all of his height and muscles was beginning to look a lot more tough.

“You can’t take her down,” Cordelia said, a little shrill. “That’s my mother!"

“Your —“ Dick voice gave out in shock. With bulging eyes, he looked from Cordelia to Bruce to her mother and back again. “Your mother?”

They were being too loud. Even with the music playing, the other guests heard the raised voices and began to give the Waynes their attention, too.

“But, Bruce, you said that her mother didn’t exist in this timeline,” Dick said.

Bruce was hiding behind his mask again, attempting to be mysterious, but only succeeding at raising Dick’s anger levels.

“You said that you were the only family she had left,” Dick said.

“I said that Damian, Cordelia, and I were the only Waynes left,” Bruce corrected. “Her mother is not a Wayne.”

“And after Cordelia met Damian and the rest?” Dick said. “When you told Tim that her mother didn’t exist?”

There was a slight click — the sound of Bruce’s teeth clicking together as his jaw tightened. “Does it matter? Tim clearly took it upon himself to discover the truth.”

“Don’t do that,” Dick snapped. “Don’t blame Tim for this. He’s a detective. He’s doing what you trained him to do.”

“I didn’t train any of you to interfere with my business,” Bruce said coldly, and did not seem intimidated by the increasingly angry glare his eldest son was sending his way. “If I want to keep someone away from my family, then you have to trust that I have a damn good reason, Dick.”

“It’s hard to trust someone who keeps so many secrets from the people he claims to respect,” Dick said.

They were both standing at their true heights. And Dick, furious enough to break his civilian cover, looked seconds away from throwing the first punch.

“Not here,” Bruce said, and Cordelia did not know if he was asking Dick not to become violent or asking him to stop arguing. “That’s an order. Not here. Not now. Everyone is watching.”

He was right. In the intensity of their argument, Cordelia had forgotten about their guests, but they were watching. Bruce glanced behind Dick, at Cordelia’s mother, and made a noise of displeasure.

“We’re too late,” he murmured. “She’s coming.”

What appeared to be a somber realization for her brother, felt like a miracle to Cordelia. Her chest, which had gotten tighter and tighter as his argument with Dick wore on, loosened with relief.

“I’m going to meet her,” she whispered to herself.

She needed to say that out loud. She needed to hear it said. Because, if she didn’t, she didn’t think that it would truly sink in for her.

But it did.

Her mother was alive.

Her mother was alive.

Her mother was not only alive, but in this very room. And even though Bruce was right — that her mother did not, and could not, remember Cordelia — her very first instinct when arriving had not been to talk to other guests, but to see the girl that was her daughter.

Gently, so gently that Cordelia almost believed that he wouldn’t move at all, Cordelia pushed Dick out of the way, and was happy when he easily obliged.

Her mother was only a few feet away. Her walk was as graceful as Cordelia remembered it to be; each step showing a flash of tanned, gently curved hips through the daring slits of her dress that only increased the amount of stares that wandered up and down her lithe body.

It was her. It was definitely, most definitely, her.

“We should talk to her in private,” Dick said. “Away from all the guests.”

“No,” Bruce said firmly. “She doesn’t go further than this room.”

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” Dick said tightly. “Cordelia is going to want to tell her the truth. And this isn’t the best venue for a truth like that.”

“This is bigger than what Cordelia wants,” Bruce said, and Cordelia could feel his eyes on her as he said it. “Telling that woman the truth would mean risking the exposure of Batman’s secret identity. It could cost him his freedom, the lives of his children. Cordelia understands that risk is not worth taking.”

Did she? From what Cordelia remembered, the risk was hardly there. Her mother was excellent at keeping secrets — she’d even kept her father’s secret long after they stopped being romantic with each other.

There was no reason to believe that her mother in this timeline would be any different.

Except for the mask that she was wearing. And the fact that this woman was not receiving child support checks from this timeline’s Batman, so she had nothing to lose if he was suddenly thrown away in prison.

“Cordelia,” Dick said. From the sound of his voice, he must have noticed the conflict in Cordelia’s heart. “You’re not going to tell her here, are you?”

She didn’t know.

She shouldn’t.

She didn’t have time to answer.

Her mother was stepping into hearing distance now, and with a few more clicks of her stiletto heels, she’d stopped walking just out of arm's length.

Her mask showed no sign of emotion. The features, pure white, were designed with a disturbing blankness that did not at all resemble the fiery tempers of the woman that Cordelia remembered. 

Instead, they were smooth and perfect… inhuman.

All except the eyes, which could be seen through the droopy cutouts of the porcelain mask. They were large and round — a shape that Cordelia herself had inherited — and as misty blue as the fog that had once settled around their London apartment.

Cordelia watched as those eyes looked at each of them, and waited with bated breath to be acknowledged — to be told, by her long dead mother, that she felt some sort of connection with the girl who was her own flesh and blood, that she’d walked all the way across the room just to get the chance to meet her.

But that didn’t happen.

Her mother’s eyes barely slid over her, barely seemed to see her, before they settled on Bruce.

Why was it always Bruce?

“Mr. Wayne,” her mother greeted. “I was surprised to receive your invitation. No one has invited me to a party like this in years.”

Her voice was different. That was the first thing Cordelia noticed. Whereas, once, she would have spoken with straightforward confidence, now her voice was wispy and lilted, almost like she’d just woken up from a very confusing dream.

It made Cordelia uneasy. 

Bruce, it appeared, did not share in her surprise.

“An oversight, on my part,” he said smoothly, “and a travesty for the community.”

Cordelia’s mother tilted her chin upwards, meeting Bruce’s eyes curiously. “I almost didn’t come. I thought that… it was a joke, and that I was going to become the butt of it.”

“I hope that I would never be so cruel as to resort to bullying the undeserving,” Bruce replied, with one raised, aristocratic brow.

Cordelia’s mother watched the eyebrow raise, observant in a confusingly detached way.

“From my experience,” she said softly, “it only takes one bad day.”

“I don’t agree with that,” Bruce said.

“I suppose you wouldn’t,” Cordelia’s mother said. “People rarely do before they experience it for themselves.”

“Experience what? A bad day?” Bruce asked. “I think the majority of Gotham has experienced plenty of those. Somehow, I don’t think the GCPD would appreciate us all sharing the same excuse.”

There was a condescending note to his voice that set Cordelia on edge — and seemed to snap a bit more awareness into her mother.

“No, they wouldn’t,” her mother said. And then, after a short pause, added, “I never did get to thank you for the kindness you showed me all those years ago, Mr. Wayne. But it was a kindness I’ve never forgotten.”

“There is no need to thank me,” Bruce said.

“There is,” Cordelia’s mother said. “You gave me a second chance. I didn’t deserve it.”

Bruce did not deny this.

“You can thank me by making the most of it,” he said, and then nodded toward the party — and all the guests watching them like gossip-hungry vultures. “There are drinks. Food from one of the best caterers in Europe. And plenty of good people to reconnect with. Enjoy yourself.”

He was dismissing her.

Before she could even greet her daughter.

Cordelia wanted to throw something.

Luckily, her nephew had more tact.

“Excuse me,” he said, stepping forward just enough to get her attention. “I don’t think we’ve met. My name is Dick. I’m Bruce’s son.”

He extended his hand for her to shake. Cordelia’s mother hesitated ever so slightly, before taking it.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hi.” Dick’s smile was full of charm. He gestured toward Cordelia after their handshake was over, ignoring Bruce’s stare at the side of his head. “And this is Cordelia Wayne, Bruce’s cousin. The reason we’re all here.”

Cordelia’s mother followed his gesture like a sleepy bee floating from one flower to the next; full of detachment, simply going with the motions. But when her gaze finally — finally, finally, finally — landed on her daughter… it felt as if someone had pressed a stun gun right to Cordelia’s brain.

Those eyes.

They were different. Blurred and uninterested. Vacant. But they were her eyes.

Cordelia had forgotten the small details: the flecks of darker blue around the edges, the curled quality to her lashes, the way she made sure to look at every detail on the face of the person she was speaking to. But Cordelia hadn’t forgotten how much she missed them. How, after she’d died, it had taken great effort not to stay in bed for the rest of her life trying to remember what it felt like to be seen by her mother.

To be hugged by her.

Cordelia took a step forward, hardly knowing what for, but feeling an overwhelming need to be close — and was stopped.

Bruce and Dick, as one, had grabbed her arms.

Cordelia’s mother noticed.

Dick’s smile became awkward. “But I’m sure you recognize Cordelia’s name. It was on the invitation.”

Cordelia’s mother was still staring at the hands on her daughter’s arms as she replied, “I recognize her name from more than just the invitation.”

This surprised them — and filled Cordelia with hope.

“You do?” She asked, awed.

Her mother met her gaze once again. Her attention felt like a caress.

“I do,” she confirmed. “Your name has been all over the newspapers lately.”

A stab of disappointment went through Cordelia, who had thought, for just a moment, that she was remembered. But that feeling quickly dashed away when her mother took two steps closer to her.

“May I?” She asked.

Cordelia did not know what she was asking for, but it did not matter. She would have said yes to anything. So, slowly, she nodded, and was rewarded with feeling ten cool fingertips settle gently on her face.

Bruce’s hand spasmed around her elbow.

“You are very beautiful,” her mother said as her thumb slid over Cordelia’s cheekbones and her pinkies followed the line of Cordelia’s jaw, tracing her features in an analytical daze. “You Waynes have such wonderful genes.”

“Thank you,” Cordelia murmured.

Her chest felt warm. 

Her mother smelled like strawberries.

Bruce was watching them both closely, as tense as a taut wire.

“It’s amazing, how much beauty your bloodline carries,” her mother’s words were wistful. “I used to think it was such a shame how devoted Thomas Wayne was to Martha. She became barren, you know. That’s why she only gave him one child.”

“That’s a rumor,” Bruce said sharply.

Cordelia’s mother flinched delicately at the sound, but otherwise remained unfazed.

“Maybe,” she murmured. Her fingers tilted Cordelia’s chin up like she was a doll her mother was considering for purchase. “There is always the possibility that I started the rumor myself. I used to be so catty back then, especially when it came to handsome men like Thomas.”

Bruce, apparently, was furious beyond words.

Dick cleared his throat. “Um… I don’t think we caught your name, Miss….”

“Alicia,” Cordelia’s mother said. “Alicia Hunt.”

Absent-mindedly, she turned Cordelia’s face to the side to better review the slope of her nose, completely unaware of the glittering gemstone that she’d just dropped right into her daughter’s lap.

Alicia.

That was her mother’s name. That was who she was — beyond being the woman who’d given birth to Cordelia, she’d been a person. A human. A name. Someone that Thomas had tried to erase, just like he’d tried to erase Cordelia.

And now they were here. In Wayne Manor. With Bruce. With Alfred. Two survivors of her father’s cruelty.

A family… reunited.

Cordelia wanted nothing more than to break away from Bruce’s and Dick’s grips on her arms, to curl against her mother in a hug and to tell her everything. And not just about the timeline switch or the pain her father had subjected her to, but everything. How much Cordelia loved her. How she hadn’t dared to even consider the idea that her mother might have been alive in this timeline — because losing her mother twice would be something that she didn’t think she could recover from.

But she couldn’t.

Because her mother did not know her.

And Cordelia could not put herself before Bruce’s family.

So, instead, with lips that quivered from suppressed emotion, Cordelia said, “I like your name.”

Alicia’s eyes flashed to her own, temporarily pausing in her inspection of Cordelia’s face to acknowledge her words.

“Thank you,” she said, and then continued, “I’ve been watching you.”

Cordelia’s chest ached with longing. “You have?”

“In the newspapers,” Alicia nodded slowly. “Ever since that first article, when they told the world your name.”

That felt impossible: the idea that her mother had known about her before Cordelia had known about her mother. But so many things in Cordelia’s life were impossible — so she held fast to hope.

“It’s a special name that your parents gave you,” Alicia said. “Do you know what it means?”

Cordelia shook her head mutely, eyes as wide as they used to be when she was a child listening to every story her mother fabricated and recalled.

“It’s unknown in origin,” Alicia explained, and took special interest in the lobes of Cordelia’s ears as she did. “If you ask the Welsh, they would tell you that it means the ‘jewel of the sea.’ And if you ask the French, they would tell you that it means ‘heart of a lion.’ But if you ask the Latins, which none of us can do, then they would say that it means ‘heart.’”

Cordelia felt hungry. Her mother had never told her this before — or maybe she had, but Cordelia had forgotten.

“What do you think it means?” She asked.

“I don’t know,” Alicia said. Her eyes were squinted; her fingers were gently tugging at Cordelia’s earlobes. “I’ve never been much of a scholar, but I do like to write. And if I were rewriting the history of Cordelia, then I would say that the very first girl that was born with that name had a mother who loved her very much. So much that she could not call her anything else but her heart.”

Could she hear Cordelia’s own heart pumping painfully in her chest? Could she hear it cry out for her, begging her to know without having to be told, what all this conversation truly meant?

She must have, because what she said next sounded as if she’d read Cordelia’s very mind.

“I’ve always wanted a daughter,” Alicia admitted.

Her whisper was as low and calming as a wind’s breeze.

It reminded Cordelia of the days they spent lying in the park grass, staring up at the clouds and making up stories that would never happen. Like Batman coming to their rescue, and fame turning them into princesses. Like a world where Cordelia got to grow up with her, and learn from her, and walk into every party by her side.

There was nostalgia to these memories. But also peace. Because even with all the heartache and longing — even with the discovery that Bruce had been lying to Cordelia since the moment they met — Cordelia, for the first time in years, did not feel the sting of loss whenever she thought of those moments from her past.

Instead, she felt… whole.

Which was why it was so alarming when the fingernails at her earlobes suddenly pinched into her skin.

“Cordelia…” Alicia said, her eyes no longer vacant or dreamy, but laser-focused and intense. “You have my mother’s ears.”

The fingernails pierced her, spilling blood.

Cordelia let out a cry of surprised pain. 

And that was Bruce’s last straw.

With a powerful yank, he tore Cordelia away from both Alicia and Dick, and shoved her behind him protectively. Cordelia, too stunned at the blood now dripping down her neck, let him.

“Why did you do that?” Dick demanded, looking between Cordelia’s bleeding ears and Alicia’s dazed expression. “Why did you poke holes into her ears?”

“I don’t know,” Alicia said, but it sounded as if she were talking more to herself than Dick. “My mother’s ears… my daughter’s ears… my ears… her ears….”

Their guests were no longer trying to be subtle with their staring. All around the room, people were crowding closer, trying to make sense of what they’d just seen: a strange woman in a mask attacking Bruce Wayne’s newest ward.

Cordelia, more emotionally hurt than physically, timidly touched her earlobes and tried to make sense of it herself.

Had she done something wrong?

Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see Damian, Cass, Stephanie, and Tim break through the crowd to join Cordelia at her side.

“What just happened?” Stephanie asked.

“Bleeding,” Cass winced sympathetically, and pressed a stolen napkin onto Cordelia’s wounds.

Damian and Tim took their places on either side of Dick, arms crossed.

“Ms. Hunt, I didn’t invite you into my home so that you could hurt my family,” Bruce said coolly.

“…my ears, her ears…. my daughter…. gone…. gone…. gone….”

“She’s experiencing a psychotic break,” Tim said.

Cordelia did not want that to be true — and she especially didn’t want Tim to say it — but it was hard to deny when she caught sight of what her mother was doing. Alicia, who had been a bit dreamy before, but otherwise elegant and in control, was now smearing Cordelia’s blood across the lobes of her own ears, and muttering to herself over and over again.

“…dead… dead… dead… my little heart…. gone… gone… gone for good…. His fault… my fault…. all my fault….”

“What do we do, Father?” Damian asked, caught between a scowl and unease.

Bruce did not answer immediately. He was looking Alicia up and down, measuring just how much of a break this was, before glancing back at Cordelia and at the blood Cass was cleaning away with great care.

“Are you okay?” He asked.

Cordelia could only stare at him in pale, wide-eyed shock.

Her mother had hurt her. Right here, in front of everyone, she’d made her bleed.

Why would she do that to her?

Bruce’s expression darkened as he turned back to the blonde, shivering woman in front of him. “I’ll prepare a ride for you, Ms. Hunt. Maybe coming to this party was too much of a change.”

“…dead…. dying…. gone….”

She was too out of it to care.

Bruce laid a heavy hand on Alicia’s shoulder and guided the mumbling woman back toward the exit.

Cordelia, meanwhile, could barely register anything beyond the fact that her ears were bleeding and her mother had been the one to wound her.

Her mother.

Her mother… was not supposed to hurt her.

“Hey, are you okay?” Stephanie asked.

Her hand touching Cordelia’s elbow felt like acid. Cordelia shook her off and shuffled away.

“Just give her some space,” Dick was saying. “Cordelia, let’s get you out of here. Come on.”

He was grabbing her, too. But Cordelia did not want to be grabbed. She wanted to return to her mother, to get an explanation, to know what she’d done to set her off.

Shakily, Cordelia pushed by her nephew to try to follow her brother and her mother out of the door.

Dick was not having it.

“You’re not going near her right now, Cordelia,” he was saying. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t think you two are good for each other. At least not for now.”

“You can’t keep me away from her,” Cordelia heard herself say. “She’s my mom.”

“She hurt you.”

“No.”

“Cordelia,” Dick sounded sad, “you’re bleeding.”

“A lot,” Cass added.

A blood-soaked napkin was held underneath Cordelia’s nose. She felt bile rising in her throat.

“I’ve hurt you all worse,” she forced herself to say. “These are nothing compared to what I did.”

“It isn’t the same,” Dick said, hesitantly. “You’re a kid, Cordelia. And, as much as we pretend, you’re not really an authority figure to any of us.”

“Yes, I am,” Cordelia said. “I’m your aunt.”

Faces were beginning to blur together, but that didn’t stop Cordelia from seeing the way her nephews and niece glanced between one another awkwardly. Communicating in the way that they did that always reminded Cordelia that she was new here, an outsider, and that they shared experiences that she never could.

“I’m your aunt,” Cordelia repeated, voice cracking.

Dick’s hand was warm and comforting on her shoulder.

“You’re fifteen,” he said, as gently as someone speaking to a child. “You’re… like a sister to us. A… little sister.”

“No.”

“We must retreat,” Damian interrupted. “The wench brought too much attention to our family.”

“We’re just going to assume that by ‘wench’ you mean the woman that Bruce dragged out of here,” Stephanie said.

“Tt. Obviously.”

Their bickering was turning into background noise. And their faces were turning into blank walls of nothing. All Cordelia could see and hear was Dick as he squeezed her shoulder and offered her a sympathetic smile.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m going to take you to the sitting room, and we can decide what to do next when we get there. Okay?”

“I want to see my mom,” Cordelia told him.

“If that’s what you want, then we’ll find a way,” he said. “I have your back, Cordelia. Remember that.”

He did. He did have her back.

Except for the times when he didn’t.

But she couldn’t think about that. Those times were in the past — like her mother used to be — Dick had proven himself to be trustworthy, dependable, a shoulder to lean on. If she started to doubt him, then she’d have to start doubting almost everyone else.

Everyone except Alfred.

She really wanted Alfred.

“I’m taking her to the sitting room,” Dick sounded like he was speaking from underwater. “Tim, you worry about damage control here.”

“I already covered that,” Tim said. “Right now, a rumor is spreading that Alicia Hunt wanted to get an exclusive interview with Bruce Wayne’s newest ward. They’ll draw their own conclusions on why their actual meeting went south.”

“You were suspiciously ready with that lie,” Stephanie said.

There was a tinge of distrust in her tone that echoed in Cordelia’s heart.

“Enough,” Dick said. “We’re in mixed company. If you want to stay, stay. If you want to come, come. But don’t follow me to cause problems, or you’re out.”

“Might as well leave Drake here now,” Damian sniped.

It was the sort of drama-inducing statement that Cordelia was sure Dick was trying to avoid, but — for whatever reason — he let the comment slide. Instead focusing on gathering Cordelia close, rubbing her back as her breathing began to hike, and guiding her away from the crowd.

She tried to get herself under control in the process. But it was difficult when she could hear the buzz of their guests behind her, and could feel the stares of her nephews and niece on her back as Dick rushed her through the darkened hallways of the manor.

It became even more difficult when she realized that her lack of control was probably what caused them to lose respect for her as their aunt.

Before long, her breathing got worse.

Wheezing, panicked sounds were escaping from her throat by the time they made it to the sitting room, and Dick had prompted her to sit next to the open window.

“Breathe, it’s okay,” Dick was saying, completely unaware of the fact that Cordelia couldn’t breathe. He had his hand in hers, letting her grip his tightly enough that her knuckles were pale. “Dam, can you get her some water?”

She didn’t hear a response from her tiniest nephew, so she assumed that he refused.

Even more panicked and ashamed, she leaned her head out of the window and tried her hardest to let the cool air wash away everything wrong with her.

“Sssh,” Cass said. A hand brushed the sweaty hair from Cordelia’s forehead. “We understand.”

“Totally,” Stephanie said. “I had a panic attack last night.”

“Why?” Tim asked.

“I couldn’t find my left shoe,” Stephanie said. “I hate it when that happens.”

“You guys aren’t helping,” Dick said sharply.

“I’m just saying that she has a perfectly reasonable excuse to panic,” Stephanie said. “That lady was crazy.”

“That lady was her mother,” Dick said.

“…Oh. Wait — didn’t Bruce say —?”

“Lied,” Cass said, still brushing the hair from Cordelia’s forehead. “To us all.”

“He lied about someone’s mother not existing? And you didn’t catch it with your… you know, superpower?”

“Not a superpower,” Cass said.

“Do I need to repeat the rules I made earlier?” Dick said. “If you’re not here to help, then get out.”

“Right,” Stephanie said. “Sorry.”

Cordelia wanted to jump out of the window; to land in the flower bed and bury herself underneath the soil. Maybe then she would have the opportunity to grow into something more proud.

Not this pathetic, wheezing mess that was having a panic attack over a couple of bleeding ears.

And then, almost as if her body had decided to take revenge on her brain for thinking such a thing, the edges of her vision began to darken.

“She’s about to pass out,” Tim told them.

“Where’s Damian with the water?” Dick demanded.

“Are we sure he even went to get it?” Stephanie asked. “For all we know, the twerp went straight to bed —“

A door was pushed open, and her criticism was silenced.

“It’s nice to know you have such faith in me, Brown,” Damian said snidely.

The clicking of dress shoes got louder and louder as Cordelia’s youngest nephew approached her. And then, without pomp or ceremony, a clear glass of ice water was shoved a few inches from her lips.

“Drink,” Damian ordered. “Or we will make you.”

“Damian,” Dick sounded seconds away from tearing his hair out. But he didn’t, he began a lecture instead, and Cordelia… passed out before she could hear it.

Notes:

For those of you who aren't familiar with Alicia Hunt: please, don't worry.

You don't need to know anything about her to understand my story, because everything important about who she is will be explained in the chapters. And because my Alicia Hunt won't be the exact same as the canon version, anyways. So - you don't have to do extra research, you can just enjoy!

But, if you do like to do research: Alicia Hunt is a character that appears in Tim Burton's 1989 Batman movie. She plays a very small role as the Joker's mistress, and ends up paying the price for it by the time the movie ends.

Chapter 58: Bruce's Secret

Summary:

“No.” Cordelia stood up from the couch, leaving Little Heart behind to back away. “Everything can’t — everything can’t lead back to the Joker.”

Notes:

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Murder, death of a child, domestic abuse, child abuse

When Cordelia came to, she was no longer hanging out of the window, nor was she in a bizarre half-world of panic.

In fact, for the first time in a long while, Cordelia was… awake.

Lying on top of a plump sofa and beneath a rough-textured quilt, she felt and remembered and heard everything. The feel of thin, feminine fingers picking the diamond pins from her hair; the memory of her mother dancing with her around a small kitchen island, and another of the same woman pinching her ears until they bled; and then, most importantly, she heard the sound of her brother pacing a few feet away from her, as he lectured his children in low, heated tones.

“I told you to look after her,” Bruce said roughly.

“I did,” Dick snapped. “She’s here. She’s safe. What else can you expect from me?”

“More than this,” Bruce said.

Cordelia peeled her eyes open. The lashes clung together like they feared abandonment and the lids were coated with dried tears. Above her, the ceiling was plain and unremarkable.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Dick said. “You really have the nerve to lecture me after we found out about this huge secret you’ve kept from us?”

“Contrary to what you think, Dick: I do not have to tell you everything that I know.”

Cordelia’s eyes rolled in the direction of the voices.

They’d placed her on the longest sofa in the sitting room, across from their newly painted family portrait. Bruce and Dick were standing nose-to-nose; Dick’s face as red as the fire roaring in the fireplace, and Bruce’s as cold as the wind rattling the open window panes. 

“And how did not telling me about Alicia Hunt work out for you, Bruce? Did everything go according to plan?”

“You would have told Cordelia the moment you knew the truth.”

“Is that what you think?” Dick’s jaw was tight with restrained violence. “After all this time, after everything we’ve gone through, you think I wouldn’t at least consider your reasons?”

There were more people in the room. Tim and Stephanie and Damian and Cass stayed stock still like spectators in various places; Tim by the window, Stephanie near the door, Damian behind his father, and Cass on the armchair next to Cordelia.

None of them appeared alarmed by the slowly building fight right in front of them.

And neither did Cordelia.

Especially as it went on, and it became clear to her that Dick was not upset about the secret… he was upset that he hadn’t been in on it.

“I couldn’t take that risk,” Bruce said. “This was too important.”

“What was too important?” Dick asked, exasperated. “You still haven’t told me why you’ve kept this secret for so long. And don’t tell me it’s because you wanted to stay in custody of Cordelia, because we both know you’ve been trying to get rid of her since Barry Allen dropped her on your doorstep.”

“Careful,” Bruce snapped. “She’s —“

“Passed out,” Dick said, and then jabbed a finger into his father’s chest with enough strength to bruise. “From a panic attack that you caused.”

Bruce swiped his hand away, irritation coloring his features. Cordelia wasn’t sure if this was because of the shifting blame, but she knew that some of it, at least, was because Dick had touched him.

Thomas would have broken the offending finger. He probably would have smashed the entire hand.

Bruce looked seconds away from exploding.

At least, he did — until Cass spoke up.

“Not passed out,” she said. “Awake. And watching.”

Was it betrayal for Cass to point this out, or inconvenience? It was difficult to tell with Cass. Her sentences were too short to leave much for analysis.

But Cordelia supposed it did not matter. In this entire situation, it was not Cass who committed the biggest betrayal. It was one of the men by the fire. Both of whom had turned toward her with looks of twin panic.

“Cordelia,” Bruce said tightly. “How are you feeling?”

How was she feeling? Exhausted, as she always felt after a panic attack. Betrayed, as anyone would feel after waking up to such a conversation.

But… mostly… angry.

Because after everything — after meeting her dead mother and soaking in her compliments and recoiling from her attack — two words kept pulsing in Cordelia’s brain like an angry, adrenaline-filled heartbeat: Bruce knew.

A vase soared through the air and smashed into the wall just an inch away from Bruce’s head.

“Cordelia!” Dick said, scandalized.

She reached for another item to throw, but Cass was quick to pluck all of Alfred’s china out from her reach.

Perhaps it was a good thing that she’d done that, since Bruce was carrying Little Heart. And even though Cordelia had excellent aim, and hadn’t meant for the vase to hit anything but the wall, the small lamb was screaming in fright at the sharp noise.

“Put her down,” Cordelia commanded.

She was on her feet, although she had no memory of standing up.

Bruce eyed her cautiously. “She wants to be held.”

It was true. Little Heart, in her fear, had flattened herself against Bruce’s chest; her dainty black hooves reaching up to cling to the shoulders of her strongest protector.

“Then give her to me,” Cordelia said.

It was for the best that he listened. If he hadn’t, Cordelia was sure that she would have found something else to throw in his direction. A throw pillow, perhaps. Or maybe a high heeled shoe.

But he did. Walking over the space of the carpet, Bruce deposited Little Heart into her mother’s arms, and watched quietly as the lamb scrambled around to make herself comfortable. The weight of the lamb, and the feel of a wet nose sniffing at her bandaged ear, was enough to calm the rapid beating of Cordelia’s heart.

However, it was not enough to soothe her rage.

“You knew,” Cordelia said, the words hard and accusatory.

Bruce’s expression hardened in response. “I did.”

“For how long?”

“Since the first day you arrived.” He spoke as if in an interrogation room. As if she were a detective on his case, and she’d finally laid out enough evidence to prompt his confession. “After Alfred showed you to your room, I went to the BatCave and did a DNA test to see if you were who you said you were. Four people showed up as your relatives: Dad, me, Damian… and your mother.”

“Alicia Hunt,” Cordelia said.

“Hm,” Bruce grunted a reluctant confirmation.

“And you decided that I didn’t have a right to know that she was alive?” Cordelia demanded. “That she even existed in this timeline?”

Over the past few months, Cordelia had learned a lot about Bruce. She learned that he was incredibly generous and uniquely kind; that he was a gruff but attentive father, and an even better big brother. She learned that he was easy to anger, but that his anger never dissolved into violence. That he was subtle with most things, but never subtle when it came to gift giving.

Tonight, she also learned that he had the power to be infuriating without trying.

“You never asked,” he said.

Cordelia saw red.

But before she could act on it, Dick was standing at their sides with hands on each of their shoulders.

“Okay, we should calm down,” he said, hypocritically. “Cordelia, I understand how you must be feeling. Angry. Betrayed. Wondering if you can even trust him —“

“Dick,” Bruce snapped.

“—but, sometimes, B has reasons for why he does what he does,” Dick continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “Let’s just… hear him out.”

Cordelia had no desire to hear Bruce out.

He had kept her mother from her. Not only that, but he had also kept her mother’s name from her.

All this time, Cordelia had tried her best to keep her mother’s memory locked in the deepest parts of her mind. She tried to avoid thinking about her, because she knew that after years of suppressing her grief in fear of being a less effective Batgirl for her father, she would crumble underneath the weight of it. And there Bruce had been, with the key to chase away her darkest demon, and he’d hidden it from her.

Worse: he’d hidden it from her since the very beginning. 

While she had been petrified of him, while she had skirted around his anger and wallowed in her room with the ache of loneliness, he had kept the secret that there had always been another option for her.

Cordelia shook Dick’s hand off of her shoulder.

She would not be told to calm down. She would not be told how much the others understood her.

Because they didn’t. No one did.

Only Cordelia understood what it was like to be dragged into a completely different timeline, dropped into a stranger’s lap, and told that the only access to a family she had was through her worst fear: Batman himself.

All those weeks she spent in fear for her safety, investigating Bruce, abandoning Batgirl, working through her trauma — were things that she never had to do.

And Bruce knew that.

“I don’t want to hear anything from him,” Cordelia seethed, then rounded on her brother. “Give me all the files you have on my mother.”

Everyone looked to Bruce, who pressed his lips together. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Cordelia said.

“Because there aren’t any files on her.”

Another lie. Another half truth.

Cordelia made to go around him, to get to his office computer and steal the files for herself, when Bruce stepped in front of her.

“Move,” she said coldly.

“You won’t find anything,” Bruce replied, unintimidated. “Not in the BatCave, and not in any computer or database you search. I wiped her history away.”

“Do you really expect me to believe that?” Cordelia demanded. “That Batman doesn’t have backup files for every person who’s caught his interest? There’s something on her in the Cave. I know there is. That’s how Tim found her.”

Tim jolted guiltily at the mention of his name.

Cordelia rounded on him, blue eyes narrowed into slits. “Tell me what you found. Then tell me where you found it.”

Tim opened his mouth to answer, but Bruce spoke before he could.

“He wouldn’t have found much more than her name,” Bruce said. “If he’d seen more, then he wouldn’t have dared to send her an invite to this party.”

This time, it was Bruce who sent his son a narrowed look.

Tim had enough sense to look cowed.

Cordelia, again, tried to walk around Bruce to get to his office — but Bruce took another step sideways.

“Get out of my way.”

“No,” Bruce said, so calm that Cordelia wanted to set fire to his desk and everything he held dear. “You’re emotional. You just had a panic attack. You need to sit down before you work yourself into a second one.”

Then, as if he hadn’t said something so offensive that Cordelia’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, he turned to Tim.

“Go to the kitchen,” he said, “make us some tea. Chamomile. To calm the nerves.”

“But —” Tim started.

“Tim,” Dick cut in with a leveled stare. “You owe her.”

Cordelia did not feel as if Tim owed her a single thing. If anything, she owed him, since his meddling was the only reason why she found out about her mother. But Dick’s words quieted the boy, albeit reluctantly, before he trudged silently across the room, passed Stephanie, and headed toward the kitchen.

“I don’t want tea,” Cordelia said as the door clicked shut. “I want detailed, unbiased files on my mother.”

“I can’t give you what doesn’t exist,” Bruce said.

“But he can give you the next best thing,” Dick butted in. “The truth.”

Cordelia let out a mean scoff. “You mean his truth.”

Dick hesitated, not used to hearing her sound so scathing toward her brother. “…It’s all we have.”

“That’s a lie.” Cordelia might as well be spitting fire. The only thing that held her back from ripping her own hair out was the fact that Little Heart was snuggling warmly in the tangle of her arms. “Batman would never wipe away so much information. It goes against everything he believes. He’s stored it somewhere. Somewhere he thinks I won’t be able to reach.”

She could see from the eyes of Bruce’s children — and the way that they all glanced between themselves — that they agreed with her. That this Batman, like her father, was not someone who ever thought destroying knowledge was the right route to take.

Bruce, himself, did not deny that assessment of his character, either.

“I normally wouldn’t,” he admitted. “I would sooner hide it inside one of my more encrypted files and bar you from access. But you were a stranger to me back then. All I knew about you was that you were trained by Batman, that you survived an apocalyptic Gotham at a young age, and that you might have gained hacking skills far superior to mine in the process. I couldn’t take the chance of you finding this out. I had to get rid of everything. Now, the only information about Alicia Hunt you will find is within my own memory and decades old newspaper articles that will take years for you to find and recover.”

Cordelia didn’t believe him. Or, she felt like she shouldn’t, considering how often he lied to her. But the large part of her who always trusted in Batman’s word fought against those instincts.

She stepped away, retreating further into the sitting room with Little Heart, determined to get her thoughts in order. 

To separate what she was feeling with what she knew.

For one, she knew that Bruce was not going to let her leave this room to investigate. He’d already blocked her from leaving twice, and was not showing signs of changing his mind. For another, she knew that if she did try to leave this room, then she would have to do so with a fight. Something that she could not do with Little Heart in her arms.

So, with no other options, there was only one thing left to do: make use of the time.

Make use of Bruce’s attention.

Make use of Dick’s curiosity.

Behind her, Dick was already asking the question she would have asked if she wasn’t so distrustful of the answers.

“Why go through all that trouble?” He asked. “What about Alicia Hunt’s history needed to be hidden?”

Bruce’s reply was annoyed. “Not now.”

“Yes now,” Dick said, equally annoyed. “We need answers. And if what you’re saying about wiping her history is true, then you’re wrong: you are not the only source of that information.”

So is my mother, Cordelia thought.

“So is Alicia Hunt,” Dick stated.

“She’s unreliable,” Bruce said, and there was a bite to his tone that revealed just how unhappy he was with his son for pointing that out. “You saw her. Her mental stability is hanging on by a thread.”

“I don’t know if you noticed, Bruce, but you’re not exactly a reliable source, either,” Dick said critically. “Especially to her.”

Cordelia could feel several pairs of eyes on her as she stared out the open window into the night. There were people at their gates; women in puffy dresses and men in dark tuxedos. She could hear laughter in the distance, and could see as they drunkenly danced with one another like they’d done in the ballroom.

They were probably talking about Cordelia.

Perhaps they knew something about Alicia Hunt, too.

The only way to know was to ask.

The sitting room door clicked open again. A quick glance behind her let Cordelia know that Tim had returned early with a tray of tea cups and a pot.

“What happened?” Tim asked immediately.

His paranoia at the thought of missing important information was obvious. Cordelia couldn’t help thinking that, if she had the same thirst for knowledge, then none of what occurred tonight would have happened.

None of what occurred in the past few months would have happened.

She never would have met Jerome and Ronny. She never would have had to sacrifice Batgirl for a family. She never would have found herself trapped and beaten at the bottom of a bunker by some crazed clown who vaguely resembled her step mother.

She would be living with her real mother; calming her mind when it strayed, and bonding with her when it didn’t.

She would be experiencing a parent’s love for the first time in ten long years.

So lost in her what if’s, Cordelia almost missed Dick’s answer to Tim’s question: “Bruce was just about to tell us everything.”

There was a slight pause as everyone waited for Bruce to push back on that, but that wasn’t what happened. Instead, Bruce’s quiet footsteps sounded and drew near to Cordelia’s place in front of the window.

She tensed, unsure of what to expect, but all Bruce did was kneel down so that she had to look down to meet his eyes.

“I’ll tell you everything,” he said, surprising her. His voice, so hard and unapologetic before, was now as soft as if they were the only two people in the room. He grabbed the hand that was not holding Little Heart and ignored the way she tried to twitch away from him. “I swear.”

She should not trust this act. It came from nowhere, and thus, could only be a strategic performance from Batman and not her brother.

But he appeared sympathetic. His hand in hers was as gentle as if he were handling the delicate roots of a flower. And the memory of holding his hand down in the Cave, and carefully turning it over so that she could compare the details of it to their father’s, still lingered in the space behind her eyes.

She glanced down.

The hand had some more scarring than before. Long nights out in Gotham, without her to protect him, had not all been successes.

It was hard not to let her anger waver.

To remember that these were the hands that had carried her out from the Joker’s bunker and had wrapped so tightly around her when the explosions went off. To remember that, after her mother died, it had been Bruce who provided her a home to be happy in. Not her father, not Barry, not even Alfred — but Bruce.

Cordelia hesitated. Over his head and across the room, she could see their family portrait hanging above the mantelpiece. A reminder of everything else Bruce provided for her.

“You’ll tell me the entire truth?” Cordelia asked.

She made sure to keep her suspicion obvious and cutting, but Bruce searched her face, and must have seen her begrudging desire to forgive, because the worried tightness around his eyes lessened when he answered: “You have my word.”

His word was not worth much. For now, however, it was all she had. So Cordelia nodded slowly, and allowed Bruce to lead her away from the window and to the sofa.

Around them, Stephanie and his children quickly scrambled to find their own places to sit or stand.

“You need to drink tea,” Bruce said it like an order, even as he poured the tea himself and tried to push it into Cordelia’s hands.

“I don’t like chamomile,” she said.

“Alfred said that it was your favorite,” Bruce said.

“Not anymore.”

Tim’s expression looked pinched.

Bruce seemed to share in his displeasure. “Cordelia —“

“She doesn’t want tea, B,” Dick said, crossing his arms. “Leave it alone and start talking.”

It wasn’t the most gracious thing to say, and Cordelia could see Damian bristle at the clear disrespect shown to his father, but it was effective. Because after a few short breaths, Bruce stopped trying to force the teacup into Cordelia’s hands and finally started to tell the truth.

————————————————————————————

“The first time I heard of Alicia Hunt,” Bruce said, “I was a young man still at school.

Alicia was a fashion model. A good one. She was beautiful, poised, charming. All the young women were dressing like her. I don’t think there was a single luxury fashion magazine that she hadn’t posed on the cover of, either.

“But what made her most interesting was the fact that she was Gotham-born.

“The world couldn’t believe that someone like her could come from a place like this. Every time anyone heard of Gotham, it was for crime. Murders. Assaults. Thefts. And then, suddenly, for producing one of the most sought after faces in the United States.

“It caused an uproar. Everyone wanted to learn more about her, to meet her, to see her in more magazines, and to invite her to more fashion shows. She was a sensation. She was Gotham’s pride and joy.”

Bruce paused when he saw something flicker in Cordelia’s eye.

The others, sensing a change even though they hadn’t caught it themselves, glanced between them.

“What is it?” Stephanie finally asked. “Was your mother a famous model in your timeline, too?”

“No,” Cordelia said. “She wanted to be a famous writer for fashion magazines, but… she died before she could achieve that.”

It was nice to know that her mother succeeded here when she couldn’t back then.

In her mind’s eye, Cordelia could remember watching her mother chase after fame like a hungry hound chased after a stray rabbit. Alicia had written endless articles, gone to endless parties, networked with an endless cycle of upper class misters and misses, all in a seemingly futile effort to gain the type of celebrity that Bruce was describing so casually.

Knowing that, in this timeline, Alicia had finally caught fame — no, that she’d more than caught it: she’d found fame’s burrow and devoured its entire family — made Cordelia feel almost… proud.

“A model?” Tim repeated, frowning at Bruce. “I’ve never heard of her.”

Stephanie elbowed him hard in the ribs. “You’re already skating on thin ice here, Tim. Maybe don’t play the ‘I’m a Drake’ card so loudly.”

“That isn’t what I’m doing,” Tim said, rubbing his side with annoyance. “If Alicia Hunt was that famous, then any of us would have heard of her. Like Bruce said, it’s not like Gotham breeds many world-renowned celebrities.”

That was true. At least, it was in Cordelia’s timeline.

She glared at Bruce distrustfully. “Are you lying to me again?”

“No,” Bruce frowned. “But I’m not surprised that not one of you have heard of her. Alicia’s star didn’t burn bright for long.”

Cordelia, who was completely over Bruce’s secrecy, snapped, “Why not.”

Bruce sent Tim a look as if Cordelia’s tone was his fault, before answering, “Because she ended up betraying the wrong person, and that ruined everything for her.”

Damian had been watching the room like a bored house cat watching the dogs play, but this hint at a darker story made his green eyes alight with interest.

“It was international news when your mother married, Cordelia,” Bruce said. “Alicia Hunt was to become Mrs. Carl Grissom, a third wife to one of the wealthiest men in the world. Everyone thought he was catch. He showered her with gifts, sent her on luxurious trips around the world. But, by then, I’d started to get invites to the same types of parties that they went to. I saw how they treated each other when the cameras weren’t watching. Grissom neglected her — resented her, even — and Alicia was not the sort of woman who tolerated being neglected.”

Bruce hesitated, briefly, to gauge Cordelia’s reaction.

Cordelia, knowing that one sign of weakness from her would make her brother stop talking completely, kept her stare narrowed and cold.

“Two years after their wedding, the news broke out: Alicia Hunt was having several affairs behind Grissom’s back,” Bruce said. “I was enrolled in university at the time. I had no interest in Gotham’s celebrity gossip. I was more interested in the underground stories; the pimps, the gangsters, the trafficking. Who was killed and who was on trial for murder. Whoever Alicia Hunt was cheating on her husband with would have never been something that I bothered to look further into.

“So I don’t have an answer on who they were.

“All I do know, was that the affairs were enough for Alicia to lose everything. Her home. Her husband. Her reputation. And her career.

“Grissom had made their divorce so public that no one wanted to work with her. He smeared her name in the press, he made sure all the damaging court documents were released, and I have no doubt that he was also pulling strings from behind the scenes when it came to smothering her modeling career.

“He ended up doing such an effective job that the very last time I saw her face on a newspaper was in the Gotham Gazette, of all things. It was on page nine. The article provided the details of her divorce and made sure to mention that Grissom had won everything.

“Since then, no one in Gotham mentioned her name again, too ashamed of their fallen star to remind anyone of them. And everyone outside of Gotham moved on.

“I did, too.

“Models come-and-go all the time. It didn’t matter to me who was in the spotlight and who wasn’t. All that mattered was learning martial arts, learning how to be a better detective. Learning how to be someone that could stop crime in Gotham city. I —“

Cordelia cursed herself.

She’d cracked. Worry — paranoid, frenzied worry — had revealed itself.

And Bruce had noticed.

“What’s wrong?” He asked.

The others turned to her with the same eery, stripping-the-skin-off-the-bone type of analytical stare that Bruce had.

“What do you mean she lost everything?” Cordelia decided to ask. “She had her own career and — and money. She must have at least had one property and a few million to live off of.”

Maybe Bruce didn’t mean everything. Maybe he meant “everything” the way billionaires meant “everything.”

She hoped so. Because the thought of her mother, so thin and beautiful, alone in Gotham with no one to support her and no money to support herself was a terrifying thought. Especially considering what Cordelia knew of Gotham, and what she had experienced herself.

The memory of Jerome’s greedy eyes and Ronny’s hateful glare felt like a chill down her spine. She hadn’t lasted one day out there on her own — and she was Batgirl.

“I’m sure she saved enough to live comfortably,” Stephanie said reasonably. “I mean, my mother doesn’t have ex-supermodel savings to live off of, but we still get by.”

“Bruce would take care of you if you didn’t,” Cordelia brushed aside Stephanie’s assurances with impatience. “My mom — who did she have? Doesn’t she have… we have… family here?”

“Part of her ‘charm’ back then was that she was a self-made orphan,” Bruce said. “Her parents died when she was young. She had no one.”

It was, perhaps, too much to hope for, but Cordelia felt disappointment all the same.

“Do you know anything about her living situation back then?” Dick asked Bruce quietly.

“I know that she took residency in the poorer side of Gotham,” Bruce admitted begrudgingly. “But I only discovered this after I returned, after I saw her again. I’m not sure if she lived there for the entirety of the time that I was away, or if she had to downsize after a few years of living middle class.”

Little Heart stirred in Cordelia’s lap. The young girl helped her lamb find a more comfortable position to hide everything that Bruce’s admission made her feel.

She could not picture her mother poor.

Even though they’d never had an excess of things, Thomas Wayne’s child support checks made sure that they had what they needed. A few apartment units around Europe, clothes for every season, enough food to never feel the ache of hunger, and extra spending money for treats and books and other things her mother liked.

Poverty was not something that Cordelia ever had to experience.

Yet her mother had. In this timeline. Because Thomas wasn’t around to take care of her, and Bruce hadn’t known that she would be someone with such close ties to his family.

“If this is too much for you,” Bruce grumbled, “then I can stop. We can make hot chocolate, watch a movie, and return to the topic when you’re ready.”

Tim looked baffled at his words, but Cordelia was not too proud to admit that the offer was tempting.

With a single nod, she could set this revelation aside for one more night. She could enjoy her time with Bruce’s family for a few hours, watching something funny as Little Heart fell asleep in her lap.

She could delay whatever horrors had been hiding inside of Bruce’s memory from escaping.

But Cordelia knew better.

If she gave Batman enough time to plan, he would find a way out of this. He would figure out a new way to lie, a new way to keep secrets.

He was probably doing that right now, as Cordelia collected herself.

So, despite her heart telling her to say yes — to say that she did want one more night of ignorance — she shook her head no.

“I can handle this,” she lied.

And Bruce… continued.

“It was a few years later before I returned to Gotham,” he said, “and a year after that when I set off a chain of events that I still regret to this very day.

“This was before you, Dick. Batman was new. And so were the criminals that I fought against. There were no Jokers or Riddlers. No Penguins. Just the everyday gang members and serial killers.

“I was still… finding my way. Trying to stomach the small crimes that I’d seen.

“I know it might be hard for you all to imagine, because you’ve been exposed to the worst of humanity for so long, but I wasn’t as hardened to it back then as I am today. Some of the things that we see nightly now, were enough to give me nightmares as a young man.”

He paused to take a sip out of the teacup he’d tried to give Cordelia.

She thought that — maybe — he was gripping the handle a little too tightly. But he started speaking before she could analyze the pale shade of his knuckles any further.

“I was doing the best that I could,” Bruce said. “There was no one else who seemed to care about Gotham as much as I did. The government had abandoned us long ago. The police seemed irreparably corrupt. The only person who knew about my secret was Alfred.

“In hindsight, Batman slipping up was inevitable. I just wish that my mistake hadn’t resulted in so much consequence.”

He was definitely gripping the handle of the teacup too tightly. 

Cordelia stared at the porcelain, almost expecting it to break.

“On a quiet night,” Bruce said, “I heard gunfire at Ace Chemical Plant.

“It was police gunfire. By then, I’d already trained my ears to recognize the pitch of the weapons that they used. But I convinced myself that this required further investigation, anyway.

“After all, the GCPD was full of criminals, too. There was no telling if the people they were shooting at needed to be stopped or were simply innocents who found themselves at the wrong place.

“So I investigated. I saw that the people the GCPD were shooting at were part of the Red Hood gang. I saw that two of the three were shot and killed. And I saw that the last of them, the skinniest and most scared, had managed to escape into the Plant.

“I pursued him. 

“I couldn’t tell you who he was or what he was doing there. He’d hidden his face with a red helmet. The only things I could hear from him were screams of terror that I was a monster. That he wanted me to stay away.

“But, as he was saying this, it was him who was backing away. And he kept backing away until he tripped over the side of a railing and fell into a vat of chemicals.”

Bruce looked down at his hands. One of them clenched and unclenched like he was re-imagining his memories, like he was thinking about what could have happened if he’d been quick enough to catch the man before he’d fallen.

“I waited for him to resurface,” Bruce said, voice full of dark regret, “but I waited in vain. He was gone, and it was my fault.

“It was only later, when I reviewed the footage of the cameras I kept around Ace Chemicals, that I realized he had resurfaced. The vat I’d seen him fall into were connected to pipes that dropped the acid into a nearby reservoir. He must have gotten sucked into them, and somehow had enough wherewithal to swim to shore.

“Through the cameras, I could see him choking out acid and water. I could see him convulse as he tried to get fresh air. And I could see him take off his helmet to get more space to breathe.

“I think the horror of what happened to him hit me before it hit him. A deathly white face. Toxic green hair. Blood red lips.

“He’d called Batman a monster before he fell. But as he stared into the reservoir and saw his own reflection stare back at him, I think he saw more of a monster in himself than he ever did in me.”

Bruce trailed off, lost in his own memory. Cordelia, meanwhile, was frowning.

Ace Chemicals. She’d heard of the place, of course. Martha Wayne had made it into her hideout on more than one occasion, liking to experiment with the acids and liking even more to dip her victims into the vats for fun. They used to come out of it not green-haired and pale-skinned, but shriveled and dying, sometimes even crumbling to dust.

But that had been Martha.

Martha was not Cordelia’s mother.

So Cordelia said: “I don’t understand. Why are you telling me how your Joker was created? What does this have to do with my mother?”

Bruce’s gaze broke away from his own hands to look across the room at his sister. In his thousand yard stare, she could see that he dreaded telling her the truth more than he dreaded recounting his mistake.

“It has everything to do with your mother, Cordelia,” he said, voice rough. “Because what I did that night, what I created, ended up hurting her in a way that I don’t think you will ever forgive me for.”

His words sent a ripple of fear down Cordelia’s spine, and did not leave the rest of the room unaffected, either.

“God, Bruce,” Dick said, alarmed. “What happened?”

Bruce didn’t respond immediately. He was too busy staring at Cordelia with a look that she would have called pleading if it was on anyone else’s face.

Her tongue felt like a cinderblock in her mouth.

Why was he looking at her like that? What did he want from her? Forgiveness for not catching the Joker before he fell? Forgiveness for still loving the Joker even after everything he’d done?

She could give it. She was sure that she could. Yet when she tried to say this, the words became stones caught in the back of her throat, and her lips stuck together like she’d eaten glue.

Bruce, seeing more in her eyes than she could ever verbalize, looked away.

“The footage that I watched was already a couple of hours old,” he said. “By the time that I arrived at the reservoir, the Joker was nowhere to be found. And since I didn’t have any knowledge of who he was before he became the Joker, there were no traces for me to follow. No last names. No home addresses….

“No family.

“It was like he’d appeared out of thin air. Like he had been nothing before gaining his new identity.

“But he did have an identity before the Joker. He had a last name. He had a home address.

“….And he had family.”

The idea of the Joker having a family before living a life of crime was not shocking to Cordelia, but it must have been for the others. She could see their surprise in the glances that they shot one another — and in the way wide, betrayed eyes shone up at Bruce from all corners of the room.

“You never told us any of this, Father,” Damian said quietly.

“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” Bruce said. “The very night Joker was born, he destroyed everything that was connected to the man that he used to be.”

“His family?” Cass asked.

For the briefest of moments, Bruce’s eyes found Cordelia’s — but he looked away before she could read too much into it.

“Yes,” he said.

“Who were they?” Tim asked. “What were their names?”

“You’re asking for information that I was incapable of discovering at the time,” Bruce said. “I was a new Batman, and that meant rough gadgets. The cameras I hung up around Gotham were few and far in between. The databases I was able to hack into were creations of local governments and companies. I was not the man that I am today.

“It was only two years later, when I met her, that I was able to connect some dots.”

“‘Her,” Stephanie repeated. “You mean Cordelia’s mother. Alicia Hunt.”

Bruce’s nod was slow and reluctant.

“I mean Alicia Hunt,” he confirmed. “But, when I saw her, she was not the woman I remembered her to be. Poverty had taken a lot from her. She was thin, pale, sickly, and… a mother.”

The stone caught in Cordelia’s throat grew twice as large, even as she told herself that it shouldn’t.

She’d suspected this. Ever since her mother’s breakdown in the ballroom, when she’d mentioned a girl — a daughter — Cordelia had suspected that her mother had a different kid in this timeline.

So there was no use feeling….

No use feeling replaced.

“After the creation of the Joker, I’d set up alarms around Ace Chemicals to avoid any future Jokers from appearing. It hardly came into any use. Mostly, I just intercepted a few teenagers from using the location as a…” Bruce, suddenly aware of Damian’s stare, grimaced and hurried past whatever he was going to say before, “I wasn’t expecting to find anything of note that night, either. Maybe a few teenagers. Maybe someone without a home. Not an ex-model that I hadn’t heard of since my college days.

“But when I got there, there she was, hovering near the same vat that the Joker had fallen into: Alicia Hunt.

“She was half-turned away from me, so I couldn’t be sure if she had a weapon on her, but I did see one thing that made my blood run cold.”

“What?” Tim asked, eyes hungry.

“A child,” Bruce answered, “in her arms and wrapped in a bundle.”

He paused to take another sip of his tea.

Cordelia saw him grimace behind the cup. Saw the paleness of his lips.

He didn’t want to talk about this.

He didn’t want to answer any of their questions.

And it wasn’t just because he was being unreasonably protective of Cordelia. Or even because he was naturally very secretive and controlling.

He didn’t want to talk about it… because he didn’t want to remember it.

“I can’t forget what she looked like that night,” Bruce told them. “Her focus was on the chemical vat entirely, and the way that she stared at it — it was like the vat held the answers to life itself.

“That look, paired with the presence of a child, was enough to make me scream out to her.

“‘Stay where you are,’ I said.

“She jumped, surprised. She hadn’t seen me come in nor had she heard me approach.

“‘Give me the child,’ I said.

“It wouldn’t have been the first time I saw a mother try to kill her own offspring. In moments like those, I knew that the priority would have to be the kid. That whatever she was going through, whatever was making her think that this was her only option, could not matter until the child was out of harm.

“So that’s how I decided to approach the situation in front of me.

“At that moment, all that mattered was that there was a once famous model holding a child over a vat of acid, and that the only thing stopping her from dropping the kid into the vat was Batman.

“I lunged forward, but I was too late.

“Alicia had dropped the toddler into the vat, and I….

“I could hear it. The skin burning.

“I could smell it, too.

“It felt like that was all I could smell, even over the stink of chemicals.

“I pushed Alicia aside and dunked my hand into the vat. The acid bit at my gloves, trying to contaminate my skin, but the armor was thick and lasted long enough for me to feel a small arm sinking to the bottom.

“I grabbed the child’s elbow.

“I yanked her out.

“Alicia was laughing behind me. A familiar high, maniacal laugh that had haunted my dreams for two long, torturous years. But my focus had to be on the child. I had to get her to a hospital, to get her treated.

“I could already see the damage of the acid as it ate away at her flesh.

“The fabric she’d been covered in was gone. All that was left was grayed skin that was cracking and crumbling over my arms and hands, until I felt like I was trying to keep hold of a pile of sand.”

Bruce’s face was pained. His hands were extended out in front of him, as if he were still cradling a dying little girl in his arms and watching as her body deteriorated right in front of him.

Stephanie’s hand was over her mouth, blue eyes wide with horror.

“I could do nothing,” Bruce admitted in a whisper, like it was a secret he’d kept out of shame. “I was useless. The child… she was gone. Her body was ash that the wind took more and more of as I fell to my knees and stared at what was left of her.

“And behind me, Alicia kept laughing.

"As if it was a joke.

“As if all of it — the vat, the chemicals, the little girl, the nightmares I knew would be born from this — as if they were all punchlines to some sick joke.

“I wanted to hurt her for doing what she did, and for waiting long enough for me to see it myself. I wanted to hurt her for being in Gotham, for making this city a worst place to survive in, for being a part of the reason why I had to create Batman.

“So I turned to her, covered in her daughter’s ashes and ready to treat her the way I treated any other criminal, when I realized that she wasn’t laughing.

“She was sobbing.

“And her face… it was not as beautiful as it once was.

“Half of it was mutilated with scars that were as thick as fingers and as gnarled as tree branches. They twisted her once smooth cheeks and distorted her features until one side of her face was completely unrecognizable.”

Cordelia listened, feeling sick to her stomach.

So that was why her mother had been wearing a mask. Not because it was a fashion statement, but because she’d been scarred.

Mutilated.

Hurt.

Someone had hurt her mother.

And they’d done it by damaging the one thing she’d nurtured and took pride in: her face.

“Alicia crawled toward me with tears spilling down her face,” Bruce said. “I tensed, ready for anything — a fight, a struggle, a knife — but Alicia was not moving to attack. She was moving toward the dwindling pile of ash between us.

“I watched as her hands shakily tried to gather it, to make the pile larger. Her movements were so… desperate. It was like she thought that by putting the pieces together, she’d somehow get her daughter back.

“But the same way I was too late, so was she.

“The little girl died. Died because of her.

“I had no sympathy.

“I spent the next hour trying to get information from her — to find out why she’d brought the toddler to the chemical plant and who had scarred her, but she wouldn’t answer any of my questions. Nor did she respond to any of my interrogation techniques.

“Her mind was completely gone. Fragmented. Whoever had scarred her, had not settled for just scarring her skin. They’d also done irreparable damage to her psyche.

“I had to turn her in to Gordon, the only man in the GCPD I trusted.

“I’d hoped that, with his help, I would be able to at least identify the child and provide her with a funeral.”

A look of disgust was carved into Bruce’s normally stony expression. He got up, suddenly, and began to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace, lost in thought.

Dick was frowning with concern.

“I hated it,” Bruce said harshly, “standing on the other side of the interrogation glass and watching the police bring Alicia snacks and water, wrapping her in a blanket and asking her if she needed anything else.

“They treated her like you treat a child. Like she was the victim.

“Meanwhile, the real victim was unidentified and her remains were still clinging to the fabric of my gloves and armor. My cape. She’d needed me — needed Batman — yet all she was then was the dust that Alfred would later wash off of my uniform and throw down a drain.

“I felt disgusting. Like an imposter.

“And on the other side of the glass, Alicia had started to speak.

“‘Who’s child did you bring to Ace Chemical Plant,’ the interrogation officer asked her. ‘Was she yours?’

“They’d done their research. There was no documentation of Alicia Hunt having a daughter. After the last article I’d read of her, she’d completely disappeared from all records. There was nothing that stated that she’d rented a home, nor that she’d gone to a hospital during pregnancy.

“We couldn’t be sure if the kid I saw getting dropped into the vat was hers or if it had been a child she’d stolen.

“Not until she told us herself.

“‘That was my girl,’ Alicia said. ‘My baby.’

“‘What was her name?’ The officer asked.

“‘My baby,’ Alicia kept saying. She was rocking back and forth, trying to soothe herself. Her hair was wet from rain; her scarred face was contorted with agony. ‘My baby, my baby, my baby.’

“Eventually, the officer gave up on trying to get a name. He started to ask about a possible motive.

“‘Why did you do it?’ He asked. ‘Did you just not want her anymore?’

“The question shocked Alicia. Her entire face went pale, as if he’d slapped her.

“It didn’t do much to restore her mind, but it was enough of a wake up call for her to at least try to give us more information.

“Eventually, they were able to piece together an almost clear tale.”

Stephanie, green in the cheeks, asked, “What was it? What could possibly have been her reasons for killing a baby?”

The moon shining through the open windows was large and white and ominous. Its light, eerily bright, was reflecting off of the skin of everyone in the sitting room, making them all appear as pale and sick as they felt.

And Bruce? Bruce was the worst of them.

Cordelia could see his children’s worry for him. How Dick looked seconds away from wrapping his arms around him in a hug. How Tim’s head was bowed, showing remorse and guilt she wasn’t sure if he actually felt. How Cass’s eyes followed Bruce’s every movement, from the way he shook his head to the way he paced. And how Damian’s fingers clenched and unclenched, as if he were considering what he could do to make this better.

Still, none of them interrupted as Bruce continued.

“She told us about what happened after her public divorce,” he said. “She’d been miserable, but not alone. She found a new lover, a man named Jack, who was willing to let her move in with him, which was why there was no record of her renting an apartment in Gotham or purchasing a house: everything was in his name. The apartment, the car — everything.

“She said that she was shocked when she became pregnant.

“She hadn’t wanted her relationship with Jack to be a permanent thing. He wasn’t smart enough, or wealthy enough, or had any qualities that she put a lot of value in. To her, he was simply… convenient. Easy to manipulate. Easy to push around. One of the few people in Gotham who owned their own property and was willing to tolerate her. But once a child came into the picture, she knew that she had to start long term planning, which meant that Jack needed to start making more money.

“He tried odd jobs. Comedy shows, working at restaurants — but none of it was enough.

“Alicia missed being wealthy. She told him to do what was necessary.

“So he did.

“He joined the Red Hood gang for what he thought would be one job that would give him quick cash — enough cash to get him and Alicia out of the worst side of Gotham. But the job went wrong, and when he returned to his family… he wasn’t the same man that he was when he left.”

Bruce’s pacing slowed to a stop. The room was so quiet that Cordelia was sure everyone could hear the painful beating of her heart in her chest.

“No,” she tried to say, but no sound escaped her lips.

This couldn’t be. Her mother and — and the Joker?

Her mother and….

“No,” Cordelia said again, and this time the word came out squeaky and unsure. “You’re lying again.”

“I’m not,” Bruce said, still rough with emotion. “I wish I was.”

“You’re lying.”

There was no other explanation for it. It made no sense — how could everything — everyone in her life love the Joker? How could Bruce and Thomas and now her mother all love something that was pure evil?

“He returned to her,” Bruce was saying as his sister panicked. “He was angry. He blamed her, and then he scarred her.”

“No.” Cordelia stood up from the couch, leaving Little Heart behind to back away. “Everything can’t — everything can’t lead back to the Joker.”

“I’m telling the truth, Cordelia,” Bruce said.

He tried to take a step forward, to comfort her, but stopped when it only caused Cordelia to take a step back.

His hands dropped to his sides, useless.

“Alicia told the police that he used acid from the chemical vat to scar her,” Bruce continued reluctantly. “That he sprayed it in her face, half to punish her and half to scare her enough not to leave him.

“She said that this torture lasted for days.

“I think it must have damaged her mind. She hardly seemed to remember anything past the scarring, other than the fact that the days were painful and that she barely escaped him with her life.

“But she did end up escaping, and she went as far as the Bowery.

“She claims that she doesn’t remember the next few weeks, but that she does remember waking up on the floor of an abandoned apartment, and deciding that it would be her new home. That she would get furniture, set up a room, and try to live there on her own.

“Just her…. And just her baby.”

“So…” Stephanie glanced at Cordelia awkwardly before asking Bruce her question, “she decided to keep her? The baby?”

“Hm,” Bruce grunted a confirmation. “Alicia told the police that it was an easy decision once she saw her reflection in the foggy apartment mirror. She said that no one would love her with a ruined face — no one but a child — and Alicia was someone who really liked to feel loved. So she set up a nursery, changed their names so that the Joker wouldn’t find them, gave birth in her apartment with the help of a neighbor, and tried to be a mother.

“But something was missing.

“Being a mother was not enough for her.

“‘I missed fashion,’ Alicia admitted in that interrogation room after thirty minutes of prompting. Her eyes, for the very first time since the interrogation started, seemed to clear. ‘I missed everything about it, even though I knew that it never missed me.’

“She told the police that she’d begun to write about fashion, instead, as a way to still be a part of the world even if she couldn’t be a face of it. She said that it made her happy, sitting at home and writing about the latest trends and the types of people that they looked best on.

“But she also said that it was hard to write with a baby at home.

“‘She cried a lot,’ Alicia said. ‘Every morning. Every afternoon. Every night. I would hear the girl cry. She demanded so much attention.’

“‘Is that why you did what you did?’ The police asked her. ‘Did you throw her in the vat of acid to get her to stop crying?’

“‘No,’ Alicia said. ‘I did something far worse.’

“I couldn’t imagine a worse fate for a child, but Alicia seemed sure of her words.

“She explained that she’d tried to ignore the crying for as long as she could, but that after a few months, it felt impossible. The girl’s cries were loud and high-pitched and ‘as angry as her father’s.’ She said that she tried to find babysitters, but with no money, there weren’t a lot of people willing to offer their help.

“‘No one liked my girl, you see,’ Alicia said. ‘No one at all. She might have had my old face, but she had her father’s temper, and no one likes to be around angry, loud children.’”

Cordelia, for some reason, felt her cheeks flush with shame at hearing this.

Even though she knew that her mother hadn’t been talking about her — that she’d, in fact, been talking about some unknown infant who had nothing to do with Cordelia — she could not help but feel as if those words had been targeted at her directly. Especially when she remembered all of her tantrums; how she’d ripped Bruce’s office apart, how she’d fought him, how she’d bit Stephanie and Tim.

No one likes to be around angry, loud children.

Her mother was right. No one seemed to want to be around Cordelia when she was behaving like that. Yet Cordelia kept doing it, just like her father had kept being abusive.

Around the room, her niece and nephews and friend shifted in their seats.

“And if that wasn’t bad enough,” Bruce said darkly. “Alicia kept confessing.

“‘I think I started to dislike her myself,’ she said. ‘The constant crying was becoming hard to endure, especially when I was writing. So I found what I thought was the perfect solution… sleeping medicine.’”

Was it Cordelia’s imagination, or did the room itself tilt under her feet?

“Alicia gave the best details that she could,” Bruce said, oblivious to Cordelia’s sudden tunnel vision. “She said that she started to give her daughter the medicine only occasionally, at first, but that the hours of silence were so sweet that she began to increase the frequency — until what was once a bi-monthly occurrence became weekly, and then, soon enough, it became daily.

“‘I loved the times during which my daughter slept,’ Alicia said sadly. ‘I started to like it more than when she was awake. So I upped the dosage.’

“She claimed that she’d done it so her daughter could sleep for longer, but I could tell that none of the police watching the interrogation believed her. Beside me, even Gordon was shaking his head in contempt.

“‘It was a mistake,’ Alicia said, trying to convince the officer sitting across from her. ‘I didn’t mean for her to die. I didn’t mean to — to kill her. But after I submitted my latest article, I went to check on her, and she wouldn’t wake up. Her little heart stopped beating.’

“‘What did you do when you found her unresponsive?’ The officer asked.

“‘I…’ Alicia’s mind was slipping away again. The mistiness settled over her eyes like a fog. ‘I laughed.’

“‘You laughed?’ The officer repeated in disbelief. ‘You found your daughter dead in her crib from the medicine that you illegally provided her, and you laughed?’

“‘I thought it was ironic,’ Alicia said. ‘That little girl never listened to a word I said, but when I told her to go to sleep, she decided to sleep forever.’

“The interrogation officer was trying to hold back his disgust, but I could see it in his eyes as he scribbled down his notes. No one watching this interrogation was on her side. No one liked her.

“‘What happened next?’ The officer asked. ‘Did you take her immediately to Ace Chemical Plant or did you try to resuscitate her?’

“‘Neither,’ Alicia said. 

“‘Then what did you do?’

“‘I…’ Alicia blinked hard several times, as if trying to remember the minutes after discovering her daughter’s death. ‘I did what I always did after waking my girl from her naps. I dressed her, fed her, screamed at her to stop crying, and read her fairytale stories.’

“The officer in the interrogation room tried to cover his bewilderment.

“‘You… pretended like she was alive?’ He asked.

“‘She slept so often that it was easy to,’ Alicia said. ‘All I had to do was pretend she was still sleeping. That, at any moment, she’d wake up and start crying again.’

“‘How long did you do this for?’ The officer asked.

“‘Until bathing her couldn’t get rid of the smell,’ Alicia said.

“‘How long was that?’ The officer asked again.

“He was searching for a specific timeframe, but Alicia’s mind was slipping out of her grasp. She ignored his question entirely to tell the parts that she thought mattered most.

“‘I couldn’t wash the stink away,’ Alicia said. ‘No matter how hard I scrubbed, it just became worse and worse, until I couldn’t take her to the park anymore. All the dogs kept trying to bite at her. So we stayed at home. I read her all types of stories. Cinderella, mostly, because that one always made her quiet. But then… I started to feel sad. Because she was too quiet now.’

“‘She was dead,’ the officer said.

“Alicia’s lips wobbled. She looked down at the table, seemingly trying to gather her strength and fight to keep her mind.

“‘She was dead,’ Alicia confirmed.

“‘You killed her,’ the officer said.

“‘I killed her,’ Alicia repeated in a whisper.

“‘And then what?’ The officer asked. ‘When did you decide to bring her to the chemical plant?’

“‘When I realized that my sadness was not going away,’ Alicia said. ‘That I missed my daughter more than I ever missed fashion.’

“The officer gave her a tissue. Alicia wiped her tears with it, and then asked for another one.

“‘I thought it would work,’ she cried. ‘I really did. So I dressed my girl in her best clothes one last time. A tiny blue dress that matched her eyes. And I carried her to Ace Chemical Plant.’

“‘Why there?’ The officer asked. ‘What were you hoping to gain?’

“‘Rebirth,’ Alicia said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, yet I’m sure that I was the only person in that building who knew what she was talking about. ‘It’s where he was reborn, so it would be where his daughter was reborn, too.’

“‘We need a name, Ms. Hunt,’ The officer said. ‘We need to inform this man of what happened to his child.’

“‘I can’t give you that,’ Alicia said. ‘He would kill me.’

“‘We would protect you,’ the officer said.

“‘No, no, absolutely not,’ Alicia said, rocking back and forth. ‘No, no, no, no, no….’

“‘Ms. Hunt, please be cooperative,’ the officer said. ‘It’s important for us to have the name of everyone involved.’

“But no matter what tactics he used, whether it was reason or intimidation, Alicia would not budge. She was terrified of the Joker and what he might do to her if he ever found out about their daughter.

“Eventually, the officer had to move on.

“‘Tell me the girl’s name, then,’ he demanded. ‘What did you call your daughter?’

“Alicia was still rocking back and forth in her seat, shaking her head and muttering ‘no.’

“‘Did she have a name?’ The officer asked. ‘Or did you rob her of an identity as well as a life?’

“I could tell that he was trying to guilt her into answering, but it wasn’t working. It had been a mistake to pressure Alicia into revealing the Joker’s name. A big mistake. Her mind was too feeble, and the Joker was too terrifying for her.

“I almost believed that the information we managed to gather would be the last of it, but then she started to mutter other words besides ‘no.’

“She started to say: ‘I killed her.’

“‘Ms. Hunt, if you give us the name of the girl, then we can have people help with funeral preparations,’ the officer said. ‘Don’t you want your daughter to have a proper burial?’

“‘Nothing to bury,’ Alicia said. ‘Only ash now.’

“‘Well —‘ the officer blinked.

“‘Do you think I killed her on purpose?’ Alicia asked. ‘Do you think I wanted her to die?’

“‘Only you can say that for sure, Mr. Hunt,’ the officer said.

“‘No one liked my baby,’ Alicia said. ‘I don’t think I liked my baby, either. Maybe I did kill her on purpose. Maybe I gave her an extra dosage because these were all things that I wanted to happen.’

“‘Ms. Hunt, please. We need a name,’ the officer said.

“Alicia ignored him, so lost in her own grief and insanity. ‘I had her so that she could make me happy. But look at me. All she ever did was make Mommy sad.’

“The officer looked as if he were hating Alicia more and more by the minute. He turned around, toward the interrogation room window, and wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“Gordon sighed from beside me and pressed the comm in his ear.

“‘You can wrap it up, Simon,’ Gordon said. ‘We won’t be getting much out of her anymore. At least not tonight.’

“‘Where will you put her?’ I asked him.

“Gordon shrugged. ‘The state will likely throw her into Arkham Asylum. From what she told us, she can’t afford more advanced treatment.’

“I nodded once and turned back to the window.

“It seemed fitting. The woman on the other side of the glass was clearly insane, and Arkham could offer her the treatment necessary to regain her mind. And, maybe by then, she would be ready to tell us the name of her daughter.

“But just as I was about to accept her fate… she began to cry. Loud, heart wrenching sobs that echoed around the rooms and wept out from the speakers.

“I…” Bruce sighed, and dragged his hand over his face tiredly. “I hesitated.

“I hesitated because it was the same sobs I heard in Ace Chemicals as she tried to gather the ashes of her daughter.

“I hesitated because, suddenly, I could remember the look on Alicia’s face right before she dropped the girl into the vat of chemicals. Like she really, truly believed that it was the answer to everything. That by dropping the kid into the acid, she could undo the mistake that she made.”

Bruce was frowning as he said this, contempt clear across his face.

“I’m not saying that I forgave her,” he said firmly. “I’m saying that I saw true remorse in her eyes as she cried. And that in her scarred, contorted face, I could see that underneath everything, she was a mother grieving the loss of her child, the same way I had once grieved the loss of my parents.”

The wind was rattling the open windows.

No one moved to close them.

“Alicia thanked you,” Dick said, breaking the silence that had followed Bruce’s story. “Back in the ballroom. She said ‘I never did get to thank you for the kindness you showed me all those years ago, Mr. Wayne. But it was a kindness I’ve never forgotten.’”

Bruce nodded. “She was talking about what I did for her afterwards.

“Gordon had been true to his word. He’d sent Alicia to Arkham Asylum to get treatment for her insanity. But I knew that Arkham’s treatments weren’t as effective as they should have been. So I went home, made the arrangements, and waited until everything was settled before visiting the asylum as Bruce Wayne.

“Alicia was there, already dressed in the scrubs that they made all the patients wear.

“They’d drugged her. Calmed her mind. Made her… meek.

“When I approached her, she recognized me instantly.

“‘You’re Brucie Wayne,’ she said, with a vacant smile. ‘You are men’s fashion.’

“‘Am I?’ I said. ‘No one told me.’

“‘I just did, I think,’ Alicia replied.

“She was sitting at one of the visitors’ tables. I could see that she was allowed access to make-up, since her lips were smeared with red lipstick and her eyes were surrounded with dark eyeliner.

“I sat down across from her.

“‘How are they treating you here?’ I asked.

“‘Like a childless mother,’ she said.

“‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’ I joked, like Brucie always jokes.

“She did not appreciate it. ‘Please, Mr. Wayne. Did you come here to laugh at me?’

“‘No,’ I said. ‘I came here to help you.’

“‘Help me?’ She said. ‘Why would someone like you help me?’

“I had been prepared for this question, because — back then — Brucie wasn’t really known for helping as much as he is today.

“‘Because you were one of us,’ I told her. ‘Because people who have been in the elite don’t belong here with… them.’

“Alicia’s eyes followed my gaze around the room, at all the other Arkham patients. The people who were put there because no one could afford to put them someplace better.

“‘I don’t think I’m one of you anymore,’ Alicia said. ‘Not since Grissom. And not since… this.’

“She gestured to her scar and looked away, ashamed.

“‘Once an elite, always an elite,’ I shrugged. ‘What do you say?’

“By then, I’d already begun to create a file on her. I knew her quirks, her tendencies — I knew that she accepted help without much push back.

“What I hadn’t known was how cynical she was.

“‘What do you want in return?’ She asked me.

“I meant to say nothing. Instead, I said ‘A name.’

“Alicia furrowed her eyebrows, confused. Her misty blue eyes flickered between mine as she tried to understand the meaning of those two words. ‘Who’s name?’

“I understood her confusion. To Alicia, I was a self indulgent stranger who did not care about anyone but himself and his partying. She did not know that I’d been the one to hold her child as she crumbled into dust. She didn’t know that I’d spent the past few nights waking up in cold sweats at the memory of it, nor that I could not shake the sick feeling of guilt every time I logged onto the BatComputer and saw the blank file of a child no one would ever know.

“She didn’t know any of this. So she didn’t know how important it was for her to answer when I said, ‘The name of your daughter.’

“Alicia shut down.

“‘Goodbye, Mr. Wayne,’ she said, getting up from her seat.

“‘Alicia —‘ I tried.

“‘It’s Ms. Hunt,” she corrected. ‘And I will not be laughed at anymore.’

“I grabbed her wrist before she could leave, and held on tight when she flinched away.

“‘I’m not laughing at you,’ I promised her.

“‘Then you’re laughing at my girl,’ Alicia accused.

“‘Never,’ I said.

“‘There’s no other reason,’ Alicia said. ‘No other motive. My girl, my sweet girl. She won’t be laughed at.’

“‘Ms. Hunt —‘ I tried to keep her in place, but she was making a scene with her struggling. The staff was beginning to gather around us. ‘It’s not what you think.’

“‘He’s always laughing,’ Alicia said. ‘Even when he scarred me, he laughed. And now he laughs at my daughter!’

“‘Mr. Wayne, we’re going to have to ask you to leave,’ one of the staff men said.

“‘This is a misunderstanding,’ I told them.

“They didn’t believe me, and I wouldn’t have, either. I was a large, playboy billionaire infiltrating a psych ward meant for the criminally insane, and holding onto the struggling body of an ex-model.

“It was that realization that made me let go of her.

“Alicia stumbled away. The meds they’d filled her with were wearing off.

“She began to mutter, the same way she’d muttered in the interrogation room, except that — this time — she wasn’t just saying one word over and over again until you wanted to press your palms to your ears and block her out completely.

“No. This time, she was saying: ‘my daughter, my daughter. My sweet, sweet girl.

“‘My beautiful, little heart.’”

Chapter 59: A Plan of Escape

Summary:

“Your mother used to drug you, too, didn’t she?” Bruce asked. “She used to slip you medicine when you got too loud.”

Little Heart bleated loudly upon hearing her own name.

A fluffy, white body hopped off of the sofa and eagerly ran over to Bruce, expecting a treat — which was, surely, the only reason why she’d been called. But no one moved to pick her up, nor did they stoop down with a biscuit lying at the center of their flat palms.

Little Heart bleated again, and lowered her forehead to clumsily ram Bruce’s pant leg in what she probably thought was an aggressive move.

It was the very picture of innocence. One that Cordelia could not relate to as she felt like Darkness itself had invaded her mind and stole the warmth from her skin.

“A day later, Alicia was transferred to a more appropriate facility just outside of Gotham,” Bruce said. “I checked on her only once. I couldn’t stomach seeing her any more than that. And from what she told me, she was doing well. She had a room to herself, a schedule designed to keep both her mind and body active, and access to more sophisticated drugs that wouldn’t numb her to the point where she could barely function.”

Cordelia’s teeth were chattering.

Selfishly, she could not bring herself to be happy for her mother. Not after listening to her story, and feeling so much pain because of it.

“I… I did my best to move on,” Bruce said. “But that night was enough to change me. It made me realize that the crime Alicia committed against her daughter started beyond the night she died, or even beyond the moment she decided to give her daughter drugs.

“It began the moment her daughter was born.

“Because, if what Alicia said in that interrogation room is to be believed, then she’d neglected that girl since the very beginning. And if that was true, then I could no longer focus only on violent crimes anymore.

“There were more crimes that needed my attention. Quieter ones. Domestic ones. Ones that Batman couldn’t see when patrolling the rooftops.”

Bruce bent down to pick Little Heart up. The lamb’s tail wagged fiercely as she ducked her face into his tuxedo jacket and found the inner pocket where he kept treats just for her.

“So I began to donate millions of dollars into solving Gotham’s mental health crisis,” he said. “It was an act that surprised most of the United States. No one expected Bruce Wayne to care so much about supporting news mothers through postpartum depression or about adding to the resources domestic abuse victims were provided.

“Mostly, my charity stayed within the realm of orphanages and education.

“But I couldn’t sleep. I needed to dissolve my guilt. And, eventually, the charity worked.

“I was finally able to move forward with my other cases. I stopped looking at the blank file of the girl no one but her mother would ever know. I stopped cursing Alicia Hunt in my head every time I woke from the nightmares that plagued me every time I closed my eyes.

“And then… you arrived.”

Dick, Tim, Stephanie, Cass, and Damian glanced over at Cordelia, gauging her reaction.

She hated to see their pity.

“I hadn’t thought of Alicia Hunt in years,” Bruce said. “But there she was, on the screen of my BatComputer, showing up in my kid sister’s DNA results.

“I deleted the information immediately. I knew it would only mean trouble. Besides, I would not put any child under the care of that woman — let alone a child that was brought to this home for me to protect. There was no telling what she would do to them. How she could hurt them. Whether her mental instability would result in her trying to kill them, too —“

“Don’t.”

The single word tore through Cordelia’s chattering teeth with surprising strength, forcing Bruce to stop speaking — and forcing the room to fall into an almost silence where only the sounds of Cordelia’s teeth and Little Heart’s happy chewing could be heard.

Cordelia swallowed.

Bruce’s story had been like a series of slaps to the face. Powerful. Disorienting. Soul crushing.

Hard to recover from.

But Cordelia had experience recovering from pain, so she leaned on that knowledge — used it to stop shivering, and to do what felt right: defend her mother.

“Don’t talk about her like that,” she said to Bruce. “Like she’s a killer. She isn’t. What happened to that other girl… it was a mistake. Even if my mother didn’t fully realize that it was a mistake, it was.”

Cordelia knew killers. Saw one every time she looked in the mirror.

There was a cynicism in their eyes that anyone could spot if they were really looking. A realization that death was not some mysterious, far off idea that they would one day meet — but a very real possibility that could be lurking around every corner.

Her mother did not have that cynical look.

She never did.

Alicia… she saw the beauty in the world. She saw beauty in fabrics, and shapes, and textures, and colors. She saw beauty in names and stories.

She saw beauty in the night stars that shone over the park she took Cordelia to.

Alicia had even seen the beauty in Thomas Wayne. She’d created stories defending his beauty, transforming his character until his violence appeared noble and his absence in Cordelia’s life appeared self sacrificing.

Alicia had rarely said a bad word about him.

So Bruce was wrong. He should not speak about Alicia like she was a killer.

She did not deserve it.

“I thought so, too,” Bruce said, frowning. “Although your behavior showed signs of trauma, most of what I’ve seen appeared to be direct results from our father. The distrust in authority, the flinching, the… transactional way you approach relationships — all from him.

“And you never mentioned your mother. Haven’t, until now. Which led me to believe that you either did not retain your memories of her or that the worst she’d ever done was neglect you, since your abandonment issues are so severe that I could only guess you’d experienced frequent abandonment from as early as infancy —“

“Bruce!” Dick snapped, pale with shock.

The others around him looked just as rigid and uncomfortable. None of them had ever seen Bruce speak so callously to Cordelia before. And Cordelia, herself, had forgotten what it felt like to have her flaws thrown at her like ninja stars, nicking at her skin with the intention of making her bleed.

Bruce kept going.

“At least, this was what I believed,” Bruce said, “until you named your lamb.”

The mention of Little Heart seemed to confuse everyone except Cordelia — who knew what Bruce meant and remembered his reaction that day on the grounds.

“That name,” Bruce continued. “That term of endearment. Said so often to you that you remembered it ten years later.”

Cordelia shook her head.

She wanted him to stop talking. To not breathe life into what, for now, was only a theory. But Bruce was not slowing down.

“You named her so innocently,” he said. “To you, it was just a name. Two simple words that meant that you were beginning to love your new pet. But, to me, it triggered a realization: that your mother was not so different from the Alicia Hunt in this timeline. That she, in both cases, was partial to calling her daughter her little heart. That there were likely other things she held in common with her alternate timeline self.

“I pushed back on that thought, at first. I recalled all the things I’ve noticed about you. All your trauma responses. And you’ve never shown wariness over a beverage that Alfred and I have handed you before. You’ve never distrusted your food.

“And, for that reason, I felt one brief, millisecond of relief….

“That is, until I remembered our fight in the BatCave. 

“You fought bravely. Angrily. Brutally. Suddenly, it looked like all your fears of me were gone. That you were who you always claimed to be: Batgirl. A fighter. A warrior. Someone I would consider putting on the front lines in battle.

“And then you realized that I was planning on sedating you.”

Cordelia’s cheeks felt cold. All the blood had drained from her face.

Bruce did not seem to care.

“I thought your response to that was normal, at first,” he said. “No one likes to be sedated. But your reaction was more than disliking sedation, wasn’t it? Because you were looking out into the BatCave like… like it was the worst betrayal. Like you would have preferred anything over it. And then, when I left, you got your revenge.”

Bruce took a step toward her.

Cordelia mirrored it by taking a step back.

“The lamb’s name, your reaction, Alicia’s story — all of this points to one conclusion, Cordelia,” he said. “That you’ve been sedated before. A lot. Enough for your body to have a visceral reaction to the thought of it happening again.”

Everyone was staring at her. She could feel it. But the weight of Bruce’s attention laid heaviest on her heart.

She could not understand why he was being so… so cruel. To list everything out, to paint the picture — to expose a past that she’d kept hidden from everyone including him….

It was cruel.

Bruce took another step closer.

“Your mother used to drug you, too, didn’t she?” He asked. “She used to slip you medicine when you got too loud.”

There was no point in denying it. The answer was clear on Cordelia’s face.

“It was different,” she whispered.

“It was,” Bruce allowed, “because she had people to bring you to. Alicia in this timeline had no money to afford babysitters, but the Alicia of your timeline must have. That’s how she was able to afford traveling Europe. That’s how she got invites to networking parties.

“Your Alicia was being financially supported, most likely by Dad. Until something happened. Something that made her unable to find people willing to babysit you.”

Something had happened.

All of Cordelia’s babysitters had stopped liking her. She’d thrown too many tantrums, broken too many things. By the age of five, Cordelia’s reputation with babysitters had become so bad that Alicia’s phone number started to get blocked.

“But that still didn’t make her alone,” Bruce said. “She had one more person she could leave you with: Dad.”

Again, Cordelia shook her head, silently begging him to stop. “None of this matters. She only drugged me when I wouldn’t calm down. It wasn’t daily like her daughter here.”

The looks of pity around the room increased.

“Cordelia,” Dick hesitated, before saying too gently, “it matters.”

“Not to me,” she said, and hated that this made them glance amongst themselves — like they knew better. Like she was a civilian in denial and they were all… all Bats. “My mother took care of me for five years. She loved me. Whoever this other girl was, she wasn’t loved. Not like I was.”

Dick opened his mouth to respond, but Bruce cut him off: “Is that what you took from this story? That what happened to Alicia’s daughter has absolutely nothing to do with you? That her love for you was stronger?”

Cordelia shriveled at the disparaging tone.

“The only difference between you and her daughter was how much money and resources Alicia could put into getting other people to deal with her children,” Bruce said. “And, from the sound of it, she was running out of options in your timeline, too. That’s why she left you with our father, Cordelia. She knew that there was something wrong with him, that you weren’t safe there — but just like in this timeline, she cared more about herself than she ever did about anyone else. Including you —“

“Too much,” Cass protested softly. “Stop.”

“If the Alicia Hunt of your timeline hadn’t died the day that she did,” Bruce said, “then she would have come back to get you, and she would have killed you, Cordelia. You would have died. And you wouldn’t have been able to do anything to stop it. You wouldn’t have even known it was happening. After a few sips from your sippy cup, you would have gone to sleep and never woken up again. You would have been as gray-skinned and hollowed-eyed as the little girl I held right before her body dissolved into dust between my fingers —“

“Bruce! Enough!”

“Stop!”

“Damian!”

“Cordelia — get — off — of — him!”

There was a clamor.

Cordelia, herself, did not know what happened in what order or for how long. All she did know was that Bruce had taken another step toward her, and that she’d begun to feel like a cornered animal. And that there were people closing in — her nephews and Cass and Stephanie — as they tried to step in between Cordelia and her brother.

And then, finally, a crash.

Porcelain shattered. Chilled tea spilled.

Bruce was lying on top of a broken coffee table, groaning in pain, and Cordelia — (“Ssssh,” Dick soothed. “I’ve got you.”) — was sitting on the floor in her eldest nephew’s arms, breathing heavily, and trying to get her bearings on what had happened and who was screaming.

“Damian, get the lamb out of here!” Tim shouted. “I think the party guests can hear it.”

The windows were slammed shut. The curtains were pulled closed. The room was smothered with darkness before Cordelia could blink.

She looked around, straining her eyes to see what was going on without the moonlight.

Meanwhile, Dick was still whispering to her, soft and urgent, as if to comfort her. But she knew that comfort wasn’t the real reason why he was holding her, just like she knew that she must have done something awful, because Dick was not holding her the way Alfred did when she was sad. His arms felt too strong and unbreakable around her torso, like a prison’s bars — or, more accurately, like Bruce’s arms that night in the Cave, when she’d gone too far.

“Bruce?” Cass’s voice was devastated. “You’re okay?”

Porcelain crunched underneath heeled feet. Cass made her way to Bruce’s side and knelt beside him, tucking her legs beneath her like a child.

“I’m fine,” Bruce said, but he sounded like he was speaking through a broken nose. “It’s okay, Cass.”

The same words were being said to Cordelia by Dick, over and over again, until the word “okay” lost all meaning and hearing it confused her just as much as the newfound ache she felt in the skin of her knuckles.

“You’re okay,” Dick said. His cheek was pressed against the top of her head. “You’re okay.”

Was she? Or was Dick much like Bruce: too willing to lie, too willing to bend truths, all in the interest of keeping Cordelia subdued and ignorant?

There wasn’t a lot of time to ponder on that.

Somewhere in the dark, she could hear movement. A grunt of exertion; the rustling of clothes; the plink of shattered glass falling to the floor. Then — a dark mass grew in the shadows. At first, it was just a head. After that, broad shoulders. Until, finally, Cordelia could see Batman take shape at his true height, looming and powerful and frightening even without the glowing eyes and pointed ears.

She shrunk back.

“Turn on the lights,” Dick said harshly.

There were smaller shapes in the room, all of them slight and short in comparison to the man staring directly at Cordelia, but she took note of them anyway. One — Tim — stood at the window curtains that had blinded them all. The other — Stephanie — was rushing to the light switch near the door. And the final — Cass — was rising beside Batman and tightening her hair bun as if preparing for a fight.

“It’s okay,” Dick said again.

The switch was flipped. Light flooded every corner of the room, quickly putting a spotlight on the damage that had been done to it; the overturned sofa, the destroyed coffee table, the blood-and-tea-stained carpet.

Alfred was sure to be upset when he saw it. But, for how much Cordelia loved Alfred, she could not find it within herself to care all that much about his carpets and furniture. At least, not right now, when the bloodied face of Bruce had taken the place of whom she thought was Batman.

Suddenly, the pain in her knuckles made too much sense.

“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered.

The worst of it was the broken nose. It laid crooked and awkward at the center of his face, and was spurting so much blood that it gushed from his nostrils and dribbled down his chin. But there was also the concerning swelling of his cheekbones that wracked Cordelia with guilt, and the squinting of one of his eyes. Not to mention, the red mark at his throat, that she knew without having to measure it, would be the same size and shape of her hand.

Bruce loosened the tie around his neck calmly.

“I’m not mad at you,” he said.

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

Not mad? His neck had scratch marks as if she’d been struggling to get a good grip on it.

“I understand your reaction,” Bruce explained, noting her confusion with an analyzing squint. “Hearing the truth about your mother couldn’t have been easy.”

The… truth?

“But now that you know she’s alive, you have to understand why I kept her from you. Why I will still keep her from you.” He moved as if to approach her, but ultimately decided against it. “Tell me you understand.”

Cordelia continued to stare at him, letting his words sink in — along with their meaning.

“You’re… keeping her from me,” she said.

Her voice sounded slow in her own ears. At the back of her mind, she realized that she might be in a state of shock.

“She isn’t good for you,” Bruce confirmed.

Cordelia’s face was blank enough to be concerning.

She could see Tim shift out of the corner of her eyes, and would have brushed it off entirely as nerves, if not for one small thing: Bruce responding to it.

The movement was small. So small that anyone else would have missed it. But not Cordelia, who was trained to be observant, who had her own Batman she’d developed secret signals with, and who — most importantly — was always watching Bruce even when he didn’t know it.

All this to say… that there was no way she wouldn’t see him slyly tap his pinky to his leg.

Once. Twice. Then done.

Everyone in the room relaxed. Cordelia could feel that even Dick’s arm muscles slackened around her.

Stand down.

That must have been what they were told to do. Which meant that….

Cordelia was very aware of everyone’s positions: Dick, holding her; Tim, in front of the window; Stephanie, beside the door; and Cass, partially behind Bruce and meeting Cordelia’s stare from across the room.

This was….

This was a battleground.

Their stances were calculated.

Dick really wasn’t holding her to comfort, Cordelia realized. He was holding her so that he could be in the best position to hold her down if needed. And Tim — he hadn’t gone to the window because he was worried about the civilians hearing them. He’d gone to the window so he could block the exit, just like Stephanie had gone to the door to block it, too. And Cass — sweet Cass who had held her hand as they went to sleep — hadn’t stood at Bruce’s side because she was worried for him.

She’d gone to be his backup.

But his backup for what? To fight Cordelia? To defend Bruce?

No. That couldn’t be it.

If that was their plan, then they wouldn’t have Tim and Stephanie so far away in the outskirts. Instead, Bruce had his team surrounding Cordelia, as if keeping her still was more important than keeping themselves safe.

You have to understand why I kept her from you, Bruce had said. Why I will still keep her from you.

Cordelia’s eyes snapped back to Bruce’s.

He was staring at her calmly. So calmly. Like he'd had a plan and he’d executed it flawlessly.

A plan to keep Cordelia in the house. Away from danger. Away from Batgirl.

Away from her mother.

She isn’t good for you. His words echoed in her brain, even as her face didn’t move a muscle. If the Alicia Hunt of your timeline hadn’t died the day that she did, then she would have come back to get you, and she would have killed you, Cordelia.

You would have died.

There was a small wrinkle appearing between Bruce’s dark eyebrows. A small show of worry. But Cordelia could not care about that. Not while her mind was replaying his words, his actions, all the signs that pointed toward one thing, one very important thing that — if true — would change her life forever.

“You lied,” she said.

The words shot through the air like two arrows.

Bruce looked disturbed. “Cordelia —“

“You’re a liar and a hypocrite.” She said this with all the amazement of a child finding out that Santa Claus wasn’t real. “You have been this entire time.”

Bruce took a step toward her, his arms reaching out as if to grab her from Dick.

“No,” she said, shrinking back. “I don’t trust you.”

“Cordelia —“

She numbly peeled Dick’s arms off of her, and couldn’t even find it within herself to be relieved at how easy it was to get away from him.

“I have to speak with my mother,” Cordelia mumbled as she slowly got to her feet. The door was only ten paces away. “I can’t trust your word. I have to hear it all from her.”

Multiple expressions flitted across Bruce’s face, each as elusive as the last, before he said, “…that isn’t going to happen.”

Cordelia ignored him.

She was too busy planning her escape.

Five vigilantes. Two exits. And one goal: to keep Cordelia in the room.

Someone getting hurt was unavoidable. She glanced at Stephanie, who was blocking the door, and thought, I’d feel less guilty if it was her.

The blonde looked surprised by Cordelia’s attention.

In a moment, she wouldn’t be.

Maybe she’d even understand. After all, she and Tim were the ones who chose to block the exits. And, out of the two of them, Stephanie was both the weaker fighter and the only person in this room Cordelia didn’t feel protective of —

“Don’t.”

Cordelia blinked.

Cass was frowning at her from behind Bruce, her black eyes glittering with disappointment, as if Cordelia were a child about to make the wrong decision. And, at first, Cordelia was confused about that look, and about the single word that preceded it. But, then, she remembered.

Cass noticed things.

Things that were left unspoken, or tried to remain hidden, Cass could discover within a single glance.

That’s probably why, once Cass spoke, the rest of the room tensed up.

There was no way they could have known Cordelia’s plan — they were simply mirroring Cass, so used to fighting with her that they trusted her judgment that there was a battle brewing.

Fighting Stephanie, Cordelia could do. Fighting Bruce, even, was also not as big of a problem. But she’d made her niece and nephews a promise not to hurt them again. She couldn’t go back on that, even if they were preparing themselves to hurt her over Stephanie.

Cordelia would have to take a different route. One that wouldn’t result in her having to harm Cass or Tim or Dick.

“I want to be left alone,” she told Bruce.

“I can’t allow that,” he said. “Not right now.”

“Then call Alfred,” Cordelia said, knowing she’d be able to convince Alfred to let her go. “I only want him.”

“Alfred is busy,” Bruce replied.

Cordelia felt a flash of irritation.

“He isn’t too busy for me,” she said.

Bruce had no argument for that. They both knew that it was true. Alfred made time for Cordelia — always.

Dick’s clothing rustled as he took out his phone. “I’ll call him. I’ll tell him that it’s an emergency.”

“Don’t,” Bruce said. His expression was caught somewhere between a grimace and resolve. “Cordelia… you know I can’t leave you alone with him right now.”

Her irritation grew.

Did he really think that she’d hurt Alfred?

“Um…” Stephanie said. “Why not?”

The silence was loud. Bruce, at least, was not planning to tell them about —

“Because she drugged him,” Tim said.

Cordelia’s shock was wearing off. The emotions replacing it were neither pleasant nor welcome.

“Last time she was left alone with Alfred after a fight with Bruce,” Tim said, “she slipped drugs into his drink that made him go to sleep.”

Alarm flitted across the faces of both Stephanie and Cass.

“What?” Stephanie said. “But — to Alfred?”

“Cordelia,” Cass’s disappointment was sharpening. “Why?”

Their eyes felt like pins pricking her skin.

Cordelia couldn’t handle that. Not right now. Not when she had her mother to think about, and Batman to escape. So she did the only thing left to do: she rushed toward the door.

And was intercepted by Bruce grabbing her by the arm.

“Let go of me,” Cordelia said.

“Alicia Hunt is dangerous, Cordelia,” Bruce said. “I won’t allow you to see her.”

Cordelia tried to tug herself free.

Bruce tightened his grip.

“You’re hurting me,” she accused.

He wasn’t, and he likely knew it, but Bruce let go of her arm anyway.

“You’re falling for that?” Tim said, amazed.

Bruce shot him a hard look.

It was the opportunity Cordelia needed. The moment he looked away — the very moment everyone’s attention switched to someone else — Cordelia shot toward the door with as much speed as she could muster.

Stephanie was the first person to notice.

She tensed, surprised and ready to fight, but she was no match for Cordelia.

They’d already fought once. Back when Cordelia had no idea who she was or how important she’d become to the family. And, in that fight, she realized just how easy it would be to take Stephanie down if necessary.

And it was easy.

All Cordelia had to do was get a hold on one of Stephanie’s shoulders, block the arm that came swinging toward her throat, and twist the arm with enough brutality to make the girl’s body jerk backwards instinctually.

Then… she let her go.

Stephanie was too shocked at being released to catch herself in time. She fell, her elbows hitting the floor, and yelped in pain.

Cordelia had the door open.

The taste of freedom was on her tongue. The possibilities of truly re-uniting with her mother filled her brain.

She just had to make it to the gates —

The door slammed shut in her face.

Bruce’s hand, large and scarred, was pressing against the dark wood of the door beside her head.

She stared at that hand, eyes wide.

“Bruce?” She asked.

Her voice, despite the adrenaline running through her blood and the short spout of fear that appeared within her heart, came out surprisingly normal.

Bruce, on the other hand, sounded cautious. “Yes?”

His hand did not leave the door, keeping it closed.

“I want to visit my garden,” Cordelia said.

She hadn’t known that this was what she was going to say. But, once she said it, she realized what a perfect plan it was.

“You said, back when you first showed me it, that I could go anytime I wanted,” Cordelia continued, almost talking to the door in front of her and not the large presence looming behind her. “That it was a place where I could be alone and feel safe.

“I want that right now.

“I want to feel safe.”

It was a low trick, and everyone knew it: her implying that Bruce was making her feel in danger. 

But it was the only trick she had left.

Bruce was quiet for much too long after the fact. So quiet that Cordelia almost imagined that she would have to repeat herself. Or even that his new plan for her involved the silent treatment. But then — the hand slipped away. The presence behind her was no longer too tall or too close. And then, he said, with a voice that held no grudge or suspicion: “Okay, Cordelia…. I’ll walk you there.”

Chapter 60: Cordelia's Secret

Summary:

“You’re not going to walk me the rest of the way?” Cordelia asked.

“I can see you from here,” Bruce said. “And there’s no point in running. I’d catch you before you saw the edge of the forest.”

The thinly-veiled and arrogance-filled threat made Cordelia’s mouth twist.

“I’m fast,” she pointed out.

“And I’m Batman.”

“I know what you’re planning,” Bruce said.

Cordelia grimaced. The ground was soft and muddy beneath them, making it difficult for her to walk through their backyard in open-toed high heels.

“Your plan will fail,” Bruce continued. “The alarm system I set up around your garden works both ways. It will alert you if anyone tries to break in, and alert me when anyone leaves — hn.”

Cordelia had yanked on his arm to get him to stop walking. Her fingers, pale and thin, curled into the expensive fabric of his jacket so that she could use him as leverage to unstick her heel from the dirt.

Bruce watched her shake the mud from her feet with distaste. “You’re going to get sick in this weather.”

“I’ve sat on gargoyles during blizzards in nothing but kevlar,” Cordelia said. “This is nothing.”

“I don’t think Alfred would agree.”

He wouldn’t. But Cordelia was going to do a lot of things tonight that Alfred wouldn’t agree with, so she wasn’t particularly concerned about what he’d say when he discovered she’d walked through their backyard without proper shoes or a coat.

Bruce sighed at her silence and shrugged off his jacket.

“I don’t want that,” Cordelia said stiffly, but was ignored.

The weight of the coat settled around her bare shoulders and caused her heels to sink deeper into the dirt. Bruce grabbed her hand and helped her through the mud, as if she were a child that needed support to walk.

“We’re almost there,” he said. “Did you rethink your plan yet?”

His arrogance grated on Cordelia’s nerves.

She sniffled and used his jacket sleeve to wipe her nose.

“I don’t have a plan,” she said, and was being honest when she said it.

There was no way to sneak out of the house with Bruce keeping such a close eye on her. Not unless there was some emergency outside of Wayne Manor that needed Batman’s immediate attention, or if he, for some reason, decided that there was something more important he should watch instead of Cordelia.

Both of which were possible. But Cordelia did not like the idea of relying on what if’s or possibilities.

She wanted to know, for a fact, that she would be able to see her mother again tonight.

“I’m a father of five children, Cordelia,” Bruce said this as casually as if he were discussing the weather. “If you want to fool me into thinking that you aren’t planning on sneaking out, then you’ll have to do better than that.”

They were just arriving at the trees that made up the forest on Wayne ground when Cordelia took a glance backward.

The field between her and the gates had never looked so wide and endless before.

“Cordelia?” Bruce said.

She’d let go of his hand and stopped walking. The ground beneath the trees was rougher, and less wet. The shadow that the trees cast around them felt like a dark mood weighing on the heart.

“I want to talk to her,” Cordelia said. “Why won’t you let me?”

“The same reason why you kept what my father was like away from me.”

She turned to Bruce, squinting up at him.

He looked different out in the forest than he did in the sitting room; less like a worried brother, and more like a terrifying and immovable Grecian statue of a long forgotten hero. Cordelia thought that this was because, back inside, the lights were warm and all-surrounding, forcing the shadows to stick to corners and beneath small tables. But out in the forest, the light from the moon was pale, making Bruce’s skin appear cold and colorless, and the shadows from the trees touched everything around them without restriction, including the frown lines of Bruce’s face and the space between his lowered eyebrows and his eyes.

To anyone else, this might have encouraged them to think that slipping by him was impossible. After all, Grecian heroes were the stuff of legends — they’d gone up against giants, and monsters, and gods. But this was not the case for Cordelia, who grew up hearing stories about mythical heroes from her mother, and who knew with every great hero came an even more powerful weakness.

And Bruce’s weakness? 

Well… she knew that one as well as she did her own.

“You’re talking about how Father used to beat me,” Cordelia said, and saw Bruce’s eyes widen just a fraction at her bluntness. “That was different. He’s dead. There’s nothing you would have gained from knowing the truth. But if he was alive, and I knew it, then I would have told you in an instant.”

She walked by him, deeper into the forest, leaving him to recover from the verbal gut punch she’d delivered.

It took him exactly three point four seconds to follow her.

“Be that as it may,” Bruce said from over her shoulder, his voice not as calm or smug as it was before, “you would have told me because I’m an adult. You wouldn’t have to worry that I’d behave recklessly as a result.”

Didn’t she? Cordelia could recall what Bruce had been like when he first heard the truth. The bared teeth, the bruising grip, the desire to get rid of her.

They were not so different; Cordelia and Bruce.

Both children of abusers. Both insanity’s offspring.

Both longing for the parents that death had torn away from them.

“Actually, I would have told you because I love you,” Cordelia said.

“I love you, too, Cordelia,” Bruce said quietly. “Nothing has changed.”

“You’re right,” she said. “Nothing has changed. You’re still a liar, and I’m still keeping secrets about your parents.”

A horrible silence followed.

Cordelia could practically hear the gears in Bruce’s brain churning as the meaning behind her words — behind what she’d told him — took shape into something unthinkable.

“…Explain.”

“You said that I never mentioned my mother,” Cordelia said. “But you don’t, either. Not really. I mean… you never asked me about her.”

“I didn’t want to push you,” Bruce said tightly.

“That’s sweet.”

Her unkind reply must have irritated him. Because, one moment, she was seeing the hedge wall of her garden peek through the trees, and then next, Bruce was blocking her way. And this time, when she looked up at him, she knew that the severity of his expression had nothing to do with shadows and tricks of the light.

“You’ve met my mother,” Bruce said.

His voice was low. Not quite a growl, but not quite as soft as he usually spoke to her, either.

Cordelia fought through her trepidation to nod. “Frequently.”

He searched her face, trying to find the answers that she was stalling to provide.

“Aren’t you going to ask me?” Cordelia said, playing at nonchalance. “I promise to be honest this time.”

The look he gave her had the same level of distaste as the look he’d given her muddied shoe.

“You’re behaving like a brat,” he spat out, and pointed behind him. “Go to your garden. We’ll discuss this later.”

Her feet stayed rooted to the ground.

“You’re not going to walk me the rest of the way?” She asked.

“I can see you from here,” Bruce said. “And there’s no point in running. I’d catch you before you saw the edge of the forest.”

The thinly-veiled and arrogance-filled threat made Cordelia’s mouth twist.

“I’m fast,” she pointed out.

“And I’m Batman.”

Her hands, hidden in the long sleeves of Bruce’s jacket, balled into fists.

“Batman makes mistakes,” Cordelia told him.

“Sometimes,” Bruce said. “But not consistently enough for you to count on it.”

She scowled, and glanced behind herself.

They were too deep in the forest to see anything but her garden wall and trees.

“What would you do if you caught me?” Cordelia asked.

“Bring you back home,” Bruce said, “lock you in your room, and then decide on the most suitable punishments for you.”

“No more weekly dinners?”

“That would only be one of the consequences of you running,” Bruce said darkly.

Cordelia forced down her hurt.

“Well,” she said, trying to appear unaffected, “I guess it’s better than anything your parents would have done.”

She walked around him to the garden wall, and made it all the way to the door when Bruce snapped, “What does that mean?”

Cordelia dug through her skirts for her garden key.

“Father would have brought me to the Cave to make sure that I never made the mistake of running from him again. And your mother?” Cordelia put the key into the door and felt it click open. “She would have killed me.”

It wasn’t a surprise when Bruce appeared beside her. In fact, she’d counted on it.

“Enough with the snide comments, Cordelia,” he said, eyebrows lowered. “I’m doing my best to stay calm around you.”

“And you’re doing great.”

Bruce’s eyes flashed. “Cordelia.”

“I’m being honest,” Cordelia said. “Your mother —“

“My mother what?”

Bruce was about to lose it. She could see it in the sharp line of his jaw and hear it in the clicking of his teeth as he clenched them together.

“I won’t tell you if you’re going to react the same way you did with Father,” Cordelia said snippily.

The side of his fist slammed into the wood of her garden door, causing her to flinch back in fear — and the door to fly open, its hinges squealing shrilly.

“Get inside,” Bruce ordered through gritted teeth. “Now.”

“Bruce,” Cordelia protested weakly.

“Damn it, Cordelia!” Bruce said, turning his back to her. “Why don’t you ever listen when I need you to?”

She said nothing.

There were stones near the hedges. Some perfectly round and prettily colored, to add to the beauty that was her garden, but others jagged and grey, the way most rocks were jagged and gray.

She hesitated, glancing at Bruce’s muscled back and bowed head, before quietly bending down to pick up one of the hefty stones.

“I’m…” Bruce trailed off, pained. “I’m going to call Dick so he can bring you shoes. Do you want anything else? A book? Food?”

His jacket sleeves were so long that the stone remained completely hidden in Cordelia’s hand. She adjusted her grip on it, making sure that the flat end would be the one to hit her brother’s skull.

“No,” she mumbled.

The distance between them was too great. He’d hear her approach, and would stop her before she could strike him.

“Bruce?” Cordelia said.

“Please, Cordelia,” Bruce replied. He sounded odd; almost… tired. “Just go inside. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

She glanced inside the garden, her finger nervously tapping at the stone.

She couldn’t go in there. If she did, then she was sure to fail. The alarm system would kill every attempt she made, alerting Bruce and his children exactly when she was planning to escape. But she also knew that deciding to stay outside… deciding to continue with her current plan… meant hurting Bruce.

And not just with the stone, but emotionally, as well. Because the best way to ensure her victory in this fight was to make sure that Batman’s mind was too focused on something other than battle strategies and fighting techniques to win.

She looked back at her brother, the stone cold in her hand.

There were sheep baying in the distance. The smell of roses permeating the air.

Somewhere, in the back of Cordelia’s mind, she realized that she was choosing a mother she barely knew over Bruce, who she’d come to love so much. And that realization made her feel so sick to her stomach that she almost dropped the stone right then.

But she couldn’t.

She needed to speak with her mother. She needed to see her face; hear her voice.

She needed….

She needed more than loving butlers, deceitful brothers, and nephews and nieces that didn’t respect her.

She needed a parent.

And she wasn’t even sure why. At the age of fifteen, she was self-sufficient enough to live her entire life without a mother or a father or anyone else for that matter. But the need was there; the desire to have someone who would have stood beside her in the sitting room when everyone else stood against her.

The desire to have someone for herself, someone who chose her — someone she did not have to share with Bruce. Because although Cordelia loved her brother, she did not love the fact that everything seemed to revolve around him.

“The first time I met Martha,” Cordelia said, tightening her grip on the stone, “was ten years ago. I was five.”

Bruce became rigid at the sound of his mother’s name. “Cordelia —“

“Do you or do you not want to know?” Cordelia said, despite already knowing the answer. There was no situation in which Batman rejected knowledge, even if the knowledge would end up hurting him. “Because this is your only chance of finding out, Bruce. I’m never going to mention it again.”

She’d take it to the grave, just like she always planned on doing. Because this sort of secret… it would only cause pain.

Enough pain to take even the Batman down.

Bruce turned to look at her, blue eyes clear and cautious and… unsure.

“I was just a rumor back then,” Cordelia continued, her nails attempting to dig into the stone. “Father didn’t exactly want to show off an illegitimate daughter, so I stayed in the house with Alfred. But the rumors were spreading, and your mother became curious, so she came to the manor to pay me a visit.”

Bruce’s hands flexed. A gesture she used to think was a sign of anger, but she’d come to learn was a nervous tick.

“How did she react?” He asked.

“Badly,” Cordelia said. “Do you remember that story I told you the first time we ate at a restaurant? About the Joker killing Alfred?”

He nodded stiffly, and retold the story as if he were paraphrasing a mission report: “The Joker infiltrated Wayne Manor. Alfred died protecting you from him.”

Cordelia hummed, soft and deceptively calm, as she studied her brother’s face.

She never would have thought to find innocence there. In her mind, for Batman to be effective, he’d have to be cynical enough to think ten steps ahead of the worst kind of humans. But in that moment, right before she was about to shred the last of it away, she saw it: innocence.   

Flickering like a light bulb about to go out. 

She told herself to remember it. To see what she was about to take from her brother, so that she could suffer its loss along with him. Because if Cordelia was going to choose her mother over Bruce, then she was going to make sure that she paid for that decision tenfold in guilt.

“Bruce, I….” Cordelia’s voice and heartbeat sounded like the only two things that existed in that forest. “I never said the Joker was a man.”

The last time Cordelia told Bruce the truth about one of his parents, he’d left bruises along her arms.

It had felt purposeful back then. Like he’d wanted to hurt her in retaliation for ruining the perfect image he had of his father.

It wasn’t until recently that Cordelia discovered that his reaction had nothing to do with her. That she could have been anyone standing in front of him, telling him that his father was an abusive monster, and he would have reacted the exact same way.

Tonight was different.

Tonight… Cordelia wasn’t just anyone.

She was someone who’d made Bruce promise to be careful around her — to be cautious about his anger — because she didn’t think she could handle living with a Batman who hurt her even by accident.

She wondered if he was thinking about that promise now, when — instead of reacting in anger… he took a step back.

Cordelia also wondered if she was even worth keeping such a promise for anymore.

“No,” Bruce said.

His lips were pale and bloodless. His hands, at his sides, opened and closed like he was trying to grasp at something that was already slipping away from him.

“She was the one who came to Wayne Manor that day,” Cordelia said. “Only, she didn’t infiltrate it. Father let her in.”

His face was slack.

The last part of his innocence was dead.

Cordelia had killed it.

The sharp part of the stone cut into her palm.

She tightened her grip around it, letting her blood follow the lines of her hand down to her fingertips.

“It was Mom,” Bruce said, almost to himself. “She killed Alfred.”

The entire forest was quiet and dark. 

Back at home, Bruce’s children had no idea how much Cordelia was hurting their father.

Some of her blood dripped to the muddy ground. Bruce was too much in shock to notice.

“She loved you,” Cordelia said, because that was the truth. “I think that’s why she did it. Not because she hated me, but because she loved you. And Alfred… she didn’t mean to kill Alfred. That knife was meant for my throat.”

She didn’t mention the conversation before that. How, for a moment, it sounded like their father was considering stepping aside to let a five year-old Cordelia die.

Bruce looked broken enough already.

His eyes slid from the ground over to Cordelia’s face, tracing over her expression as if trying to find a reason not to believe her.

She kept herself steady. Immovable.

Honest.

Like Bruce had been when he was telling her the same thing: that her mother was awful, that there was a darkness that lurked within her.

That there were things about her parents not worth knowing.

“Why are you telling me this?” Bruce asked. “Why now?”

There was an alertness to his gaze that she hadn’t anticipated.

Cordelia did her best not to glance into the forest, where she would soon escape from.

“So you can understand me,” she lied. “You want to keep me from my mother, even though she only killed one kid. But what about you? Your mother killed hundreds of children. Wouldn’t you still want to see her? Even after knowing that?”

“Is that what you think?” Bruce questioned. “That I’m forbidding you from seeing your mother because I don’t understand why you’d want to be around her?”

No. 

That would be ridiculous.

There weren’t many orphans that wouldn’t drop everything just to be in the same room as the woman who gave birth to them.

Bruce surprised Cordelia by walking back to her garden door, and quietly pushing it open.

“Get inside,” he said quietly, his face turned just enough for the shadows to hide it entirely. “Cool off. I’ll be back in an hour to check on you.”

Cordelia stood as if frozen. There was blood pooling out of her hand, making the stone slippery between her fingers, and night birds screaming down at the two Waynes as if trying to send a warning.

“You aren’t going to change your mind?” She asked.

She wanted him to.

She so badly did not want to hurt him.

“No,” Bruce said, his answer like a key unlocking her plan. “My decision is final.”

“I see,” Cordelia said. Her bloodied thumb grazed over the face of the stone, making sure there were no sharp edges that could cause irreparable damage to her brother’s head. “Then I’m sorry, Bruce.”

Even with the small warning, Bruce’s mind was too preoccupied with the news about his mother to stop the stone from smashing against his skull.

He let out a pained sound as he stumbled, his back hitting the hedge wall hard enough for the birds nesting in it to startle.

The night stirred as multi-colored robins burst from the leaves, their wings flapping strongly and their beaks parting to chirp angrily at the two Waynes, caring more about their disturbed sleep than the girl with a bloodied hand and the man crumpling to the floor. 

But Cordelia wasn’t. 

She approached her fallen brother slowly.

Bruce wasn’t bleeding — that much she could see in the distance. But he hadn’t completely crumpled the way all her other victims crumpled, either.

Usually, they fell like a puppet after its strings got cut, unconcerned with trivial things like dignity. Their limbs would splay out around and beneath them; their heads would bend and tilt at awkward angles; their mouths would gape open and their eyes would roll to the back of their head.

Bruce was doing none of those things.

In fact, if Cordelia didn’t know any better, she’d think he was… sitting.

His head was tilted back just enough for it to lean against the hedge wall behind him. His hands rested at his sides, palms upward. And one of his legs was sticking straight out in front of him while the other had its knee bent upwards in an almost relaxed pose.

It was disturbing.

Cordelia stopped walking just out of arm's reach.

“Bruce?” She whispered.

There was no reply.

“Are you awake?”

Again, he said nothing.

Cordelia narrowed her eyes, agitated.

It would be better for her to just leave him there.

She hadn’t hit him that hard, too ridden with guilt to swing as strongly as she knew she should have — but also very aware of the injuries he’d already sustained from her earlier in the sitting room. Which meant that there was a very real possibility that he was awake. And waiting for her to get close enough for him to strike. 

Cordelia glanced behind herself, at the dark expanse of forest that separated her from her mother.

If she left now, then there would be little to no obstacles.

She would be able to sneak into the garage, steal a bike, access a computer, and find where her mother lived in under two hours.

She glanced back at Bruce, who hadn’t moved at all since he fell.

If she left him there, without checking on him, then her plan would be a success.

However, if she left him there, without checking on him… then she would never forgive herself.

Cordelia grimaced.

It had been much easier to do bad things when she had no one to care about but herself. Now, she had an entire family to worry after.

“I’m going to check on your injuries,” she told Bruce cautiously, taking a small step forward. “If you’re awake, then it would be better for you not to try anything, Bruce. I have the upper hand.”

Predictably, he did not respond to that, either.

Cordelia closed the distance between them, making sure to keep the stone tight in her grip.

His eyes were closed. The dark lashes that framed the icy blue casting a small shadow along his high cheekbones. And the skin around his chin and nose was slightly flushed, as if he hadn’t completely cleaned the blood off of it from earlier.

Cordelia bent down slightly, trying to get a good look at the area she’d hit him, but most of it was covered by his hair.

Hesitantly, she reached forward.

His hair was soft as she gently brushed it back from his forehead, and his skin was warm as if he were fighting a fever. But both of those things were the least of her concerns, especially when she saw the reddened mark near his hairline, and how stark it looked against his pale skin.

He’d have a large welt there by tomorrow.

“Oh, Bruce,” she murmured, “I’m so sorry.”

She hadn’t expected him to respond to that, either.

But he did.

Cordelia let out a strangled, surprised sound as a large hand closed around her wrist and yanked her to the ground beside him.

“Bruce —“

Instinctually, she tried to jerk herself away from him, not thinking anything except: I’m caught, I’m caught, I’m caught. But even in his half-conscious, injured state — Bruce remained stronger than her.

“Was this… your plan?” Bruce’s words came out in a slur. His icy eyes, foggy and dazed, tried to blink through it as he glared down at her. “To attack me?”

It was.

The reminder of her plan was enough to snap her out of her panic. Because even with Bruce awake, Cordelia still had the upper hand. Her brother was unfocused, weakened, and likely not aware of the fact that he’d grabbed onto the wrong wrist.

So she struck out again, the stone cutting through the air as it headed straight toward Bruce’s face.

His blue eyes flashed — maybe from surprise, or maybe from pure anger, Cordelia wasn’t sure — but neither of them mattered once he caught that wrist, too.

“Let go of me!” Cordelia said.

“Put the rock down,” Bruce ordered through gritted teeth.

There was a struggle.

Cordelia was trying to pull herself away from him, twisting and throwing her body around like a fox caught in a trap. Meanwhile Bruce remained steady, slowly using what little strength he had left to keep Cordelia tethered to him and unable to run away.

“You’re hurting me!” Cordelia’s lie came out in a desperate shriek.

Bruce, either aware of the lie or past the point of caring about his sister’s pain, tightened his grip on her wrists and kicked out at her ankles.

Cordelia gasped in surprise.

Her heels slipped in the mud. Her face hit the ground.

There was dirt everywhere as the sound of her skirt hem shredding filled her ears.

“Stop —“ she tried to say, but ended up coughing out mud instead.

Bruce was releasing one of her wrists to tear the stone from her grip and throw it deep into the forest.

Cordelia used her newfound freedom to punch Bruce in the face.

They struggled some more. Cordelia, to stand; and Bruce, to subdue her again. But neither were playing very fair, both hyper-aware of the others’ strengths and weaknesses, and both completely willing to use them to their advantage.

“Enough, Cordelia,” Bruce attempted to growl. He was pulling her into a tight hug, one arm locked around her waist while the other kept hold of her wrist. “You’re not going to win this. You’re out of practice.”

She could feel the truth of that in the ache of her muscles as she tried to pry his arm out from around her.

A year ago, this fight would have been nothing. She would have walked away from it with as much energy as she started. But after months of doing no physical exercise, spending her time more with the family than worrying about being fit enough for Batgirl, she could feel the strain of it slowing her usually swift movements down.

“Was this your plan all along?” Cordelia demanded. “Was it another scheme to keep me weak and subdued?”

She didn’t wait for him to answer. Instead, she slammed her head backwards into his jaw, and felt his arms slacken around her just enough for her to scramble away from him — right before he grabbed at her ankle.

“No,” Bruce said. He turned to spit out the blood that had pooled into his mouth. “I never told you to stop exercising. The upstairs gym has always been available to you.”

She went to kick the joint bone in his shoulder, but Bruce twisted so that her foot missed by a few inches.

“You’re a liar!” Cordelia shouted.

More stones were all around them. She grabbed onto one — smaller than the rest, but no less effective — and swung.

This time, Bruce did not dodge or block it.

And, this time, he didn’t even make a sound of pain.

One moment, she was struggling to free her ankle from him, and the next, she was tumbling face-forward into the mud.

Cordelia spluttered, the taste of wet dirt filling her mouth. 

Behind her, Bruce was slumped forward, his hair disheveled and his face half-smeared with dirt, too.

She didn’t bother to check on him.

Cordelia barely remembered getting up and running through the forest, but she knew that she must have, because eventually she was racing through the clearing that made up Wayne Manor’s backyard, and heading straight for their garage.

The night sky was starless above her, Gotham’s pollution not allowing anything but the moon to shed light onto the city below. And the wind might have been cold, but Cordelia was too pumped with adrenaline to notice. All she did notice was that one of her heels was broken, that the hem of her skirt was ripped, and that she probably had around ten minutes before her brother woke up and chased after her.

She kicked off her heels and started to run faster.

The dress was a nuisance. The skirts felt like parachutes catching the wind. And Bruce’s jacket was no better — it’s only purpose was to provide her some kind of camouflage in case one of her nephews or Cass looked out of a window and saw a girl in a bright blue ball gown running away.

But Cordelia didn’t have to worry about that, she discovered, because Bruce’s children weren’t waiting at windows.

Her bare feet slipped in the mud.

Cordelia caught herself by her hands, eyes wide.

Because a few yards in front of her, at the door of the garage, stood Dick.

He was still wearing the tuxedo that he wore to her party, the black of his attire nearly making him invisible in the night. But that was where the similarities ended — because the Dick that stood guard at the garage door — the one just a few yards in front of her… was angry.

Very, very angry.

“So you knew, too,” he snapped into his phone, pacing back and forth like a lion in a cage. “And you decided not to tell me.”

The person on the other end tried to speak.

“You can’t keep using that excuse, Barbara,” Dick said.

He twisted, beginning to pace in Cordelia’s direction — and only just missed spotting her when she scrambled behind the nearest rosebush.

“She’s upset,” Dick said. “Understandably. B has been lying to her since they met.”

The other person spoke again.

Cordelia looked around desperately for another form of escape, but knew that this search would be futile. The only other place the Waynes kept their vehicles was underground, in the Cave, the one place that Cordelia swore she’d never go again — and the one other place she knew for certain would be guarded, too.

But… it would be impossible to escape without a car or a bike. Bruce was bound to wake up soon, and he likely owned the fastest cars in the city.

And he, unlike Cordelia, likely knew exactly where her mother lived, too.

He’d find her before Cordelia did. And then he’d make sure that she was nowhere to be found.

Cordelia’s heart felt like it was going to crack in half.

She didn’t want the fight with Bruce to be for nothing. She didn’t want for him to take away their weekly dinners without having at least one conversation with her mother as a consolation prize.

There was too much at stake to give up now.

Cordelia peeked around the rosebush at Dick. He was still arguing with someone named Barbara over the phone — someone, Cordelia realized, who knew way too much about Cordelia.

But that was a mystery for another day.

Right now, Cordelia needed to time her sprint carefully. Because, if she was seen by Dick, then all he’d have to do was get on a bike and drive after her. And if he did that, then she was sure that she wouldn’t even make it to the gates.

Cordelia held her breath. She squatted, tense, as Dick slowly turned away — and then… she took off.

Her hands were gathering her skirts so that they wouldn’t twist around her ankles. Her dark hair was flying free behind her. And her muscles were aching in a way so unfamiliar that she knew she’d never go so long without exercising ever again.

The gates were cleared.

Their guests had long since left back home, their minds intoxicated and their lips ready to retell the stories of the night. But, more importantly, none of Cordelia’s nephews or Cass was there, either.

She skidded to a halt in front of the lock, and punched in the numbers she’d once punched in a few months ago.

The doors swung open.

And Cordelia was —

Caught.

“Whoa, there.”

Someone grabbed her elbow and yanked her into the shadows of one of the small trees planted around the gates, and did not let go even when Cordelia punched at their ribs.

“Ouch,” the man said, amused. She could feel the armor he wore under the cheap fabric of his tuxedo. “Not exactly the ‘hello’ I was expecting.”

“You —“ Cordelia began, not sure what she was going to say but hoping that it would bite as sharply as her teeth did.

But the words died on her lips.

Because the person who’d grabbed onto her, the person who stopped her from finding her mother, was not a stranger or any of the people who’d stood against her in the sitting room. It was….

“Jason?”

Chapter 61: A Talk In An Alley

Summary:

“Are you mad at me?” Cordelia asked.

“Just —“ Jason held up a hand to silence her “—give me a moment. Alright?”

“You’re in a rush,” Jason observed with a quirked brow. “Did Bruce’s party suck that much?”

Cordelia couldn’t answer.

Her lips were parted in surprise.

Jason was — Jason was here?

For months, every time she’d brought him up or suggested he’d come to the party, the family had basically brushed her aside, saying that Jason would never show up at the manor. Yet here he was: partially submerged in the shadows beneath the trees, wearing a three-piece off-the-rack suit, and grinning smugly down at her as if he knew exactly how much of a shock this was.

“It was… okay…” Cordelia said dumbly.

Her brain was short-circuiting.

“You sure?” Jason said.

He was taking the time to look her over, too. Although… his amusement lessened the longer he did so.

Cordelia could see him finally taking note of the mud on her face, and the dishevelment of her hair; the skirts she wore that were torn; and the way her hand was still dripping with deep red blood.

“What the hell happened to you?” Jason asked. “Why are you bleeding?”

Cordelia quickly closed her fist to hide the open gash on her palm, and said, “I’m not.”

He did not seem to believe her.

Jason glanced over at the manor looming on the other side of the gates suspiciously, as if he were beginning to suspect that there might be a threat inside. But when he felt her use this as an opportunity to tug herself out of his grip, and back away, his head snapped back in her direction.

Cordelia froze under his stare, feeling a lot like a rabbit who’d been spotted by a hound.

His eyes flickered down at her bare feet, before returning to her frazzled, muddied expression.

His face was blank.

“Did someone attack you?” Jason said.

There was a hardness in his tone that almost sounded like Bruce’s Batman without the growl.

“No,” Cordelia answered immediately. She thought of the stone she’d used to knock Bruce out, and the maneuver she used on Stephanie to get her out of the way, and knew that if Jason was searching for a true threat, then he wouldn’t have to look further than a few feet ahead of him. “I — fell. You don’t have to worry, Jason. There’s no danger for you. You can visit Bruce inside.”

“Visit Bruce?” Jason repeated with a scoff. “I didn’t come here for Bruce, kid.”

“Dick’s in the garage.”

“I didn’t come here for the Dickhead, either.”

Cordelia was about to let him know that Alfred was too busy to chat, but that he might find someone to talk to in the sitting room, when she noticed something strange: the tips of Jason’s ears were pink.

She blinked. And, for some reason, that caused him to fumble awkwardly in his pockets for a cigarette and a lighter.

There was a click of a button, and a small burst of flame, and then, the end of his cigarette burned dark red.

Jason brought the other end of it to his lips, and breathed in.

Smoke leaked from his nostrils, floating up into the air above them.

A nagging voice wiggled its way into Cordelia’s mind. It told her to run. To turn away and find her mother before Bruce woke up and tried to stop her. That Jason clearly didn’t know what was happening, and that she had time enough to slip away.

But something about Jason’s pink ears and awkward demeanor was keeping Cordelia’s feet firmly rooted in the grass beneath her toes.

She analyzed his appearance again. The carefully combed hair, the cheap but neat tuxedo, the shoes that were polished and then — stared in amazement once she spotted six small, brown cigarette butts littering the ground around him.

As if he’d been standing there for hours.

Under the trees. In the shadows. Outside Wayne Manor. Wearing a tuxedo.

Trying to convince himself to enter a home he hadn’t visited in years.

“Jason, did you…” Cordelia’s eyes slid back up his form to gawp openly at his blushing cheeks. “Did you come here for me?”

It sounded impossibly arrogant once it was voiced, but Cordelia could think of no other reason for Jason being here. Bruce, and Dick, and Alfred, and even Cass had told Cordelia that Jason didn’t come to Wayne Manor. Yet here he was, dressed for a party, on the night of Cordelia’s party — flushing fiercely. 

Jason’s answer was a stiff shrug he probably meant to look nonchalant, and another drag from his cigarette.

Cordelia’s mouth slowly closed. A powerful emotion was welling behind her eyes, stealing all the speech from her.

She couldn’t believe it.

She’d just escaped from a room of people who, when it came down to it, chose Bruce over her. And now she was standing in front of a man she barely knew, who was choosing her.

Not Bruce.

Her.

“Look, kid,” Jason said gruffly, “it’s not that big of a fucking deal, okay? Jesus. You act like you don’t already have the entire family wrapped around your — hrmph!”

Cordelia slammed into his middle.

With a bit more strength, she might have hurt him. But Jason was wearing armor, and Cordelia was exhausted, so he didn’t so much as stumble.

Instead, he relaxed, and hesitantly patted her back.

“Great,” Jason said. “Another hugger in the family. Bet Dick loves that.”

Cordelia ignored his disgruntled mumbles, knowing that he couldn’t mean any of it since he was here, and snuggled her cheek into his armored torso.

“This means a lot to me,” she told him.

“Yeah, well…. You’re welcome, I guess.”

Jason’s chest rumbled when he spoke, just like Bruce’s.

It made Cordelia hug him tighter.

“So, anyway,” Jason said, and the smell of smoke alerted Cordelia that he was puffing on his cigarette again, “are you going to tell me who dragged you through the mud or not? I’m in the mood to kick some ass.”

Cordelia smiled, her eyes fluttering closed.

Of course Jason would fight for her. He’d done it once, already. Back when he hadn’t known that she was his aunt, and she hadn’t known that he was her nephew. They’d attacked two perverted men, and then drove off to eat at BatBurger, leaving the men to bleed out in a car.

It was only fitting that he’d be here to help her again.

“There’s no ass to kick,” Cordelia told him. “But… I do need your help, Jason. Really, really badly.”

---

Surprisingly, Jason didn’t ask many questions after that. Not even when she told him that she wanted to be taken far away from the manor, and hidden some place where Batman would never be able to find her.

On the contrary, he was very silent as he led her to his motorcycle, and handed her a small red helmet that matched his own.

“Thanks,” Cordelia had said, shocked that there was a second helmet ready, before stuffing her head in it and scrambling onto the bike. “Let’s go. We have to hurry.”

She’d reached for the handlebars, about to rev the bike to life, when Jason grabbed her by the scruff of the jacket and dragged her to the backseat.

“Nice try, pipsqueak,” was all he said as he sat in front of her, and the only thing he said the entire drive out of Bristol.

Cordelia tried not to think about why that might be. But that was because she had little choice in the matter.

Without Jason’s bike, she would have been caught before she could reach Bristol’s border. And even if she managed to get farther than that, Bruce would have been able to track her the same way he’d tracked her the night she snuck out to go to a club.

So the only thing she could do was hold tight to Jason as he drove her to the seedier parts of Gotham, and trust that he wasn’t planning on double crossing her.

“We’re almost there,” Jason called over his shoulder.

His voice was muffled by the helmet he wore and by the wind that whipped around them.

Cordelia nodded, knowing he’d feel the movement against his back, and watched as the buildings they zipped by became more and more derelict and run-down.

This was where the poorest of Gothamites lived: in homes that had broken windows and molded bathrooms; where the sewage flooded the streets on rainy days; and where crime felt like it was committed just about every minute of the day because the people who lived here were desperate enough to see jail time as a way to get a roof over their heads for at least one night.

It was Hell.

Her father liked to visit it every once in a while, just to blow off some steam.

There weren’t many people who protested when Batman abused his power to beat up a few of Gotham’s grimiest of citizens.

“Bruce doesn’t come here?” Cordelia shouted.

Her voice came out robotic and mature through the filter of her helmet, as if she’d suddenly aged ten more years.

“Oh, he does!” Jason said back.

The bike began to slow down beneath them.

Jason turned a corner into an alley so thin that Cordelia would have been able to touch both sides of it if she stretched her arms wide enough.

“But that doesn’t mean he’ll find us,” Jason said.

The bike had stopped at the end of the alley, where a tall fence made it into a dead end.

Cordelia waited for Jason to stand first, before letting him lift her from beneath the arms and place her onto the wet cement beside him.

“This is my newest hideout in Gotham,” he explained as she took off the helmet. “It’ll take him weeks before he pins down where I’m staying. And, by then, I’d already have a new place.”

“You hide from him a lot?” Cordelia asked.

“I’d hide less if he stopped dropping in for unannounced visits,” Jason said. “The asshole has none of Alfred’s tact…. Keep that. It’s yours.”

He picked up the helmet Cordelia had placed on his bike’s seat, and pushed it back into her arms.

“Mine?” Cordelia said, amazed.

“Yeah,” Jason did the same awkward shrug he gave outside Wayne Manor’s gates. “Like it? I thought it’d piss the old man off.”

She glanced down at the design.

There was nothing wrong with it. Nothing vulgar or inappropriate that she thought would scandalize her brother. Just a simple red face with white film over the eyes and a strong structure that would likely withstand the harshest of weather.

“It’s just like yours,” Cordelia said.

“Sort of,” Jason said, tapping the temple of the helmet with his finger. “But without all the dangerous toys I keep stashed away. You get yourself into enough trouble as is.”

Cordelia looked up at him curiously.

“You know,” Jason said, “the creeps in the car?”

“Oh.” For a moment, Cordelia had thought that he knew about all the other unfortunate situations she found herself in since then. “Right.”

“Speaking of trouble,” Jason said when Cordelia quietly tucked her new helmet underneath her arm. “Why exactly did you need a getaway bike? Not that I wasn’t glad to get the hell out of Bristol, but it’ll be nice to know what we’re up against.”

Cordelia did not miss the use of the word “we.”

It warmed her stomach as well as any Alfred-made soup ever could.

“So what is it?” Jason asked obliviously. “A brain-washed Batman? A Court of Owls take-over? An alternate universe B coming to kidnap every black-haired, blue-eyed child he can find? I can kick the crap out of any of them.”

Cordelia was humming and smiling.

“No,” she said. “None of those.”

The alleyway was dark and smelly; the night quiet and suspicious; and there was a concerning brown puddle near Cordelia’s feet that made her miss the pinching of her high heels — hardly an appropriate place to tell such a story. But… Jason was asking.

And Cordelia was finding herself yearning for a sympathetic ear.

So she told him everything.

Absolutely everything.

How Bruce had convinced her to never talk to James again because he didn’t think she could handle having sex (Jason’s face became bizarrely panicked at that). How he’d then taken Batgirl from her, too, after she’d almost died at the Joker’s hand because he didn’t think she could handle fighting crime, either (Jason’s mouth became agape at that). And how, now, after she’d agreed to let both James and Batgirl go for the sake of keeping the peace, Bruce was on a mission to keep her from bonding with her mother (Jason had started to openly stare at her around that part of the story, with both of his arms dangling uselessly at his sides). 

“So I had to get out of the house,” Cordelia concluded, anxiously searching Jason’s expression for any sign of judgement or anger, “but Bruce wasn’t going to let me.”

“Oh my God,” Jason said. “You drugged Bruce, too. How did you manage to do that?”

“I didn’t drug Bruce,” Cordelia said. “He never would have fallen for that.”

“You… killed him?”

“I didn’t kill him!” Cordelia said. She wasn’t sure if Jason was joking or not, but felt like she should take the accusation seriously. “I attacked him with a rock.”

“You — what?”

Cordelia showed him her bleeding hand. “A rock. From near my garden. After I told him about his mother being the Joker in my timeline.”

Jason was staring again.

“He’ll be okay,” Cordelia said hurriedly, just in case Jason felt like getting revenge for his father. She was much too tired to get into another fight, especially with someone wearing armor. “And he wouldn’t want you to hit me over that, either. He’s very protective.”

“He’s…” Jason shook his head, apparently more shocked by the insinuation that he’d punch her than anything else she’d said that night. “You’re…. He’s…. What. The. Fuck.”

The swear, sharply spoken, echoed loudly around the empty alleyway.

Cordelia cringed as she awaited an even harsher reaction. One, probably, that would condemn her for knocking out his father. But she ended up waiting in vain because, as soon as the echoing had stopped bouncing around the alley, Jason was digging deep into his pockets for another cigarette to smoke.

She watched, silent, as her nephew pressed the unlit end to his pursed lips, and breathed out smoke from his nostrils like a restless dragon.

It seemed to calm him.

At least… the muscles in his neck appeared less tense and the color began to return to his once severely pale cheeks.

So Cordelia thought that maybe she shouldn’t say anything about the detriment of smoking just yet, and how the scientists in her timeline had been almost positive that cigarettes were directly connected to lung cancer before the war broke out.

They’d never been able to provide solid proof of that, anyway.

“Are you mad at me?” She asked, instead.

“Just —“ Jason held up a hand to silence her “—give me a moment. Alright?”

Hurt, Cordelia turned away from him and hugged her new helmet to her chest, not wanting to see her nephew’s face as he judged her. Which meant that all she had to stare at was the grimy alleyway he’d taken her to, and the deserted street outside of it.

Neither were very appealing.

Both were more appealing than watching yet another family member take Bruce’s side over hers.

Not that she could blame them. It wasn’t like anyone would find an aunt more important than a father — especially an aunt that no one seemed to want to call an aunt.

Cordelia kicked the torn skirts near her foot sadly.

The fabric fluttered in the air for a brief moment, before returning back to her, the hem wet and brown.

This entire evening had turned into such a mess.

Behind her, Jason was completely silent. So much so that Cordelia would have almost believed that he’d disappeared into thin air if not for the smell of his cigarette smoke slowly stinking up the entire alley.

It was a long moment before he said anything.

A long moment of breathing in smoke, and releasing it into the air above their heads.

But when he finally did speak — when he finally absorbed the story she’d dropped into his unsuspecting lap — he sounded almost… casual.

Forcefully casual.

“So…” he said, but paused to clear his throat. “Um… A long dead mother, come to life, huh? Bet that sucked.”

Her response was immediate. More born out of instinct than actual truth.

“It didn’t,” she said.

It felt like a lie dribbling from her lips.

Cordelia hugged the helmet even tighter to her chest.

“Well…” she murmured. “It’s complicated.”

And it was.

But how could she explain all of the horrible memories and mixed feelings seeing her mother had brought up tonight? How could she explain feeling all of that, and still betraying her brother just so she could explore those no-so-positive feelings?

…How could she explain not being 100% joyous over the fact that her mother was alive?

She couldn’t.

It would make her feel too guilty.

So she said nothing at all. 

And was very surprised when Jason ended up saying it, instead.

“Listen, I get it, kid,” he said, with a strange bitterness that made Cordelia peek at him over her shoulder. “You’re happier with Bruce than you were with anyone else, but you also feel a pull toward your mother that’s difficult to explain.”

He flicked at his cigarette in disgust, causing dark ash to break off the end and get carried away by the wind.

Cordelia saw some of it catch on the fabrics of her skirt.

“You can’t fathom the possibility of going on as if she didn’t exist,” he continued. “You need to see her. To know her. Even though there’s a huge possibility that she will end up hurting or disappointing you, and that you are hurting and disappointing Bruce by seeking her out.”

There were two rats fighting at the open end of the alleyway.

Cordelia tried not to stare at them as she dug her nails into the bleeding wound of her palm.

“It wasn’t a possibility,” she said, her voice soft in the night. “I did hurt Bruce to seek her out.”

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up about that,” Jason said. “Every single one of us has lashed out at Bruce before — and we used more than a rock to do it. He’ll forgive you.”

Cordelia pressed her lips together.

Because that was the worst part: that she’d known Bruce would forgive her when she attacked him.

It was the only reason she was brave enough to do it.

Just like, she was sure, her father knew that she’d always forgive him whenever he hit her. That when he took Batgirl out on patrol, he never had to worry about her not watching his back, even if her face was still smarting from having been back-handed by him a few hours prior.

“I’ll make it up to him,” Cordelia decided. “I’ll be the perfect sister when I return to the manor.”

“Yeah. You do that.”

Jason brought the cigarette back to his lips, and leaned his head back as he breathed in. His hair, dark and curled, fell back from his pale forehead as he did so, revealing the scarring on his skull that he’d tried to hide, and more of the white streak that had mysteriously appeared in his adulthood.

Cordelia stared at that white streak, and felt the same nagging sensation from before creeping up on her.

There was a mystery here.

Jason was the mystery.

She just wished that she had time to discover it.

“Have you been through this before?” Cordelia asked him.

Green eyes flashed in her direction.

It was a color that surprised her, although she couldn’t think why.

“What? Have a long dead mother come to life?” Jason asked. A wry smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “Sure have. Welcome to the club.”

He flicked his cigarette again.

Ashes spilled into the darkness.

“Were you happy with your choices?” Cordelia asked.

Smoke was releasing from his nostrils, and dancing above them like two lost souls seeking companionship.

“The choices I made,” Jason said, so calmly that she wasn’t expecting what he said next, “became my biggest regrets.”

“Do you…” her heart was pumping, “do you think that I’m making a mistake?”

He looked at her.

His eyes were just a shade darker than Damian’s. A murky, toxic color that she didn’t think suited him.

“Maybe,” Jason said honestly. Her heart sank as he dropped the cigarette on the ground, and put it out with his polished shoe. “But what do I know? I’m just the jackass who’s going to help you.”

Chapter 62: An Intoxicating Tale

Summary:

Cordelia reached for a half empty bottle of vodka and poured it into a glass cup.

Jason did a double take when she slipped into the seat beside him.

“How old are you again?” he said.

“Fifteen.” Cordelia pressed the edge of the glass to her lips to take a sip — and gagged the moment the liquid touched her tongue.

Alcohol was so nasty.

“….Going on sixteen?” Jason said.

Jason’s hideout was small.

Cordelia could already see most of it once he opened the door, from the tiny living room to the even tinier kitchen.

There wasn’t much to see. It was mostly an open floor plan, with not many walls that offered Jason privacy beyond the wall that kept his bedroom hidden and the wall that kept eyes off of him while he used the bathroom. But even with the lack of walls, there didn’t seem to be enough space for him to purchase more furniture.

Everything was minimal. He only had one sofa, and only one television set, and only three stools beside his kitchen island.

But, worst of all, were the bookshelves.

He only had two.

And two bookshelves were not enough.

Cordelia’s heart hurt at the sight before her: novels overflowing their shelves until Jason eventually had to admit defeat and stack them either on top of the furniture or beside it, as if he were attempting to be organized, but didn’t have enough room to do so.

It was… sad.

Why was Jason living like this?

Could he not afford more? Was Bruce not providing for him?

Should she?

“Jason,” Cordelia said. “Are you poor?”

He scoffed. “Geez, kid. You’re so lucky I like you. Get inside.”

A large hand shoved her unceremoniously through the threshold.

Cordelia turned just in time to see Jason kick the door shut behind them — and blinked.

Jason had a total of ten locks on his door. Some of them were the traditional locks that only required a switch to be flipped or a knob to be turned, but others were of more advanced technology.

Cordelia stared as he quickly punched in a few numbers on the large tough pad, before moving onto the rest.

“You don’t feel safe here,” she realized unhappily, and then said, “I’ll buy you a home in Bristol! Next to Bruce and me, and I’ll visit every day.”

She was just beginning to imagine walking between Wayne Manor and Jason’s new home with her flock of sheep when Jason snorted.

“I don’t need your money,” he said. “Besides, there’s no way Bruce is giving you that much of an allowance.”

Cordelia wasn’t getting any allowance, but didn’t have the opportunity to share that fact. Nor did she have the opportunity to share that, instead of weekly sums, Bruce had dropped a large fund into her new bank account — and that she was more than willing to share it with Jason — when he started to nudge her toward one of his few doors.

“Where are we going?” She asked.

“The bathroom,” Jason said. “You’re not sitting on my furniture until you take a shower.”

She glanced up at him, surprised. “That’s rude.”

He shrugged. “Sorry, pipsqueak. But you’ve been running around Gotham like it’s a field of daisies, and I don’t want to catch whatever got stuck to the bottom of your feet.”

The bathroom door was opened for her.

Cordelia peeked inside.

The tub was narrow, and the toilet was at arm’s length of the sink.

“You do know how to use a regular shower, right?” Jason asked.

“Yes,” Cordelia said, cheeks pink.

She didn’t mean to sound spoiled. She had definitely seen worse apartments than this one — but the people who lived in them had to. They couldn’t afford anything better.

Jason was Bruce’s son.

Bruce’s loved son.

His hideouts should be full of the latest furniture and renovated for comfort.

“I’ll get you new clothes to wear,” Jason said, eying the frayed and muddy hems of her skirt with distaste. “And a towel. Wait here.”

“Jason, I’m sorry, but I can’t,” Cordelia said. “Showering would be a waste of time. I have to find my mother before Bruce wakes up and stops me.”

Jason didn’t bother turning around on his way to his bedroom to say, “Listen, kid. If I know Bruce — and I do — then he’s already buried information about your mother so deep that it’ll take us more than a night to find out where she's living.”

The door to his bedroom opened.

Cordelia saw a glimpse of red sheets on a bed before Jason disappeared inside.

“But,” she said, loud enough for him to hear, “you can’t be sure about that. We have to try.”

There was a rustling sound coming from the other room. Cordelia could almost imagine Jason ignoring every word she was saying as he searched through his clothes for something for her to wear.

“Jason?” She said. “Did you hear me?”

“Oh, I heard you,” he said. “I’m just not listening.”

Cordelia frowned. “Why not?”

“Because you’ve been here — what? Two months? Three months?” Jason walked out of his room with a bundle of clothes, and dropped them into her arms. “In that time, have you ever gotten the chance to see Batman in action?”

“I have,” Cordelia said. “We fought.”

“I don’t mean Batman when he’s fighting,” Jason said, “or when he’s saving your life. I mean Batman when he’s really working. When he’s planning. Scheming. Strategizing. Have you ever seen it?”

The answer was ‘no,’ but Cordelia didn’t want to admit to something that might delay a reunion with her mother.

“None of you have seen me in action, either,” she said instead.

“Maybe not,” Jason shrugged, “but let me tell you, kid, we’re working against the best right now. Bruce thinks of everything: what he would do, what others would do, what others wouldn’t do…. He has backup plans for his backup plans, and at least ten walls of security around every bit of information he wants to keep secret, from what he’s planning to get Damian for his birthday to the secret identities of every superhero in the Justice League.

“So when I tell you that we’re not going to find your mother tonight — I’m not trying to be an asshole. I’m just trying to give you a reality check.

“You’re going to be staying here for more than a few weeks.”

This was not what Cordelia wanted to hear. Especially since it had not been her plan, which was to find her mother before Bruce woke up, then to convince her mother that Cordelia was worth seeing again, and then — finally — to return home by morning, just in time to have breakfast with the family and to face the consequences of her actions.

There would be tears. There would be regret. But, in the end, all would be well.

Cordelia realized how unrealistic her plan was the moment she thought of it.

Because Jason was right: they were working against the best. And, unlike her, Bruce had almost three months to perfect his plan, while Cordelia hadn’t given her own much thought beyond knowing that she’d have to create some distance between her and the people trying to keep Alicia Hunt away.

“I don’t….” Cordelia’s sentence trailed off as the truth of her situation became clearer and clearer.

More than a few weeks, he’d said. Jason thought that the mission was going to last for months.

Months in which Cordelia would be living in this apartment — and not seeing her family. Not seeing Bruce, or Little Heart, or Alfred. Or any of Bruce’s children who she tried to spend a part of every day with.

Instead… she’d be here. In this little hideout with a tiny bathtub, ten locks on the front door, and only three chairs at the kitchen island.

Bruce’s kitchen island had nine chairs. And most of them were filled.

Suddenly, Cordelia felt very sad.

Jason seemed to catch onto her emotions pretty easily.

“Say the word, and I’ll drive you back,” he said. “It’s up to you.”

Cordelia almost wished that he ordered her to stay. At least, if he had, then she wouldn’t have felt so guilty when she responded with: “I’ll take a shower.”

---

Cordelia tried not to feel so miserable as she showered, but that felt like an impossible task.

Everything around her seemed to scream out at her; telling her that she did not belong here, and that she would be happier at home. From the way the shower head shot water directly at her face when she turned it on, to the plain red curtains around the tub that held none of the floral designs she’d quickly learned to love.

It all felt… foreign.

Not hers.

Not a place that was lovingly decorated by her Alfred.

Cordelia scrubbed her face vigorously, and told herself that this was all temporary. That, in a few months, she would be back in Wayne Manor and back in her own room, where the shower head was perfectly adjusted for her height and her curtains reminded her of peace — not the red eyes of her father’s cowl.

That a few months of this would be worth the result.

“You can do this,” she said to herself. “If you can survive an apocalypse, then you can survive being away from home.”

It was a mantra she kept repeating to herself until it became background noise in her own mind — even as she finished her shower and began to get dressed.

“Jason?” She called out through the door.

“Yeah?” He said back.

Cordelia was frowning. “Do you have smaller pants?”

“Have you seen me, kid?”

She figured the answer would be no. But the pants he’d given her could have fit three Cordelias, so she folded them up and decided to wear his red t-shirt like a loose-fitting dress before leaving the bathroom well-washed, miserable, and pants-less.

Jason, meanwhile, had switched his cigarettes for a glass of alcohol.

“I’m thirsty,” Cordelia said.

Jason took a sip from his glass, mostly distracted on his laptop. “Sure, kid. Help yourself.”

Cordelia nodded and hesitantly set his folded pants on the kitchen island beside him.

It wasn’t difficult to find the alcohol.

Jason’s kitchen was a lot smaller than Bruce’s, with far less cabinets, no pantry, and one less fridge. But those were only a few of the differences.

The other one?

That Jason’s cabinets were stocked with liquor.

She could see familiar names shouting out at her: Brandy and Vodka and Tequila and Gin.

She could smell it through the glass that encased them. The strong scent of detergent and something earthy.

But, for once, Cordelia did not cringe away from them in distaste. Because, for once, Cordelia did not associate alcohol entirely with her father.

Now, she also associated it with James. And the night they had together, drinking and dancing and laughing in the backseat of his brother’s car.

Neither of them had a care in the world other than to do what had felt good.

Cordelia reached for a half empty bottle of vodka and poured it into a glass cup.

Jason did a double take when she slipped into the seat beside him.

“How old are you again?” he said.

“Fifteen.” Cordelia pressed the edge of the glass to her lips to take a sip — and gagged the moment the liquid touched her tongue.

Alcohol was so nasty.

“….Going on sixteen?” Jason said.

He sounded stressed.

Cordelia briefly considered lying to calm his nerves — but then realized that she’d grown very tired of lying (and being lied to), so she decided on honesty.

“No,” she said. “My birthday is in June. Alfred will probably plan another party for me, or at least a nice dinner. Do you want to come?”

“Do I — are you really inviting me to a party ten months in advance?”

Cordelia nodded, taking another sip. “I really want you there.”

He had that confused expression on his face that Dick sometimes had when he spoke with her, as if he were half suspicious that she was just saying things to mess with him.

It seemed like everyone in the family had a paranoid gene.

“….I’ll think about it, kid,” he said slowly.

Cordelia tried not to take that as a “no.”

“In the meantime,” he continued, jerking his chin at the glass in her hand, “try not to drink too much. If Alfred knew I even let you smell liquor, then he would feed me to the bats in the Cave.”

“I won’t,” Cordelia said, then asked, “What’s ‘too much?’”

The question, weirdly, seemed to exasperate him. “Let’s just say that you should make that cup last, pipsqueak, because you’re not getting a second.”

Cordelia thought that this was unfair, since she knew she could handle more than one cup of alcohol before it made her dizzy, but became too distracted by the laptop being pushed in her direction to voice any complaints.

“Here,” Jason said. “You know what you’re doing, right?”

She did.

Finding people through databases and blogs and sketchily uploaded photography were one of the few talents that Batman had relied entirely on her for.

He’d never been very good with the Internet. He’d found it needlessly noisy, with everyone being allowed to spread both information and misinformation across every platform, app, and website he clocked on. 

Therefore, his anger, along with his alcohol-induced impatience, held him back.

Which meant that Cordelia had to make up for his faults by being as perfect at online work as Batman was at fighting.

It had taken a lot of frightening trials and painful errors, but… eventually… she got good at it.

Good enough for him to buy her a laptop, at least. And then good enough to hack into government files in order to find Superman within a day of Flash asking her to.

“Trust me,” Cordelia said, blinking away the memories as she pulled the laptop closer. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Good,” Jason said. “Then I’ll be right back. I think there’s a second laptop somewhere around here.”

She nodded distractedly as he took his folded pants with him to the bedroom, and began to make noises that sounded as if he were shuffling through a packed closet.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Cordelia was getting back into the rhythm of using a laptop for something other than signing her name to online documents Bruce presented her with, from school program applications to consent forms for certain medical treatments she might need if she were being particularly reckless.

But, other than that, Cordelia had not been given free reign of a computer or laptop in months. Not since three months ago, when Flash had shown up in her father’s Cave, asking her to find a man no one knew existed.

She should have asked why. Like any good detective would have done.

Why have you given me everything but a laptop, Bruce?

Maybe, if she’d asked, she would have known that he had been hiding something the entire time — something that he thought would be easier for her to discover if she had access to the Internet.

Cordelia shook her head, and took a large gulp from her drink.

Jason had told her to make it last, but from her experience, the quicker she drank — the quicker she felt what she wanted to feel.

Cordelia took another gulp.

Her entire throat felt like she’d swallowed a lit flame, but there were worse things to feel than a burn.

She set the glass aside, and heard it thud against the wooden kitchen island the same way she used to hear her father’s glasses thud against the weapons table before he cornered her on the training mat.

“Found one.”

Jason was back from his bedroom with a silver, clunky laptop that must have been at least five years older than the one in front of Cordelia.

“It’ll be a lot slower,” he said, “but what the hell? We have time to kill.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Cordelia said when he sat down beside her. “Just bringing me here is enough. And giving me a laptop to use.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jason said dismissively, and opened his laptop anyway.

Cordelia hesitated, wondering if this was a conversation she should insist on having. After all, it wasn’t like she needed help finding a missing person, anyway. 

These were her most common cases. 

But just when she opened her mouth to say something — she stopped herself.

Because Jason’s fingers were flying across his keyboard, as familiar with typing as he was with weaving through traffic on his motorcycle. And this was interesting because… well, because she never saw anyone else hack before.

She leaned over to watch.

The keys were clicking underneath the tips of his fingers. The screen on the laptop was lighting up with every tap, flick, and command. The websites — hundreds of them — were flying through her vision with satisfying speed.

She watched as he dissolved them into nothing but their base codes, then watched as he hid all the information that would be unnecessary for their mission. Then… she watched as he separated his screen into six different windows so that he could look through multiple websites at once.

“You know what you’re doing, too,” she realized.

“Of course I do,” Jason said. “You don’t work with Batman without learning a thing or two about hacking.”

“My Batman didn’t hack,” Cordelia said.

“Really?” Jason frowned. “Everything I hear about this guy is disappointing.”

Cordelia wondered if it was possible to like Jason any more than she already did.

“Eyes on your own work, pipsqueak,” he said.

She was smiling. A small smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“I think you’re really cool, Jason,” she told him.

Even his response to that was cool: “Yeah, kid, I know.”

---

They got back to work quickly after that, both only speaking up to share quick updates on what leads they thought they had… and when those leads resulted in dead ends — which happened more times than Cordelia would have liked.

They’d checked everywhere. The Gotham tenant lists, which had many Alicias and many Hunts, but never any Alicia Hunts. They checked the historical residents of nearby mental health clinics, but could not find any information on a single mother who’d disintegrated her daughter, either. And they even checked archived fashion blogs to see if they ever mentioned a once-famous model who’d gone through a messy divorce — only to discover that this was a common fate for many once-famous models.

“She must have only lived in abandoned apartments,” Cordelia said. “That way she never had to put her name on any contracts or lists.”

“Or she’s using an alias,” Jason said. “Did she ever go by a name other than ‘Alicia?’”

“No,” Cordelia said. “She was proud of her name. She wanted it written in the stars.”

“Great,” Jason sighed. “You know, this would be a lot easier if your mother and Bruce weren’t unknowingly working together to keep her hidden. It’s hard enough to find someone who’s been avoiding attention for the last decade and a half — let alone trying to find someone who has Batman of all people helping them disappear. I mean, the asshole has probably already set up an automation to delete everything as quickly as it appears.”

Cordelia suspected the same thing. But there was one sliver of hope that was keeping her confident: “Tim managed to find her.”

“Tim had the advantage of time and the BatComputer,” Jason said. “That fucking machine does half of the work for you.”

He grabbed his glass and chugged down the remainder of his drink.

“I’m getting a fourth round,” he said. “Do you want more?”

“Really?” Cordelia said. “I thought I could only have one.”

Jason shrugged. “You look like you’re doing fine. Besides, I know how stressful finding your mother can be.”

Cordelia guessed that the secret third reason was that he’d lost a few of his decision making skills somewhere during his third round — but knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Okay,” she said, giving him her glass. “Thank you.”

“Uh-huh.” He strode around the island to his kitchen cabinets. “You know, you’re almost polite when you’re not calling me poor and ugly.”

Cordelia jolted like she was jabbed with a needle. “I never — !”

Jason threw her a smirk.

Cordelia’s shoulders unstuck from her ears once she realized that he was joking.

“I didn’t mean to call you poor,” she said. “It’s just — you’re…. Well, why do you live like this?”

Jason was adding soda and ice cubes to her drink when he answered, “Kid, this apartment is better than most places in Gotham.”

“But don’t you want more bookshelves?”

“I do have more bookshelves,” he said. “I have about two other places here in Gotham and a few more outside of it.”

He set her drink down beside her and sat down, too.

“I’m guessing you’ve never lived in a place smaller than a mansion?” Jason asked.

“I have,” Cordelia said. “Back when I lived with my mom. We used to share a bed.”

“Your father didn’t give you enough for a two bedroom apartment?”

“He did,” Cordelia said. She’d never wanted for anything but attention when her mother was alive. “I think… I think she just wanted me around at night because she was lonely.”

“Hm,” Jason said, in a way that was a lot like Bruce. He took a gulp from his glass. “Aren’t we all.”

Cordelia eyed him as he set his glass back down.

It was interesting how much could change in so short a time.

If anyone had said that to her three months ago, she would have silently agreed and moved on with her life. But life was very different now.

She had a family. She was going to have a mother.

And… she wasn’t lonely.

Not at all.

There were so many arms she could run to when she needed comforting. And so many fluffy sheep to cuddle with when she needed affection.

Loneliness was… a thing of the past.

“I was serious about buying you a place in Bristol,” Cordelia said to Jason. “I can afford it. And I think it will be good for you. The air is clear, the crime is minimal, and you’ll be near family.”

“No, thanks. If I have to live around a bunch of assholes, then I’d rather live around assholes who won’t bother me every time they see me.”

Cordelia looked away, slightly hurt but also a little defensive for the rest of their family.

None of them were assholes.

“But you seem to like it with them,” Jason said after a pause. “That’s what Dick tells me, at least.”

That was a shock. “You and Dick talk about me?”

“You come up occasionally,” Jason said.

Cordelia wasn’t sure if his nonchalant answer was due to his being so cool, or if she really didn’t come up in their conversations as much as she hoped.

She needed to prompt for more information: “What does he say?”

Jason cocked his head to the side, thinking. “First, he sent me the photo of you, Bruce, and the frisky little lamb you both brought to dinner —“

“Oh.”

Cordelia was flustered.

Jason’s responding smile was full of deep amusement.

“Then he called me in a fright one afternoon,” he continued, drawling. “He said that he thinks he might have scarred you, because you almost walked in on something that no child should walk in on.”

Cordelia’s cheeks were burning. “I didn’t — there was nothing to see.”

Jason barked out a laugh. “I’ll tell him you said that.”

“No.”

She couldn’t believe that Dick was sharing her most awkward moments with Jason. Why would he do that?

“Is that all he said about me?” She asked.

“There was also something about my motorcycle being so big that it was hard to get on, but that we should wait to laugh about it in another five years.”

Jason was messing with her. She could see it on him as clearly as she saw it on Dick.

That didn’t stop her face from feeling hot.

Which, in turn, did not stop Jason from holding in his deep-bellied chuckles.

“Do you two really only talk about me to make fun of me?” She asked.

“Better get used to it, kid,” Jason said. “This is the reality of having a big family of assholes.”

He downed the last of his drink, before closing his laptop. Apparently, he was done searching for her mother for the day.

Cordelia watched him go to the kitchen to wash his glass in the sink. Her fingers tapped anxiously at the side of her own cup, thinking through his words.

“Um…” she hesitated. “Did he tell you about the time that I handcuffed him to a car?”

From the sudden straightening of his spine, and the look of disbelief he sent her way, she could tell that he had certainly not heard of her besting Dick Grayson.

“It was during the Joker attacks,” Cordelia explained, testing out being an asshole, too. “He wanted me to stay behind in the car, but I wanted him to stay behind in the car, too.”

“You didn’t,” Jason said.

His eyes were glittering with glee. And Cordelia knew, without a doubt, that she was providing him ammo to tease his older brother with.

“It was easy,” Cordelia said, more confidently. “I just looked really sad so he’d give me a hug, and then I cuffed him to the car.”

“Bet he loved that.”

Cordelia could still hear the seething anger in Dick’s voice when he’d finally caught her.

“He still had the cuff around his wrist when he got me arrested,” she told Jason.

Jason scoffed, half in amusement and half in incredulity. “He got you arrested? What a dick.”

Cordelia wouldn’t go that far, but Jason seemed to be enjoying himself, so she didn’t say anything to contradict his words.

“What did Bruce have to say about that?” He asked.

Cordelia thought back to the rest of that night. The cop, the newly decorated bedroom, the news about her garden, and then — the fight.

“He blamed me,” she recalled.

“What?”

Jason’s questions kept coming after that. At first, just surrounding the whole handcuffing situation and Bruce’s reaction to it, then moving onto her relationship with Dick in general.

Everything she said surprised him.

It didn’t appear like he knew just how much time she and Dick spent together. That Dick’s days weren’t spent entirely out of the house, avoiding Bruce, and that he regularly sought Cordelia out to speak with her.

And Cordelia, for her part, did her best to explain all of this.

She told Jason that she knew Dick’s time in Wayne Manor was limited, so she was doing her best to milk it for all that it was worth. And that, during the weeks she spent in the wheelchair, Dick had been the one taking care of her the most, since he was strong enough to push and carry her everywhere, and also had the most flexible schedule.

She even told him about how Dick had been the one to comfort her after she met the rest of the family.

“How did that go?” Jason asked.

They were both sitting on the sofa at that point, the laptops completely abandoned as their focus became entirely on their drinks… and laughing about the family.

Cordelia herself was beginning to find everything funny. Even the story of how she met Tim, Cass, and Damian.

A week ago, she would have felt a stab of shame at the memory.

Now? Now she could hardly get through telling Jason about how she’d called Stephanie the “blonde” without dissolving into giggles.

“What is Steph doing at the manor?” Jason asked.

Cordelia drank the last of her drink, and hummed contently.

Her entire body was buzzing and warm, just like the night with James.

She set the glass aside and cuddled one of Jason’s throw pillows before answering, “I don’t know. I never asked. But she’s leaving once school starts.”

“School,” Jason muttered.

“Hm,” Cordelia hummed, closing her eyes. “School. Bruce is making me go.”

“It isn’t that bad.”

“It will be,” Cordelia said, but her response didn’t have much heat to it. “It will be time away from — “ she yawned “ — my family.”

Jason had nothing to say to that.

The two sat on the couch in the silence of the apartment.

There wasn’t a single sound to be heard. Not the pitter patter of rain hitting a window pane, or the low hum from a television set. Just complete silence after a night of music, talking, and crying.

It was probably another thirty minutes before either of them spoke up.

“So, the family,” Jason said, “they’re all together over there. And it’s been… nice?”

There was a hint of melancholy in his voice.

Cordelia fought against the heaviness in her eyes to look at him.

Once again, she couldn’t help but look at the murky green hue around his pupils and think: those are wrong.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s nice. But we’re never all together when you’re not around.”

The words fell easily from her numb lips, even though her muddled mind could hardly make sense of them beyond their core meaning, which was: I want you to move in. I want us all to live together forever. You, my mother, my brother and Alfred, and all Bruce’s children.

Everyone.

“I was busy,” Jason said.

She frowned confusedly. “Too busy for family?”

“No,” Jason said, with a short laugh that sounded almost ironic. “Too busy because of family.”

Cordelia didn’t get it.

Not at first.

Not until Jason dug in his pockets and pulled out a single key.

A very familiar looking key that she’d seen only briefly right before getting onto Jason’s motorcycle.

“Is that…?” Her eyes widened, because the key that he was holding was missing the small keychain pocket knife she knew was attached to his. “Is that a motorcycle key?”

“Uh huh.”

He tossed the key across the sofa to her.

Cordelia clumsily caught it, and held it in her numb fingers the same way someone might cradle a precious gem.

“I promised you a motorcycle, kid,” Jason said.

She couldn’t feel her face well enough to know what sort of expression she was making. All she did know was that the small silver key lying in the palm of her hand was the most beautiful key she’d ever seen in her entire life.

“It’s the same as mine, but without all the dangerous gadgets,” Jason continued. “You get yourself into enough trouble without me helping you out.”

It was a dig at her. But Jason made a lot of jabs at the people he considered family.

She tore her eyes away from the key to look up at him, feeling so much love that she thought she might burst.

“I was planning to show you the bike earlier,” he explained. “That’s actually the reason why I was at the manor in the first place. But then you started to freak out, so I…. Geez, kid. It’s just a bike.”

She was wiping away the large tear drops that were dribbling from her eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“You haven’t even seen it yet.”

She didn’t care.

It could have been a tricycle and she would have reacted the same.

But it wasn’t. It was a motorcycle. One of the few things from her timeline that she missed the most, and one of the few things Bruce had never given her.

Cordelia gave into her urges and wrapped her arms tightly around Jason’s torso in another hug.

He was as warm as Little Heart after she woke up from a long night of sleeping underneath the pillows.

“After we find my mother,” Cordelia said, “and I go back to the manor… I want you to come with me, Jason.”

“You’re completely wasted, aren’t you?” He said.

“Physically, I am intoxicated,” Cordelia admitted. “But, mentally, I am sober.”

“Right.” Jason sounded like he was about to start laughing at her. “Well, you could have warned me that you were a cuddle drunk before I let you have all that vodka.”

“I’m not a cuddle drunk,” Cordelia said, but then remembered her night with James and how he hadn’t been the only one enjoying their kisses. “Oh maybe I am.”

“You are,” Jason informed her. He carefully detangled her arms from around him, and squinted down at her flushed face. “I think you should eat something before you go to bed.”

He sounded so much like Bruce. She wondered if he knew that.

“Can I ask you something?” Cordelia said.

“I’m going to regret saying this,” Jason said, “but go ahead, kid.”

She didn’t ask her question immediately. Mostly because she didn’t know what her question would be — only that she’d had a question burning inside of her ever since she saw him without his domino mask, and that she felt like she really needed an answer. But also, partially, because she’d become distracted as she searched his face.

He was so… different from his portraits.

Granted, he’d been short and fifteen in them — but still. How could that small, happy, sharp-smiled boy in the portraits become the person sitting in front of her today?

She reached forward, hesitating ever so slightly when she noticed Jason tense, but pushing forward when he didn’t protest.

The raised scar on his forehead, just beneath the shock of white hair, was rough to the touch. There had been some serious damage there, once upon a time. Serious enough for the trauma to affect the color of his otherwise jet black hair.

She glanced up at his scalp, trying to estimate how far back the scar went, and wondering how painful it had been back when it was fresh and new.

Had he cried when it hurt?

Had someone heard his cries and cradled him? Did they tell him that he was loved, the same way Bruce had done for her when he’d taken her from the bunker and onto the safety of shore?

And, if they had, then why weren’t they here now? When Jason was still so obviously in pain?

All these questions swirled around in her mind, making her dizzy and confused, but never unfocused.

Her nephew was in pain. Emotional pain.

He felt lonely.

She never knew that there was a cure for loneliness, but now that she did, she wanted to share it.

He needed to come back home. After they found her mother, after she convinced her mother that Cordelia was important enough to form a relationship with. Her and Jason could return to Wayne Manor, where they could be happy.

Jason was still staring at her, waiting for the question. His eyes, murky green — wrong — were analyzing her the same way that Bruce always analyzed her.

He didn’t tell her what conclusions he was coming to about her.

But Cordelia was coming to conclusions herself.

Because as she stared at the green eyes of her nephew, and compared him to her brother, she realized what about Jason had looked so wrong.

His eyes were green. And they were not supposed to be.

Slowly, it all started to come together. Her own eyes, pale as ice, travelled from one green eye to the other, remembering the blue in the portraits and the smile that had once been pure. She saw the white hair — the scar — and remembered the torn Robin costume inside of Bruce’s Cave, and remembered the laughter from the Joker as he talked about hurting a little bird the same way he’d hurt her.

“The Lazarus.”

Cordelia whispered those two awful words as softly as one would a prayer, and knew, from the look in Jason’s eyes, that her suspicion had been true.

“You were put in the waters,” Cordelia realized.

Her horror must have been too much for Jason, because he immediately put distance between them.

Cordelia watched, horrified, as Jason grabbed both of their cups and brought them back to the kitchen sink to wash. But that was the problem with small homes like these — there would never be enough space between the people in them.

“How badly were you hurt to need the waters?” Cordelia asked.

His back was turned to her.

The water was running.

For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. But when he did, what he said shook her to her core.

“I wasn’t hurt at all,” Jason said, voice low with years old resentment. “I had a few bloody fingers. Maybe a scratch or two. It was my sanity that the Lazarus Pit healed.”

Cordelia struggled to understand.

Who would throw a boy into the pits to heal his mind? Why hadn’t they tried regular treatment? And where was Bruce in all of this — why would he let his son anywhere near waters that took so much from their user?

Unless… Bruce had been the one to do it?

Cordelia’s eyebrows furrowed, rejecting the idea instantly.

But then she thought of Damian’s mother, and how Bruce had defended her. And then she thought about Jason, and how determined he was to stay away from the manor.

“Was it…” she hesitated, not wanting an answer that would hurt. “Was Bruce the one to put you in the Lazarus Pit? Is that why you’re upset with him, Jason?”

To her relief, Jason snorted.

“Bruce?” He turned off the kitchen sink and dried off his hands with a towel. “Bruce hates the pits.”

“Then I don’t understand,” Cordelia said. “Who else could have done it?”

“Sorry, kid, but the story sharing portion of the night has passed. It’s time for you to eat and go to bed. So what do you want? Waffles?”

Cordelia shook her head. “Tell me what happened. I want to help you like you’re helping me.” 

Jason looked over his shoulder to raise an eyebrow at her. “Help me? You can’t un-use a Lazarus Pit. What’s done is done.”

“I don’t mean that I want to help you reverse the effects of the pit,” Cordelia said. That would be impossible. What’s taken could not be given back. “I mean that I want to help you change your relationship with the family. You can become close with them again.”

“I don’t want to be close to the family.”

Jason had his back turned to her still.

It was driving her insane.

He was much better at hiding emotions from his voice than his eyes.

So Cordelia stood up from the sofa and walked over to him, stumbling slightly when the ground tilted and spun beneath her.

“You’re wrong,” she said when she finally made it to his side, swaying left and right and craning her neck back to get a good look at his face. “You do want to be close with them. And this is proof.”

She proudly held up her new motorcycle key, as if it was evidence to close a case.

“Family means something to you,” Cordelia said. “If it didn’t, then you wouldn’t have gotten me a motorcycle, and you wouldn’t have spent so long waiting outside of Wayne Manor gates to see me.”

There was no denying the proof. If Jason cared that much about her, a girl he’d only met once, then there was no way he was okay with being so isolated from the rest of the Waynes.

“Tell me the truth, Jason,” Cordelia said. “What stopped you from passing those gates?”

At first, it looked like Jason was going to dismiss her again. He’d thrown the towel into the empty sink, and had leaned his hip against the counter to watch her little speech like a detached spectator. 

But right when he opened his mouth, most likely to tell her that she needed to go to bed and leave him alone, he sighed.

A tired, large sigh that involved relaxed shoulders and rolled eyes.

“Fine,” he said. “Whatever. It’s not like what happened to me is a big fucking secret.”

This time, it was Jason’s turn to tell her everything. Only, instead of doing that in a dark, damp alley between two abandoned buildings, he told her to sit on the sofa before she fell and cracked her head on his clean floors, then tossed her a blueberry muffin before sitting down with one of his own. 

It wasn’t a… happy story.

Nor was it anything Cordelia had expected.

Although she wasn’t sure what to expect. Or what would cause Jason to want to separate himself from a father like Bruce and a butler like Alfred. 

But once Jason told her the entire story… she understood.

It was difficult not to. A missing mother. A difficult relationship with Bruce. A desire for family. A horrific encounter with the Joker, a crowbar, and a ton of dynamite.

Cordelia flinched back in surprise when he described his death.

How it wasn’t instant at all. How the pain had been so severe that it made every second feel drawn out into a year. How, when death finally did come, he’d felt relieved.

“There’s no pain in death,” he said.

And Cordelia clung onto that.

Jason told her about how he’d woken up in a coffin, with none of his Robin tools and no one around to hear him scream.

How he cried for Batman.

How the only person he had, in that moment, was himself.

He admitted that he didn’t remember much after he’d clawed his way out of his own grave. That he was sure having to do something like that had driven him more into insanity than dying itself.

Then he told her about the Lazarus Pit.

“Like being burned alive,” he said. “Except that, when you’re burning, there’s at least an end to it. The Pit is never-ending. It burns your skin along with your insides.”

He never felt right after the pit.

The stories they told, about how it takes from its user, were true.

Jason had lost something the moment Thalia al Gaul dropped him into the waters, and he didn’t know how to get it back, or if it was even possible.

“Then what happened?” Cordelia said. Her uneaten muffin was cold in her hands. “You went back to Bruce?”

“No,” Jason said. His murky eyes were dark and swirling, lost in a memory that she’d forced him to explore. “I didn’t see Bruce for a long time after that.”

He talked about the training he went through. How Thalia had pretended to help him, when really she was helping herself.

Then he talked about his anger.

How it had consumed him.

How he’d wanted justice for his pain, but had returned to Gotham to find that nothing had changed. Batman had gotten himself a new Robin, Bruce had gotten himself a new kid, and Joker was still destroying everything in his path.

“I wanted him dead,” Jason finished. “I wanted Bruce to kill him. For me. For everyone. But mostly for me.”

The sky was pitch black outside of the windows, not a single star in sight.

Jason’s apartment was dark, too. Shadows grew from the furniture, twisting and engulfing around any patch of light it could see.

Jason, himself, was mostly hidden in the dark, even though he was only an arm’s length away.

“That’s the answer, then,” Cordelia said.

She could feel the words in her mouth like they were an antidote to an awful pain.

“What?” Jason laughed shortly. There was no humor behind it. “To get Bruce to kill the Joker? You can’t. I tried.”

“No,” Cordelia said. “He’d never do that.”

Batman would never think to kill the Joker. They had too much history together; too much love.

“I’ll kill the Joker,” Cordelia decided, and felt a rush of intense satisfaction at the thought. “To prove our love for you. And then, once he’s dead, we’ll pack your books and move you into the manor.”

Jason surprised her by scoffing in disbelief.

“I will,” Cordelia insisted. She scooted forward to grab his hand. “I’ll do it tonight.”

“You can’t — where are you going?” Jason grabbed her wrist and forced her to sit down again. “You can’t kill the Joker.”

“Yes, I can,” Cordelia said, almost eager despite her head feeling nauseous from being yanked down. “It’s what you want. It’ll be my gift to you!”

Jason was shaking his head at her, a cynical look in his eyes. “It would be a gift to all of Gotham. But breaking Bruce’s rule is a sure way to end up living here with me forever, and we both know that you wouldn’t want that.”

Cordelia’s eyebrows crinkled, confused.

She wondered if that had to do with all the drinks she had, or if Jason really wasn’t making any sense.

“What are you talking about?” She asked him. “Which rule?”

Bruce had so many.

“His no-kill rule,” Jason answered.

Which didn’t clear up any of her confusion.

She stared up at him, nonplussed.

“You know,” Jason said, although she didn’t. “His rule that none of us can kill people? He practically kicked me out of Gotham when he thought I killed that Jerome guy who tried to attack you.”

Cordelia kept staring.

Jason’s eyes flickered around her expression. “You weren’t told.”

That killing people who cause her to get kicked out of Gotham?

No. She hadn’t been.

In her mind’s eye, she saw herself trying to choke Jerome to death, before her consciousness caught up to her. Then she saw herself aiming a gun at Joker’s men, and aiming to kill, so that they wouldn’t be able to come back and overwhelm her later. 

She also saw herself throwing a knife clear through the air, and feeling accomplished when it sunk into the body of a man who bet his life on being a Joker henchman.

“No,” Cordelia murmured. “I was never told.”

If she had been told, then she would have been much more secretive about her past. But… Damian knew. And there was a painting, somewhere in the art room, that practically announced to the world just how far she was willing to go for her father’s approval.

Jason was still looking over her expression; seeing the horror and quickly putting two-and-two together.

Yet another skill he would have learned working under Batman.

“Was it you?” He asked. “Did you kill Jerome?”

She shook her head, and just when Jason looked like he was about to ask her a follow up question, she said, “I didn’t, but I beat him up so badly that I might as well have.”

“The creep deserved it,” Jason said instantly. “Besides, Bruce has a no kill rule. He doesn’t care if a criminal gets roughed up a bit.”

“But…”

But she had killed people. Many people.

She wasn’t sure if she should say that out loud.

Jason saw right through her. “But you’ve killed before. In this timeline?”

There was no use denying it.

With her reaction, and her painting, and her promise to kill Joker immediately — there was no use denying it.

“Yes,” she said. “Joker’s henchmen. I don’t know their names.”

“Ah,” Jason said. He didn’t seem at all bothered by her confession, but Damian hadn’t been either. “Then let’s hope Bruce doesn’t find out, or you’ll end up just like me, kid.”

He couldn’t have promised a worse fate.

Suddenly, the tiny apartment they were sitting in looked a lot different. The furniture was now too cramped; the single bathroom was now too oppressive; and the alcohol-stocked kitchen was now too depressing.

It was awful.

Everything here was awful and lonely.

There was no room. No where to plant a garden. No where for Little Heart to sprint and jump.

Cordelia felt sick.

“I don’t want to live like this,” she said.

The tip of her nose burned.

She looked up at Jason, eyes beginning to water and heart beginning to stutter.

“Jason, I don’t want to end up like you,” she said. “This place is horrible.”

He looked mildly offended. “It isn’t that bad.”

But it was. 

Maybe not as bad as living in Wayne Manor with Thomas Wayne, but a lot worse than living in Wayne Manor with Bruce and Alfred.

She tried to imagine it. Living here with Jason, being too scared to go back home — not passing through the Wayne gates even when she had an invitation stuffed in her pocket, and felt vile rise in her throat.

“Look, kid, I was only joking. If Bruce really kicks you out, then we can move —“

Cordelia threw up.

“Eurgh!” The noise ripped from Jason’s throat as all her vomit landed in his lap. “Fuck. This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. And I fucking died —“

Cordelia threw up again. But, that time, at least, Jason managed to get away.

Notes:

🤸👀

Chapter 63: BONUS CHAPTER: Dick's POV

Summary:

“When I die —“ Batman began.

“Stop saying ‘when,’” Nightwing said.

Batman frowned. “Everyone dies, Nightwing.”

“Not in the next two years!”

It was like taking a step into an impressionist painting.

The green ground was soft and plush beneath his feet, like a pillow, as he followed a trail through the garden, brushing by the multicolored shrubs and dipping below the tangling vines that hid the velvet sky.

He tried to find signs of where she might be. A broken branch, or a set of small footprints breaking into the dirt, but he knew before searching that they would never be found.

She was more careful here.

Every movement she made was cautious; every word she gave was softly spoken. It was like she believed that the garden was not made of earth, rock, and persevering plant, but breakable china — and that she was not made of easily scarred flesh and delicate bone, but molded destruction.

The way she moved in here… sometimes Dick would stop what he was doing to stare at her from a distance. It was mostly a habit of his to pay so close attention to new siblings. Like him, they were being reborn through trauma but — unlike him — they didn’t always know it. 

Cordelia knew it.

He could see it in the way that she gardened.

Every root of a flower was individually handled; from the time she was removing the plant from the pot all the way to the moment she was settling it into the wet, nourishing soil with all of its brothers and sisters. 

Dick would watch, curious, as her thin, pale fingers gently patted the soil flat, and continued to watch as she inspected the pot to see if there were any signs that she’d ripped a root or pulled a petal.

There never was.

And Dick was never surprised. Because Cordelia treated her garden with as much care as she treated her lamb: like a mother hyper-aware of her own strength and terrified of her own child’s vulnerability.

He didn’t have the heart, yet, to tell her that she was being ridiculous. 

The flowers she planted were just flowers. The shrubs she insisted that Dick wheel her around were just shrubs. And everything that broke in this garden would grow back even stronger.

That’s how gardens worked. Things grew, things died, things came back.

It was people that they should be worried about.

“Cordelia?” Dick called out.

His voice stirred a few critters taking residence in the trees and the bushes, but it didn’t stir a reaction from the person he was searching for.

He cleared his throat, ready to call again. The containers of food and cake he’d carried into the garden were becoming chilled in his hands, and the smell of the delicious meal Alfred had prepared was making his stomach growl loud enough to scare a family of chipmunks away.

“Cordel…ia.”

He trailed off.

Around the corner of the hedge wall that separated the rows of flower beds from the man-made pond, Dick could see a fluffy head peek out.

Its face was a clean tan color; its mouth a blushing pink.

Dick recognized this sheep as the nosiest one. The one he’d dubbed Mr. Thief Sheep. Or — more accurately — the one he’d secretly named that after the fifth time he’d caught the criminal sticking its large head into his discarded jacket in search of something to eat.

“So we meet again,” Dick said, and would have crossed his arms if he wasn’t holding the containers.

“Baaa,” Mr. Thief Sheep said.

Dick could see its nostrils flare from ten feet away.

He gripped the containers even tighter.

“Don’t even think about it,” Dick warned. “You’ve stolen enough of my snacks to make it through an entire winter.”

Mr. Thief Sheep took a challenging step forward.

Dick stood his ground.

“I’m not here to fight,” he said. “I’ve come to feed Little Bat.”

The sheep’s head tilted at the name, recognizing it from the many times Dick had said it in front of him.

“That’s right,” Dick said. “Little Bat. Where is she?”

Asking sheep for directions wasn’t Dick’s finest hour, but he took comfort in knowing that Bruce never installed cameras into the garden. Something about wanting Cordelia to feel completely disconnected from all things Batman and the BatCave when she was in here.

“Baaa,” Mr. Thief Sheep said.

He took another step forward, his nose raising as if to point at the food.

Dick, being a boy raised in Gotham, knew a request for bribery when he saw one.

He took out a carrot from the side salad and held it out for Mr. Thief Sheep.

The criminal trotted over, its fluff bouncing with every step, before taking the tiny carrot from Dick’s hand and chewing it happily.

“Now find Little Bat,” Dick told it.

Now Dick knew that no one would ever believe him — and he also knew that he would never confess this to a living soul — but the moment he gave Mr. Thief Sheep the command, Mr. Thief Sheep listened. The large body swiveled back in the direction it came from, thin tail wagging like an excited pup, and jogged away.

Dick followed. 

With two containers in his hands, a belly empty, and a bit of pride gone, he followed the little hooves through the garden until he reached the far end of it — and saw the girl he was looking for.

Cordelia.

She was lying on a small field of wildflowers, surrounded by sheep. They grazed around her, nibbling on the grass and grunting softly when their noses met in the dirt. One of them, the largest, laid underneath her head like an oversized white pillow, its eyes closed in sleep. And on her chest was the pet lamb that Bruce had impulsively adopted for her, its body tucked into the smallest ball possible as it snuggled beneath her chin.

Dick approached them, and grew more concerned the closer he became.

The lamb in Cordelia’s arms was trembling terribly, with its face pressed against her so tightly that it looked as though it were attempting to hide within her very skin. And Cordelia did not look much better; with her red-rimmed eyes and trembling mouth, Dick could tell that she’d been crying for hours as the rest of the family settled in and prepared for dinner.

He stopped just a few steps away.

“Hey, Little Bat,” Dick said. “Are you okay?”

The lamb responded to his voice before the girl did. Dick could see it wiggle further up Cordelia’s torso to cover its face with the loose strands of her black hair.

“I thought I could eat with you,” Dick continued, holding up his containers of food and cake. When she didn’t respond, he added, “…Unless you want me to leave?”

He knew she didn’t — she wouldn’t have allowed him into her garden if a small part of her didn’t want the company — but it was the push she needed.

Cordelia opened her eyes, fighting the lashes sticky from tears, and looked up at him so miserably that Dick knew he wouldn’t leave even if she asked him to.

“I’m…” her shaky voice was ridden with guilt, “I’m so sorry, Dick. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Hey, no,” Dick hurried to assure her, sitting down by her side. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I hurt them,” Cordelia said.

Large teardrops were falling from her eyes, making them glimmer like two stars in the night sky.

Dick acted on impulse, like he had outside the ice cream parlor, when all he’d been thinking about was providing the kid in front of him with one last assurance before he ran off to help everyone else.

Cordelia did not struggle away from his hug like any of his other family members would. Instead, when he pulled her away from the sheep she was laying on and brought her into his arms, she sank against his side as easily as if they’d known each other for years.

“I wanted everything to be perfect when I met them,” she whispered. “But I messed it up. I attacked them. I attacked them like Father used to attack me.”

Dick prepared himself to protest, knowing without needing all the information that her statement could not be true, but stopped himself once he noticed her looking up at him from beneath her lashes.

Her eyes — they were the exact same size and shape and color as Bruce’s: ice blue and bordered by black, curled lashes. A frozen sea of mystery, trauma, and far too much introspection.

She would not believe a protest. Much like Bruce wouldn’t have believed a protest. Because, like Bruce and like all the Waynes Dick had gotten to know, Cordelia was prone to stick to a belief once it was made.

And if that belief was that she was a monster?

She’d cling to it that much harder.

“You’ll turn things around,” Dick said gently. “Trust me. They won’t be able to help loving you.”

Cordelia was doubtful. “Tim and Damian looked like they wanted Bruce to get rid of me.”

“Dam is just —“ Dick hesitated “— territorial. And Tim doesn’t like not knowing things. I’m sure, once he hears the entire story, he’ll warm up to you quickly.”

It was alarming how alike yet unlike Bruce she was. Bruce would have never gazed up at Dick with so much need.

“How can you be sure?” She asked.

“I…” Dick floundered. He wasn’t sure. Truth be told, both Damian and Tim were not above holding grudges with family members. Dick just hoped that they wouldn’t practice those same habits with a girl so desperate for their approval. “I just know. We’re — family. All of us. We fight, we forgive, and we move on. That’s how it’s always been.”

She’d seen his hesitation, catching the breaks in his speech pattern as astutely as any of the rest of them would, but she didn’t get the chance to call him out on it.

“But enough about them,” Dick said quickly. “I came here to check on my brave little cousin here.”

He reached down to scratch the back of Cordelia’s pet lamb, and immediately wished he hadn’t once the gesture made the lamb flinch violently away from him.

Cordelia kissed one of its trembling ears soothingly.

“You would have been proud of her,” Dick insisted. “She ran straight to Bruce when she saw us. If it wasn’t for her, we wouldn’t have known that you needed our help. She’s like your little hero.”

This tidbit of information would have pleased Bruce and Damian immensely — to know that the animal they trained was intelligent enough to know what its master needed from them — but Cordelia must have been a very different pet parent than the other Waynes.

“When I found her,” Cordelia confessed, “she was scratching at the front door. She barely wanted to look at me.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Dick said. “She was just a little scared. But look at her now! All she wants is you. I’m a little offended.”

He knew his joke didn’t land when Cordelia started to cry again. “She’s traumatized. I was supposed to protect her.”

There was a lot to unpack there.

Bruce had mentioned that he believed Cordelia was using the lamb to rewrite her own trauma, but Dick had thought that he was attempting to justify his own impulsive decision to adopt the lamb without consulting Alfred first. After all, in the few short weeks they’d known the lamb, the pet had managed to destroy more vases than anyone else in the family, and had urinated on every single one of Alfred’s favorite rugs. So there was no way that Bruce didn’t feel at least a little chastised when Alfred sent a withering glare in his direction.

But sitting here with Cordelia as she tried to be the mother that she’d needed back in her own timeline to the lamb in her arms, Dick realized how right Bruce had been.

“You can protect her from a lot of things, Little Bat,” Dick said, “but you can’t protect her from everything.”

How many times had Bruce tried to do the same with every one of his children? Only to be faced with the reality of the situation: that hurt came even when you set up every defense against it. Hurt, sickness, resentment — these were all things that parents could not keep out of their children’s lives. And it was not something that Bruce would be able to keep out of Cordelia’s new life, either.

The sooner they learned that, the better off they’d be.

“What matters is being here for her afterward,” Dick said. “Sitting here, giving her arms she can feel safe in, and letting her know that you care.”

Dick could see Cordelia soaking in this advice, allowing it to change her perspective just enough for the tears to stop flowing.

Large eyes flickered down to the trembling lamb, before letting her gaze meet Dick’s once again.

“Okay,” she said.

It took a bit more cajoling to get her to start eating but, eventually, she gave in once the lamb fell asleep. And Dick finally felt comfortable enough to grab his own chilled containers and start eating himself.

It was much quieter in the garden that evening.

Cordelia only spoke up to respond quietly to any attempt Dick made at conversation, and Dick was quick to understand that her first meeting with his siblings was too big of a disappointment to get over in only a few hours. So, for a long time, the only sounds that could be heard were the whistling breeze as it passed through the leaves in the trees, and the occasional sound of animals communicating with nature. That is, until they started to walk back to the manor.

The sky was cloudless. The stars were gone. The only things that they could see were the five feet in front of them and the infrequent streaking shadows that were the squirrels rushing into their trees when Cordelia said, “It’s always better when you’re around.”

“What is?” Dick asked.

Cordelia shrugged her shoulders. “Everything. Life. I think you could have made even my timeline a place to be happy in if I’d met you.”

She always did that: gave compliments so unabashedly that you’d think she was telling someone the time rather than admitting that she thought the world of them.

It would have been nice if not for the fact that Dick would never be able to live up to the persona of him that she had in her head.

“You know that I can’t stay here forever, Little Bat,” Dick reminded her. “I have to go back home.”

“I know,” she said. “But you’ll stay for a while, right?”

The forest cleared up ahead of them. In the distance, Dick could see the lights from the manor shining bright — acting like a lighthouse guiding them from the dangerous waves and to the shore.

Beside him, he knew that Cordelia was seeing something different. Her expression became guarded and tense; the face of a soldier returning to the field of battle.

Through that expression, he resigned himself to the fact that his job here was not yet done. That he was still needed, and that — once again — he’d have to put his family before everyone else.

“Right,” Dick said. “But… only for a while.”

---

“I want you to become Cordelia’s guardian when I die.”

Nightwing almost crashed the BatMobile.

“Careful,” Batman snapped.

Blood was gushing through the tear in his uniform, seeping through his fingers and staining the leather of his seats. The pain, Nightwing imagined, was making him even more irritable than normal.

And more psychotic.

“You can’t drop that type of request on someone when they’re going over 120 miles per hour on the highway, B! How did you think I’d react?” Nightwing demanded. “Besides, you’re not going to die. You’ve gone through worse things than a few stitches tearing open — this is basically a paper cut to you.”

“I know I’ll survive this.” Batman adjusted his posture, grunting with every twitch of his muscles. “This isn’t about the stitches. Not entirely. Turn right.”

“Are you seriously giving me directions to the BatCave?” Nightwing said, furious.

They’d been out all night, as they’ve been out every night since the Joker escaped Arkham, trying to find any sign or clue of where he might be hiding now. But tonight, like all the nights before, they were returning home bruised, bleeding, and unsuccessful.

It was making the entire team irritable; but it seemed to be affecting Batman the most — especially since he had not yet fully recovered from the explosion Cordelia set off beneath Gotham Harbor, mentally or physically.

Nightwing had wanted to lighten the mood.

He should have known that calling B old and joking that his skills were slipping would come back to bite him in the ass.

“When I die —“ Batman began.

“Stop saying ‘when,’” Nightwing said.

Batman frowned. “Everyone dies, Nightwing.”

“Not in the next two years!” 

“Regardless,” Batman said. “I’m getting older, and Gotham is getting worse. I… I don’t care what that means for me, but I care what that means for Cordelia.”

I care what it means for all of us, Nightwing thought, taking the next turn beneath the tunnels.

“I ran through every name I can trust,” Batman continued in the darkness of the underground caves, either not noticing the way Nightwing’s hands gripped at the steering wheel or not caring. “Penny-One. Superman. Wonder Woman. Oracle. I even considered Red Robin. But no one checked all the boxes. No one except for you.”

Lucky me.

Nightwing slowed the speed of the car.

The lights of the BatCave were beginning to appear down the long cavernous tunnel, along with the silver steel that made up the floors and railings for the BatMobile.

He couldn’t get there quick enough.

If only he’d let Red Robin drive Batman back to the BatCave when he offered. Instead, Nightwing had said ‘no,’ too concerned about his father to let him leave his sight.

“Are you listening to me?” Batman asked.

“No,” Nightwing answered.

Batman glared at the side of his head. “Be serious.”

“I am being serious,” Nightwing said. “I’m not going to have this conversation with you right now. I have to call Alfred for medical.”

They were in the BatCave now, safe from the possibility of anyone hacking into their comms and overhearing anything they shouldn’t.

Dick went to press what younger him had called the Alfred Button.

Bruce’s gauntlet closed around his wrist, stopping him.

“B, you’re bleeding,” Dick said.

“Forget medical for now,” Bruce said, although the skin of his jaw was paler than usual. “I need you to answer my question.”

His question. To become responsible for a teenage girl.

With Wayne genes.

And a past so traumatic that she’d need constant attention, affection, and care.

Dick was really regretting caring enough about Bruce to drive him home.

“I can’t be the only person who checks all the boxes,” Dick said. “Why not Alfred? He’s great with her, and she loves him.”

“After you, he checked the most boxes,” Bruce agreed. “He’s familiar, she trusts him, she respects him, and he has experience raising children from troubled backgrounds.”

“Great, so —“

“But he’s easily overpowered.”

Dick stared. “Do you really think she’d attack Alfred?”

“I don’t know,” Bruce said, and the admission of Bruce not knowing something felt like a stun gun to the brain. “Cordelia listens to authority, but only when she wants to. If Alfred were to give her an order, and she didn’t agree with it, I wouldn’t put it past her to use manipulation and force to get her way.”

“I think you’re underestimating Alfred,” Dick said.

“That’s a possibility,” Bruce allowed. “But I would rather underestimate Alfred than underestimate her.”

Dick shook his head.

He couldn’t believe this.

Or maybe he could.

After all, when Bruce disappeared the last time, it had been Dick who took on all the responsibilities Bruce had left behind. From Wayne Enterprises, to Batman, to even becoming the father figure that Damian had lost.

So, despite Dick not wanting it to be true, it only made sense that Bruce would also expect him to take on responsibility for Cordelia, as well.

But just the thought of it — of being a — a father to anyone — caused dread to seep deep into his veins.

“I can’t, Bruce,” Dick said. “I’m sorry. But… I can’t.”

The white eyes of Bruce’s cowl glowed like two dim headlights from the passenger seat of the car.

“You took in Damian,” he said.

There was a note of accusation in his voice. An anger. A… protectiveness.

It surprised Dick, although it should not have.

Bruce was a logical man. He knew that not everyone was cut out to be a father, and that not everyone wanted to be. So there was no doubt in Dick’s mind that he’d put together a list of alternative options in case the answer to his question was the one Dick provided.

But they were also speaking about Cordelia.

Bruce’s little sister.

Who he, no doubt, had already developed both brotherly and fatherly instincts for.

And who Dick had just rejected.

The realization came to Dick too late, but it came to him all the same: that this was not a man-to-man conversation he was having with Bruce. It was a big brother to big brother conversation… and he needed to tread carefully.

“This isn’t about her,” Dick said. “She’s a sweet kid, and funny. This is about me, Bruce. I don’t think I’m cut out to be a….”

“You did great with Damian,” Bruce said. “I was proud. Of both of you.”

Dick looked away. “We managed. We had to. The only other option was to send him back to the League. Cordelia… she has other options, Bruce.”

“None that I like.”

Dick stopped himself from throwing his hands up in the air out of frustration. “And what do you like about the idea of me being the one to take care of her? The fact that I’d have to leave Bludhaven and come back here?”

“No,” Bruce said. “She looks up to you, Dick. She respects you. She loves you. And she will need you, when I’m gone. She’s….”

Dick stared. The skin around Bruce’s mouth was getting paler. 

Dick could not help but feel a jolt of worry. “B, you need medical attention.”

“I need your promise that you will think about it,” Bruce said.

“I will,” Dick said.

Bruce’s white-lens stare was direct. “Will you?”

Dick didn’t want to, but he would. Of course he would. 

“B,” he said. “I will.”

Bruce gave him a long, hard stare, trying to weed out any fallacies.

Dick’s responding stare was leveled.

“Family means everything to her,” Bruce said quietly. “I can’t ask this favor from any of the Justice League members. I can’t ask it from anyone — except one of our own. And, if you choose not to do this, then the next person I’d have to ask is Tim.”

Dick wanted to protest.

Tim was a kid, himself, no matter how much he tried not to be. There was no way that he would be able to be the guardian of a girl just a few years younger than him.

But Bruce was right.

It wasn’t like they could hand her off to Jason. And it wasn’t like she was mature enough to be emancipated, either.

The reality of the situation felt like a trap sliding shut.

“Fine,” Dick said, because it was really the only thing to say. “I’ll become her guardian if you die.”

He hadn’t even realized how tense Bruce was until he saw the stress leak from his shoulders. “Thank you, Dick.”

Dick nodded once, uncomfortable. 

“You’re welcome, B,” he said. “Just… don’t die.”

Bruce actually smiled at that.

His hand left Dick’s wrist to settle on his shoulder.

“I’ll let Cordelia know tomorrow,” Bruce promised.

“Do you have to?” Dick said.

“Yes,” Bruce said. “She has to start looking at you as more than a nephew. If you’re going to be her guardian one day, then she needs to see you as an adult, not a child of her brother’s.”

Dick nodded again but, inwardly, he could not help but wonder when Bruce’s hand had gotten so heavy, and whether the weight in his chest had always felt this unbearable.

He did not have time to figure that out.

Because, behind them, several motorcycles roared into existence. The rest of the team had arrived, and it wasn’t long before every single one of them was yelling at Dick, demanding to know why he hadn’t started to re-stitch Bruce’s wounds yet.

---

“I like her,” Cass said.

She was dancing solo around Dick’s bedroom as he got ready for Cordelia’s party, her hair perfectly set and her long black gown flowing dramatically around her.

Dick glanced at her through his full-length mirror.

She’d appeared suddenly while he was shaving — and, for the life of him, he could not figure out how she’d managed to sneak past his locked windows and doors without him noticing.

“I want another,” Cass told him brightly.

“Another what?” Dick asked, distracted with his tie.

“Baby sister,” Cass said. She looked at him like he was an idiot. And since Dick was still not sure how she was even here, he felt inclined to agree. “Two more.”

“Two?” Dick repeated. “Bruce can barely handle one.”

Not to mention, Dick would barely be able to handle one if Bruce ends up dying in the next two years.

Cass, oblivious to his turmoil, spun in pretty circles to his side, careless and young. Her dark eyes glittered as she looked up at him. “Not for Bruce. For me.”

Dick wondered if Bruce knew that he’d now adopted so many children that they were beginning to ask for more the same way other kids would ask for a puppy.

“They should all get names that start with a C, too,” Dick said. “So that everyone knows B got them for you.”

Cass nodded, taking his joke seriously, and watched in silence as he finished tightening the knot for his tie.

“You think… we’ll get more?” She asked.

There had never been an easier question to answer, Dick was sure of it.

“The day Bruce stops adopting kids, will be the day it becomes illegal,” he said. “And, even then, it’s a fifty-fifty chance he’ll stop.”

Damian would have scowled angrily at that piece of information. Tim, even, would have expressed frustration at the ever-growing family he’d fallen into. But Cass treated this prediction like it was a promise that she’d one day meet a unicorn.

“I’m glad,” Cass beamed. “Sisters are — different. She’s mine.”

Dick wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but if he were to guess, he would assume that Cordelia to Cass was like Jason to Dick: a younger sibling that she felt protective of, but a sibling close enough in age to be friends with.

And, if that were the case, then Dick was happy for them.

It was nice to see them get along. To hear Cass and Cordelia and Steph giggling behind the closed doors of their bedrooms, and talking over the movies that Steph was trying to show them.

It was… nice… to see people in the family getting along without him needing to mediate. Because if he had to step in between Cass and Cordelia the same way he always had to step in between Tim and Damian and Jason, he was sure that he’d run himself ragged.

“Handsome,” Cass noted, breaking his reverie. She poked the knot of his tie. “Good color.”

“Thanks,” Dick said. “Should I save a dance for you?”

She tapped her chin, considering it. “Hm…. Okay. One.”

Dick smiled.

He’d convince her of more later, once she saw how stuffy the people who attended these types of parties usually were. But, for now, he would agree, and offer to escort her to the ballroom.

“Meeting Steph,” Cass declined, then stood on tip-toe to kiss his cheek. “See you soon?”

“Sure,” Dick said. “Unless I can find a way out of it.”

He wouldn’t be able to.

This ball, at first, had just been something that Bruce and Alfred had felt obligated to do for the sake of Cordelia’s reputation in society. But somewhere after her agreeing to it, and her seeing the invitations, there had been a noticeable shift in her excitement.

This was a party that Cordelia really wanted to have.

Dick told himself that this was because she didn’t know what the party would actually be like. In her mind, the people arriving at their doors would be people who wanted to dance and laugh with the family. But, in reality, none of them would be.

They were coming here to judge the Waynes. 

More specifically, they were coming here to judge Cordelia, and to have enough juicy gossip about her to spread to the people not on the list.

And, for that, Dick couldn’t like them.

He had never liked them.

But there was nothing he could do about it. Bruce and Alfred were deciding to throw Cordelia to the wolves, and she was too naive to know any better. So Dick was going to join the festivities. If not for the food, then to help Cordelia survive a night that was bound to end in disaster.

And also to tell Bruce “I told you so.”

Dick glanced at the clock.

That time would arrive soon.

The others were probably doing their finishing touches before meeting in the hallway outside of the ballroom doors, where the family would gather to set the ground rules. They were always the same: no weapons, no vigilante talk, and no saying anything to purposefully cause a scandal (the last one being a direct result of Dick’s past actions). But Dick liked to be present for them, anyway, just in case someone else caused another rule to be added to the list.

So he took one last look in the full-length mirror Alfred had set up in his room, straightened his tie, wished that he were patrolling, and left for the ballroom.

---

“This is food for the gods,” Stephanie gushed.

They were hiding near the dessert table, trying to get away from the bland society talk that had surrounded them for most of the night.

It had been a total coincidence that they’d chosen the same hiding spot. Or, more accurately, it had been their bellies.

“What did Alfred put in these eclairs?” Stephanie asked. “Crack?”

Dick laughed.

She’d eaten three already, and was receiving judgmental glares from a group of older women five paces away.

Stephanie, to her credit, didn’t seem shy about it.

“Do you think they’d make a scene if I ate the whole plate?” She asked.

“No,” Dick said honestly. “But they might give that info to a few journalists tomorrow. ‘Wayne Family Friend Steals Food From The Hungry’ is a scandalous enough headline to appear in at least one gossip column.’”

Stephanie squinted at the old women. They looked away, flustered at her boldness.

“They do look hungry, don’t they?” She said thoughtfully.

Hungry for gossip, said a voice in Dick’s head.

He’d been on the look out for that, as had Bruce. Because even the smallest thing could result in a large misunderstanding that they did not want Cordelia and Cass to have to deal with later on. 

But he’d been looking in vain — just like the old women looking for gossip were looking in vain.

The night, and the party, was going well.

More than well, actually.

It was turning out to be a success.

Damian, although new to the Gotham scene, was accidentally charming the crowd with his cuteness and his sophisticated verbiage. There was not an adult he spoke to that didn’t begin to smirk as the conversation drew on, and there was not a single little girl under the age of twelve that didn’t blush furiously whenever he glanced their way.

And Cass, too, seemed to be gathering a group of fans all on her own.

Eyes drew to her as she danced; admiring the artistry of her movements, and the gracefulness of her steps.

Dick had even caught a few people sneaking pictures and videos, as if the dance floor was a stage and Cass was a professional ballerina.

He didn’t blame them.

Cass was an artist. And, maybe, one day — she’d try to be a professional one.

“She looks like she’s having fun,” Stephanie said.

They were watching as Cass happily led some boy onto the dance floor. He looked nervous behind her, likely knowing that his couple of years practicing the waltz or the salsa — or whatever dance class his parents had forced him to attend — would not compare to anything Cass had planned.

“Can’t say the same for Bruce,” Dick said, amused.

His father was near one of the standing tables with Cordelia, and trying not to glare at the boy who was circling his arms around Cass’s waist.

Stephanie glanced over at him and snorted.

“Do you think he tried to make Cass ask him for permission to dance, too?” She said. 

Seeing the storm build behind Bruce’s eyes as the dance began and Cass’s boy drew her in close, Dick didn’t doubt it.

“I can’t believe Cordelia is actually putting up with that,” Stephanie said. “His overprotectiveness would drive me insane.”

They both watched as a twitchy, sweating boy about a year older than Cordelia approached the Wayne siblings.

Two sets of ice blue eyes flashed in his direction, their stares direct and unrelenting. Bruce’s because he was not-to-subtly trying to intimidate the boy into retreating; and Cordelia’s because she was blatantly assessing if the boy was a threat.

Dick took a sip of his drink to cover up his chuckle.

These poor kids.

It was hard enough, as a teenage boy, to work up the courage to ask a girl to dance. He didn’t think Bruce’s hard jaw and lowered eyebrows were making it any easier; and he knew that Cordelia’s blank stare wasn’t giving them any hope, either.

It was almost surprising that she was getting so many dance requests.

Almost.

Because, unfortunately for Bruce and this overprotective nature, Cordelia was very pretty. And boys were willing to go through a lot for the chance to talk to a pretty girl.

“Want to make a bet?” Dick asked Stephanie.

“Name it,” she said immediately.

“I bet you twenty dollars that Bruce is going to spend the rest of the night creating reports for each of the boys she dances with today.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Stephanie scoffed. “He’ll at least wait until tomorrow.”

Across the room, the boy who approached the Wayne siblings had started to fidget.

From what Dick could see, he’d just finished stumbling his way through asking Cordelia to dance, and was waiting for a response.

He got one.

Cordelia’s entire face brightened up instantly as she turned to look up at Bruce, her smile eager and hopeful.

Bruce, meanwhile, had adopted a scowl that was hilariously similar to Damian’s.

“Has he said ‘no’ to one yet?” Stephanie asked.

“Not to any of the teenagers,” Dick answered. “There were a few older ones he looked ready to throw out the window, though.”

Stephanie laughed in disbelief as Bruce, from across the room, gave Cordelia a reluctant nod.

Cordelia wasted no time.

The boy barely got the chance to react. She grabbed him by the wrist, not waiting for him to get a word in, and yanked him along to join the other dancers on the dance floor. And then, once they were there, she immediately started to lead.

It was interesting to watch. 

Not her, specifically, but everyone’s reactions to her.

They liked her.

Despite her… quirkiness.

The stuffy society people that had been so cruel to Jason and so dismissive of Cass saw Cordelia’s abrasive, childlike nature, and liked her.

Dick could see them now, admiring the newest Wayne, as she unabashedly wrapped her arms around the boy’s neck and said something to him that made the back of his neck turn the color of Jason’s helmet.

He’d been sure that they wouldn’t.

Not because he thought the worst of her, but because she hadn’t received any society training. She’d never been to those etiquette classes Alfred had thought were so important, and she’d never been forced into a dance class that would help her know what to do when the symphony turned slow.

And yet… she was doing well.

Not with dancing. Her movements were too quick and excitable to be graceful. But with socializing.

She didn’t tense when the boy hesitantly placed his hand on the bareness of her skinny back, and she didn’t say anything that made his face pale with shock or red with anger.

Instead, she smiled happily at him, drawing closer, and acted like….

Like a regular girl.

Like she belonged here.

Like, one day, attending these types of parties would be a frequent and exciting occurrence for her.

And as Dick watched her lead the dance with that boy, he realized this: that Cordelia, unlike him, did belong here.

She was a Wayne.

Maybe not by upbringing, but by blood and appearance and temperament.

By expectations.

Everyone in this room was expecting her to follow in Bruce’s footsteps; to become a shareholder in Wayne Enterprises, to fund charities, to start charities — to end up on headlines.

This was her future.

The ballgowns, the dances, the tiny sandwiches, the performative conversations with socialites.

It was a reality that Dick had once thought was his own — and a reality that he had run from. But Cordelia did not look like she was running from it.

He watched as the boy, caught up in her energy, playfully dipped her during the dance. And watched as Cordelia laughed in response, the sound causing the people around them to glance their way and smile fondly at the antics of the giddy teens.

She liked this reality.

She was doing well in this reality.

Bruce had been right.

When he’d sat Dick down the day after they discussed Cordelia’s guardianship, and told Dick his plans for her future, he had been right. 

“He wants her to take over his charities once she’s of age,” Dick said suddenly.

Stephanie choked on her eclair. “What? Cordelia?”

Dick nodded. That had been his reaction, too. But Bruce had been very clear: he absolutely did not want her to be a vigilante, and he expected Dick to uphold that rule even if he didn’t entirely agree with it.

“Not all of them,” Dick said. “The ones attached to Wayne Enterprises will always be Tim’s. And he’ll still split up the inheritance depending on needs. But when it comes to the Wayne family philanthropy, he wants Cordelia to be the face of it.”

The plans had been surprising, but detailed.

He wanted Cordelia to spend her high school years building up her social skills and creating a network of friends. Then he wanted her to go to college to be a doctor, where she would be able to enhance the skills she already gained roughly. After that: he’d let her shadow him. Join his meetings. Meet his partners. Make partners of her own.

Eventually, he would let her branch off. Start her own businesses. Start her own charities. Become an active member of society.

“He’s grooming her for it,” Dick told Stephanie. “Both him and Alfred. Alfred teaches her society etiquette, and Bruce is getting her interested in school programs and future WE projects that she can help with. She doesn’t know it yet, but he’s prepping her for her future.”

“So that’s what they talk about in his office every day,” Stephanie said. She tilted her head, eyes flickering around the room to the other Waynes. “But… what about you guys?”

“Jason, Cass, and I don’t want public lives,” Dick said easily. “And Tim is already the face of the Drake legacy.”

“And Dami?” Stephanie said. “I’m sure he would like that role.”

“He thinks Damian would only want it because he’d consider it a birthright,” Dick said. “And that he needs someone who will put everything they have into it.”

Neither of them bothered to argue in Damian’s defense.

“Still,” Stephanie said. “Cordelia? A public speaker? The head of Gotham’s biggest charities?”

Dick had been doubtful, too.

Cordelia was sweet when she wanted to be, but never with strangers. She barely seemed to acknowledge their existence, or consider them human beings with real emotions. But Bruce had brushed aside those doubts.

“He said that he’s seen the way she cares for the family,” Dick said, “and that he thinks, one day, she will be able to care for the people of Gotham almost as much.”

She asked me to print out your report, Dick, Bruce had said. His face, mostly neutral, had shown a small gleam of pride when he glanced out of his study window to see Cordelia sitting in the grass with her pet lamb, laughing and trying to get it to sit. She studied it all night before you met, and used your favorite color to highlight the parts she thought were important. So, tell me, does that sound like someone incapable of caring to you?

It hadn’t.

However, that didn’t stop Dick from thinking that Cordelia had a long way to go before she was emotionally capable of being the head of multiple charities. Especially since, once the music stopped, she didn’t even bother to thank the teenage boy for dancing with her. Instead, she promptly detangled herself from his arms, and rushed back over to Bruce, smiling and eager to tell him about her dance. 

“Here’s hoping Bruce is right,” Stephanie said, amused. “Otherwise, Gotham’s needy will be doomed.”

It was a good thing for them that Bruce was almost always right. But as they stared at the Wayne siblings, and saw the fond look in Bruce’s eyes as he listened to his little sister’s story, Dick couldn’t shake the feeling that — for once — his father was letting his emotions get the best of him.

Chapter 64: INTERLUDE: Dick's POV - Part One

Summary:

Cass got in Tim’s face.

“You felt pain,” she said, and placed her palm flat on his chest. “So you gave it to her. Apologize.”

Dick was used to long stake outs.

Usually, he didn’t have to do them at his childhood home.

But still.

Stake outs. They were his thing.

He watched. He waited. He got bored. He thought about other things he’d rather be doing. But he stayed stuck to the ground anyway, because that’s what the situation required.

He breathed out a frustrated sigh, and tilted his chin up toward the sky, like a bird missing the wind.

The air smelled like Gotham. Like pollution, and Alfred’s Hibiscus tea. But, mostly, it just smelled like the expensive Chanel Number Five that Bruce’s socialites thought made them so desirable.

Dick hated these things.

These parties.

Even when they went well, and the night passed with no scandal larger than some old man saying some wrong thing, he still hated them.

But Alfred had insisted, and Cordelia had begun to look excited, so he went anyway.

What a mistake.

He’d come here to help her adjust, not to get sucked back into this sort of life. Yet that was exactly what had happened, the very day he met her. Just a few yards away, in Wayne Manor’s kitchen, he’d come face-to-face with a set of two very large eyes. Eyes that looked so eager to be loved… and so scared to be rejected.

He couldn’t help it.

He’d thought of Jason. Back when he was just a kid who’d been brought into a family that was already crumbling.

There had been a lot of those looks back then.

Dick hadn’t cared as much as he should have.

A red bird soared through the sky up above, its blood-colored wings flapping almost angrily before it decided to settle on the very edge of the garage doors.

Dick quirked an eyebrow.

Its feathers were ruffled up, making it look even bigger than what it was. But, really, it was just disgruntled as it glared down at Dick, like the man’s very presence was bothersome.

“Great timing,” Dick told it, welcoming the amusement that came with the irony. “Does he train his own little birds now?”

The red bird peeped sharply at him, unhappy with the joke, before relieving itself on the door ledge and flapping away.

“He definitely has them trained,” Dick said, bemused.

There have been a lot of birds appearing in this side of Bristol ever since Bruce built Cordelia her garden. They seemed to find a home there, in that small square of peace, that could not be found anywhere else in Gotham.

They seemed to find a home with the girl, too.

The nourishing seeds she so eagerly fed them likely had a lot to do with that.

It wasn’t like there were a lot of other people in Gotham that cared enough to make sure their bird feeders were always full and their bird baths were always clean.

Dick watched the small red bird fly away, in the direction of the garden, before checking his phone again.

There should have been word from Bruce by now. It had been hours ago when he’d disappeared into the woods with Cordelia, and hours ago when he’d subtly signaled to Dick to keep watch.

Ever since then, it had been up to Dick to decide what to keep watch of.

His first instinct had been to choose Damian. The kid had quickly retreated with the lamb after Cordelia’s fight with Bruce, and had not been heard from since. But the more that Dick had thought about it, the more he realized that Damian was the last person he needed to keep watch of.

That became especially apparent once Tim began to speak.

“Did you guys see what she did earlier?” He’d demanded the moment Bruce and Cordelia left. “Tell me you guys saw that.”

Dick, Steph, and Cass had glanced at each other.

None of them had to ask what he was talking about. There had been no shortage of surprised expressions when they each tried to step in between Cordelia and Bruce, only to find that they were failing to shield Bruce at every turn.

It had taken Cordelia no time at all to evade their grasping hands. She’d ducked, feigned, and maneuvered her way past the five vigilantes like she’d fought against them for years, before finally lunging at Bruce the same way she’d once lunged at a Joker lackey.

Bruce only had time to shove the lamb into Damian’s arms when Cordelia’s feet landed hard on his chest, forcing him to fall backwards onto the coffee table.

Her large dress made her a little unsteady.

Bruce grabbed her waist to keep her from tumbling into the broken glass and porcelain.

Cordelia didn’t waste time slamming her fists into his face.

Dick had been just stunned enough to let it happen more than once, before he realized that Bruce — for whatever reason — was not planning on blocking any of her punches. On the contrary: he lied there, receiving the attack, as if it were a deserved one.

Dick had enough.

He rushed forward and plucked Cordelia off of Bruce.

She struggled hysterically; her legs kicking and her arms attempting to pry his hands off of her. But once caught, she found it hard to escape.

They fell to the floor. 

The family, around them, reacted: Tim slammed the windows shut, Damian ran off with the screaming lamb, Cass checked in on Bruce, and Steph stared around in horror.

“You’re okay,” Dick had whispered to Cordelia as everyone moved around them. “You’re okay.”

He wasn’t being completely honest, but it made her struggle less, so he kept saying it.

It hadn’t been enough to keep her from shaking. Nor had it been enough to keep her from shrinking back in fear once Bruce had climbed back to his feet.

Dick glared at the ground in irritation, remembering how Cordelia had shrunk back.

Sometimes, he wished that Bruce knew how intimidating he could be even when he wasn’t trying.

“Dick,” Tim had urged after Bruce and Cordelia left. “You saw that. Right?”

He was attempting to get someone on his side.

Dick sighed.

He hadn’t thought that, out of all his siblings, Tim would be the one who had the hardest time bonding with Cordelia. But he should have known better. Jealousy touched everyone, including level-headed geniuses like TIm.

“She’s fast,” Dick had said. “I could have told you that.”

It was an obvious deflection.

Tim’s cheeks became red with frustration.

“That’s not it,” he’d said. “What she did — dodging you and Damian; hurting Steph to distract Cass and I — that was calculated. She slipped by every single one of us like she knew which moves we were likely to make, and then she managed to get a hit on Bruce —“

“We’ve all gotten hits on Bruce,” Stephanie interjected.

“That isn’t my point!” Tim threw his hands in the air. “She’s been studying us from the start —“

“So?” Cass said, angry and defensive on her little aunt’s behalf. “You studied first. You, Tim. You caused this.”

She gestured sharply to the wreckage around them. The coffee table, broken beyond repair; the tea set, shattered to pieces; the rug, stained with blood; and the sofa that had been upturned in the struggle.

Cass got in Tim’s face.

“You felt pain,” she said, and placed her palm flat on his chest. “So you gave it to her. Apologize.”

Tim brushed her hand aside. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Come on, Tim,” Steph said. “I know you can be a stubborn asshole, but there is no way you actually think that.”

“Inviting Alicia Hunt to the party wasn’t… my best plan,” Tim admitted reluctantly. “But I had to see what Cordelia’s reaction would be.”

“Why?” Dick asked.

“I thought that she was lying,” Tim said. “About her mother. About not knowing that she was alive in this timeline.”

“Why would you think that?” Steph asked.

Because he wanted it to be true, Dick thought.

“Because if your mother was dead, and you were brought to a different timeline, wouldn’t she be the first person you looked for?” Tim said.

“I don’t know,” Steph said. “Maybe.”

Tim shook his head, before turning to his older brother — the only other orphan in the group. “Dick.”

Dick did not answer immediately, but that did not matter. Both he and Tim knew what the answer was.

“Cordelia isn’t like us,” Dick ended up saying. “She isn’t as curious.”

“She’s a detective,” Tim said, nonplussed.

“Not by choice,” Dick corrected. “And not anymore. She’s a civilian now, Tim. You have to start treating her like a civilian.”

“Yeah,” Steph jumped in. “Stop being a jerk.”

Tim shot her an annoyed look. “How are you not on my side? She treats you like garbage.”

Steph shrugged. “Damian treated me worse.”

“Is Damian your standard now?”

“No, but —“

Dick shook his head, bringing himself back to the present.

The family had gotten into another argument soon after that. Tim seemed determined to defend himself. Meanwhile, Cass and Steph remained furious with him for inviting Alicia Hunt to the party.

Dick, on the other hand, knew who he was mad at.

He glanced toward the wooded area that hid Cordelia’s garden. The trees were dark shadows in the distance; the wind was whistling a haunted tune as it rustled through the bushes and grass that separated the manor from the wilderness.

Bruce was really taking his time.

Dick took out his phone again, double-checking for any messages.

They should have returned by now.

Even if they got into another argument, or another fight, Bruce would have had enough time to send Dick an update.

He put his phone back in his pocket and peered around the area.

The civilians had long since left Wayne grounds. Their shouts and whispers had been excited; their cheeks had been flushed. There was no doubt that, by tomorrow, they would have spread the news of what happened tonight. How a mysterious woman had appeared at the door of Wayne Manor, and made the newest Wayne bleed.

They would probably sensationalize it.

But nothing they came up with, no exaggeration or twisted truth, would ever compare to the reality.

Dick squinted into the night.

There was upturned dirt a few ways ahead, nearby the bushes that bordered the manor walls. 

Someone had fallen there.

Dick left his post to investigate, partially hoping that it was just a sign that some large animal had tried to take cover from the rain. But once he made it to the spot, he realized what an idiot he was.

Those weren’t paw prints in the mud.

They were hands.

Feminine hands.

Dick bent down, unease filling his gut.

If these were the results of a civilian crouching outside their home, then the civilians had likely seen something that they shouldn’t have. A small girl attacking her guardian; a man telling a story of a mother killing her child; a family referring to themselves as vigilantes. But… if these were Cordelia’s… then Dick had really messed up.

Because if Cordelia had managed to slip by him, then there was only one person she would run to right now — and that person was not someone that Dick could currently trust.

He carefully searched through the area, poking at the streaks in the muddied ground and moving the branches from the nearby bush.

People always left clues when they were panicked. Drops of blood, shedding hair — even lost scraps of paper from their pockets. Things that people didn’t normally think about when their fight or flight kicked in, but things that detectives always looked for when a crime was committed. And, judging from the obvious scrambling nature of the hand prints, the person who’d hid behind the bush had definitely been in fight or flight mode.

Dick used his phone as a flashlight.

More clues jumped out at him.

Bare footprints, chipped nail polish, and — most damagingly for the culprit — a shred of fabric.

The light blue silk glistened like diamonds from its spot on top of a bush branch.

Dick snatched it, but knew without having to look more closely, who it belonged to.

Cordelia was the only one at the party who’d worn fabric like that.

He was rushing off into the woods without wasting another second.

Bruce would have likely shouted at him to run the other way — to find Cordelia before she could find her mother. But Dick could not ignore the uneasiness in his gut.

Slipping by Dick was a possibility; especially tonight, when he was so deep in his own thoughts that Cordelia had become a second priority. But slipping by Bruce tonight? When he was already so on-guard and protective?

Not possible.

Not unless something had happened.

Dick followed the footprints back into the woods, barely faltering when he saw a pair of muddied heels in the dirt, until he reached the hedged wall of Cordelia’s garden.

“Bruce?” Dick shouted.

He could see a large figure slumped against the door.

Unwillingly, he recalled the night of the explosion. How he’d driven to the shore of Gotham Harbor, and saw the broken body of his father lying at the very center of all that rubble.

“He’s breathing,” Oracle had assured him. “Okay? Batman is alive.”

Those words hadn’t stopped Dick from feeling like he was falling through a dark hole as he gazed down at the man who was usually so unbreakable. And they wouldn’t have made a difference now, either.

“Oh, God.” Dick said. He sounded choked. “B?”

Bruce was bleeding from a head wound.

Beside him, a large stone lay covered in blood.

Dick quickly bent down, and felt for a pulse.

It didn’t take long to find one. Even in a panic, Dick’s training came to him like second nature, forcing him to calm his own mind in order to focus his attention on the task at hand.

Thump-thump, thump-thump.

His relief was only temporary.

Bruce was cold to the touch. His skin, pale in the darkness, was chilled and riddled with goose-bumps. 

He must have been out in the cold, without a jacket, for hours. All the while Dick had been pacing outside of the garage, internally complaining about him and waiting for his call.

It was hard not to feel guilty.

He’d messed up more than once tonight.

Dick shrugged off his jacket, and draped it over his father’s shoulders.

It wouldn’t be large enough to cover his entire torso, but it would be enough to at least bring some warmth back to his upper half.

“B,” Dick said again. This time, he shook him. “You have to wake up. I need to check for a concussion.”

A deep groan sounded from Bruce’s chest.

Dick shook him harder. “B! Wake up.”

The eyelids twitched, showing just a sliver of ice blue irises, before falling shut once again.

The man was being stubborn.

Dick glanced back into the woods, debating on whether he should run back to the manor to retrieve some supplies, or carry Bruce on his back.

Luckily, neither option was necessary.

“Cor… delia…?”

Bruce was waking up, forcing himself out of his deep slumber like a man struggling his way out of quicksand.

Dick responded instantly. “B, she’s gone. What happened?”

Another groan sounded, and then a cough.

Bruce had really taken a beating tonight.

Dick helped him sit up, grabbing onto his elbow and propping his back against the hedge wall as Bruce got his bearings. He tried not to watch too closely as he did, not liking how vulnerable his father looked when he was trying to regain consciousness.

“You’re bleeding,” Dick said, instead. “On your forehead. Was that Cordelia?”

He shouldn’t have mentioned her.

The name of his sister caused Bruce to try to sit up completely.

“I have… to find her,” he said.

Dick pushed him back into the hedge wall. “No. Not right now. You might be seriously hurt.”

“She’s looking… for her.” There was deep disdain in Bruce’s voice as he said that word. As if Alicia Hunt were one of the worst Arkham prisoners around. “I have… to stop her.”

“You’re not going to be able to stop anyone right now,” Dick said.

Those weren’t words he was used to saying to Batman of all people, but it was the truth. Bruce was wobbly even in a sitting position. There was no way that he would be able to stand — or to fight, if it came down to it.

“I’ll send Cass a text,” Dick offered. “She will be able to take her in, no problem.”

“Has to… be me.”

Of course it did. Because even with an entire team eager to help, Bruce always tried to go at every mission alone.

“It doesn’t have to be you,” Dick said. He pushed Bruce back into the hedge, and stubbornly ignored the blue-eyed glare that was sent his way as a result. “Cass can bring her home.”

“She won’t… know where… to look.”

“We can ask Oracle for help,” Dick said, then grimaced at the thought of calling Barbara after their argument. “Or Tim —“

“No.”

Dick blinked.

Bruce’s tone had changed, becoming harder and more aware.

“Tim has… done enough.”

There was a sneer on Bruce’s face that distracted Dick enough to let him go.

Bruce grunted, forcing himself to sit up, then kneel, and then — finally — to use the ledge wall to stand.

“This isn’t all Tim’s fault,” Dick said.

“Hm,” was Bruce’s reply.

The man was gripping onto the hedge wall like it was the only thing keeping him from falling. And it probably was — at least for now, while his body was still catching up to his brain.

Dick fought the urge to help as he said, “I think he’s going through something right now. You should talk to him.”

“I… have… talked to him,” Bruce said.

He was glaring at Dick again, likely hearing the accusation that he’d tried so hard to hide.

But Dick could not help it. 

He knew what Tim was feeling right now. Knew what it was like to do everything for Bruce’s approval, just for someone else to come in and earn it so easily.

It felt unfair. Like everything he did was overlooked and under-appreciated.

It had been enough to drive a wedge between him and Jason, all those years ago.

And now he could see it happening again — with Tim and Cordelia.

“He’s… gone too far,” Bruce said. “He’s… grounded.”

The blood on his forehead dripped down to his chin. Dick stared at it, watching as it created a long, ruby red streak across his pale cheekbones. 

The sight would have been worrying any other day, but — at the moment — all it did was allow Dick to see the smooth skin underneath.

“Your wound,” Dick noted. “It isn’t as bad as I thought it was.”

That made sense, at least. Bruce wouldn’t have been able to stand so tall if he’d been seriously hurt. But what didn’t make sense was….

“Is that…?” Dick almost didn’t ask, but this was not something that he could ignore. “The stone. That isn’t all of your blood.”

At first, Bruce only blinked at him, confused. But once he saw where his son was gesturing to, and the bloodied rock that was still beside the place he’d fallen, everything became clear.

“No,” Bruce said. “It isn’t.”

It took him a worryingly long time to elaborate further. He was too busy trying to stand without the support of the hedge.

“Cordelia’s,” he said, finally and with a grimace. “She must… have hurt herself.”

It was a relief to know that Bruce hadn’t been the one to hurt her — until it wasn’t.

“That’s a lot of blood, Bruce,” Dick said.

“She must have… done it… on purpose,” Bruce said. He let go of the hedge, seemingly more determined than ever to fight through his own weaknesses. “I have to… bring her… home.”

He took a step away from the hedge — and almost fell flat on his face.

Dick caught him before he could land, so used to helping his family through tough situations that the added weight felt familiar on his muscles.

“You need to rest, B,” Dick urged. “Let me get her. She’ll listen to me.”

“She won’t.”

He was right. She probably wouldn’t. Especially not now, when listening to Dick meant not getting to her mother. But she was also more likely to receive Dick’s advice than Bruce’s, at the moment.

“Take me… to the… BatMobile,” Bruce said.

It wasn’t really a plea for help. More of a command. But it was close enough for Dick to consider following it.

He looked up at his father; at his swaying figure and bleary eyes.

If he were anyone else, then Dick would have said no. He would not take him to the BatMobile — he would take him home, to his room, where he could rest and recover.

But this man was Bruce. And Batman. And very, very used to working through head wounds.

Even head wounds that were made from his family.

Dick grit his teeth, frustrated.

How had it come to this? When had family started to mean betrayal and suspicion and pain? How long ago was it, when family used to mean nothing but fun and comfort and circus shows?

“I’ll take you to the BatMobile,” Dick said, and hated that Bruce didn’t look surprised by his obedience. “But… only if I can drive.”

It provided no small bit of satisfaction to see the frown appear on Bruce’s forehead at that.

“Hm,” he grunted, and Dick knew what he really meant: Okay, fine. But I don’t like it.

But whether Bruce liked it was not one of Dick’s top concerns at the moment. In fact, it didn’t even make the longer list. Instead, those slots were filled with other, more pressing matters. Like checking Bruce for a concussion, and finding a way to heal the bond between Tim and his father, and informing Alfred of everything that had gone on since the party so abruptly ended, and —

“Cordelia,” Dick said suddenly. They were somewhere between the woods and the manor when this question came to his mind. “We don’t know where she is. How are we going to find her?”

Bruce, sweating from exertion and grimacing from pain, did not seem to have the same concern.

“With this,” he said.

He pulled his phone out of his pants pocket and showed it to Dick.

“You don’t have her chipped, do you?” Dick asked.

“Hm,” Bruce said, which was such a non-answer that Dick almost dropped him on the ground on Cordelia’s behalf before letting Bruce finish his thought. “Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?” Dick asked.

“The tracker… is temporary,” Bruce struggled to elaborate. “I only… attached it… to the jacket I gave her… tonight.”

He clicked a button on the phone.

The screen lit up, showing a small, blue and white map of Gotham — along with a little blinking red icon in the shape of a bat.

“Huh,” Dick said, reluctantly impressed. “That’s the worst side of Gotham.”

He didn’t have to look at Bruce to know how he felt about that, but he did anyway. And from the look on his father’s face… Tim wasn’t the only one who was about to be grounded.

Chapter 65: INTERLUDE: Dick's POV - Part Two

Summary:

“Fuck you, Bruce!” Jason shouted. “You can’t knock like a normal person!?”

Notes:

TRIGGER WARNINGS: mentions of pedophilia, violence

“…Do you want to listen to music?” Dick asked.

“No.”

Dick frowned, and turned on the radio anyway.

“Hm,” Bruce grunted as a sultry pop song began to filter through the speakers.

They’d been speeding through Gotham in relative silence, following the quickest route to the tiny red bat icon that revealed Cordelia’s whereabouts on Bruce’s phone.

It had been less than upbeat.

Apart from Cordelia’s most recent bout of teenage rebellion, things between Dick and Bruce weren’t exactly… cordial. And although Dick could push that aside for now, that did not stop him from having a bad taste in his mouth every time he remembered exactly why they were chasing Cordelia through Gotham — and why Bruce looked like he was seconds away from sneezing.

“Are you warm enough?” Dick asked. “Should I get the second blanket from the trunk?”

Bruce answered by glaring his way.

He was already wrapped up in a thick wool blanket, which Dick had firmly tucked around his shoulders before buckling him in like a child and starting the car.

This treatment, predictably, had left Bruce annoyed and not particularly pleased with his eldest son.

“Is that a ‘yes?’” Dick asked, playing obtuse.

“If you are still angry with me,” Bruce said, “then say it, Dick. Enough with these games.”

Dick turned the next corner sharply, and felt a small bit of satisfaction at the surprised grunt that sounded beside him.

“Fine,” he said. “I’m still angry with you. Now do you want a second blanket?”

Bruce’s response was not immediate — but Dick rarely expected them to be. He knew, more than anyone, that his father was likely weighing the probable outcomes of this conversation, and was attempting to gauge which answer would bring them the least amount of headache.

It was only once the pop singer began to moan her final chorus when Bruce decided to speak up.

“I want to listen to a different radio channel,” he said.

Bastard.

That probably was the best response to avoid an argument.

Dick changed the channel until he heard the strings of an orchestra. 

“She must have found a ride,” Dick said casually, “to have made it this far.”

“Hm,” Bruce said, ever the vocalist.

“Or maybe she stole one,” Dick theorized. “Does she know how to hot-wire a car?”

Bruce didn’t say anything.

Dick glanced his way.

A small wrinkle had formed in between Bruce’s eyebrows.

“I… don’t know,” he said.

The answer didn’t really surprise Dick. He’d been around Bruce and Cordelia long enough to notice that there were a lot of things that they didn’t talk about. From her past to her abilities to anything that somewhat related to vigilante-work.

But, still, Dick could not help but think of Tim at that moment. And especially Tim’s frenzied, paranoid words from that night in the BatCave: There’s also this file he has on her. Look at how many questions there are — how many ‘unclears’ and ‘unknowns.’ Since when does Bruce let these questions sit for so long?

He doesn’t, Dick thought.

Out loud, he said, “Don’t you think that’s something you should know?”

Bruce, pale and sickly, set his jaw as stubbornly as he would if he were in full health. “Slow down. The next turn is up ahead.”

Dick hated when Bruce told him to do something that he was already about to do anyway. 

It felt grating, somehow.

He slowed down the car to make a clean turn.

“I’m just saying,” Dick said, keeping his voice light, “that having more answers about her might help to set the house at ease.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “‘The house?’ You mean Tim.”

“Yes,” Dick said, unashamedly. “Tim. Your son. The one who has obviously been going through something ever since he got back.”

“I told him to let it go.”

“And I’m sure you thought that would actually work.” Dick’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “But it didn’t. It blew up in your face. So what are you going to do about it?”

There was no time to wait for an answer.

The abandoned building Cordelia was taking shelter in materialized in the foggy distance up ahead. The boarded windows could be seen even from down the street, along with the crumbling bricks that were likely doing a poor job at keeping the structure protected and strong.

Dick did not have to look at Bruce to know how unhappy this would make him. But Dick was also the slightest bit relieved that Cordelia had chosen an abandoned building, and not one crawling with criminals and predators.

He pressed on the breaks, very gently, allowing the car to slow quietly at a steady pace.

Now that they were here, the most important thing that they could do was not loudly announce their presence.

“This is one of our blind spots,” Bruce said, suddenly.

Dick’s eyes flickered around the area as he parked two alleys away.

There were scorch marks up and down the street. Buildings with no windows. Flickering or dull street lights.

There had been a fire here. Recently.

It must have melted whatever cameras Bruce and Barbara had put up. 

“Do you think it’s a coincidence?” Dick asked.

“No,” Bruce said. The passenger door clicked open as he stepped out into the night with the pair of slippers he’d brought for Cordelia to wear since she’d left without any shoes. “She knows I have cameras around the city, yet she stayed here for hours. She must have felt out of my reach.”

Dick got out of the car, too. “So she knows how to spot our cameras.”

“That,” Bruce said with frigid eyes simmering in this darkness, “or someone is helping her.”

“Jason left,” Dick said, because he already knew who Bruce was prepared to blame. “You kicked him out of Gotham. Remember?”

That wasn’t exactly an accurate description of what had happened, but Dick felt like he was doing Bruce enough favors.

Jerome Price had attacked Cordelia. Jason had shot him and left him for dead in retaliation. Bruce and Dick had visited the hospital to make sure that, once Jerome was released, he wouldn’t stay in Gotham. 

A few weeks later, he showed up dead.

Beaten and bloody and shot right next to Crime Alley.

It wasn’t just Bruce who thought that Jason was the one who did it. So did Dick. And the rest of the jittery criminals in Crime Alley.

It wasn’t exactly unexpected for the Red Hood to kill pedophiles. And Jerome hadn’t been secretive about his tastes for skinny little girls who looked just unloved enough not to be missed.

Bruce and Jason had gotten into an explosive fight once Jerome’s body was found.

Bruce had been working on that case, piling together all the evidence that they needed to get Jerome put away for good — without having to use Cordelia’s name in the process. And now? Now there was more blood spilled by the hands of a Bat.

“I’m not a Bat,” Jason had snapped, his red helmet glinting from the last rays of the sun as it sunk into the horizon. “I’m not going to pretend to be sorry that a piece of shit like him died. He hurt one of ours.”

“He was going to pay for it,” Bruce growled.

“No, he wasn’t,” Jason said. “I’ve watched cases like these for years, Batman, and they never actually do. A few years in a locked facility; three meals a day; some manual labor — that’s nothing. Not compared to what their victims go through.”

“You swore to follow my rules,” Bruce said. “That’s the promise you made to stay in the City.”

“Yeah, well, I did,” Jason said. “But that doesn’t mean I believe in them.”

He’d left after that, and hadn’t contacted Bruce since. 

It was only through Dick that the family even knew that Jason was still alive. And that he hadn’t, in fact, been the one to kill Jerome Price.

“Why didn’t you tell us that?” Dick had asked him over a phone call. “The fight wouldn’t have escalated if you did.”

“Fuck if I know,” Jason said, always playing careless even when he wasn’t. “The old man just pisses me off to the point that I can’t think straight.”

Dick didn’t believe that.

Jason, for all his hot-headedness, was not stupid.

He was one of their best battle strategists. And had always worked better when he was passionate and angry about his case.

Fury made him sharp. Quick-thinking. A genius tactician.

Not being able to think was not the reason Jason hadn’t admitted that Jerome’s death had nothing to do with him.

More likely, Jason had just wanted to push Bruce. To see how far he’d go. If he’d actually kick him out of Gotham if Jason broke the rules.

Bruce hadn’t.

However… he hadn’t asked for Jason to come back when he’d left, either.

Bruce was limping down the alley, his large hands using one of the brick walls to support himself.

He looked both better and worse than before. Better, because Dick had sat him down to clean up the blood on his face, and had also given him enough pain killers to be able to talk without pausing in pain. But, worse, because lying so long in the cold dirt without a jacket on was quickly making him develop a feverish cold.

Dick resisted the urge to tell him to wait in the car.

There was no point.

It would just be wasted breath.

So he followed him out of the alley and helped him inspect the perimeter of the building.

They checked all possible exit and entry points. They checked the structure, and made an educated guess on what it would be able to handle. And Bruce placed small cameras around every nook and cranny, just in case Cordelia escaped without the tracker.

It was near the end when they spotted it: Jason’s bike.

Large and clunky, shrouded in darkness, and wrapped in locks.

“It is him helping her,” Bruce said, looking as if he’d swallowed a lemon. “I haven’t given her access to any communication devices. How could she have contacted him?”

“Maybe they crossed paths by accident,” Dick said. “It’s happened before.”

Bruce’s eyes were narrow.

He was making theories in his head. Exploring all areas of possibility. Likely questioning where he went wrong to allow any of this to happen.

Dick didn’t need to think long to answer that question.

“This is a good thing,” Dick said out loud. “If she’s with Jason, then she’s safe. He won’t let anyone hurt her.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Bruce said darkly, then began to circle the building until they were at the front entrance.

It wouldn’t have been Dick’s first choice.

He would prefer to scale the side of the building. Maybe use a grappling hook to swing himself feet-first through a window and land with a flourish in the middle of Jason’s living room. But Bruce’s injuries and cold were limiting them.

They would have to go through Jason’s front door, like the annoying big brother and dad that they were.

Neither spoke. Silence was critical.

They tested every step, making sure that nothing creaked or groaned underneath their weight, and did not even glance in the direction of the doors they’d passed.

Jason would be on the top floor. There was no doubt about that. Any other floor would make Jason feel trapped, and that was something that he did not like feeling.

Wait, Bruce signaled once they reached the door on the uppermost floor. He pulled out his phone, and checked the tracker. 

She hadn’t moved an inch since they’d last checked. Or, more accurately, the jacket hadn’t moved an inch since they last checked.

Considering how cold it was tonight, that likely meant that she was just a few feet away from them, either sleeping or bonding with Jason or trying to form a plan.

And they were about to give her a rude awakening.

We need to plan what we’re going to say, Dick signed to Bruce. She’s already lashed out at you twice tonight. You need to be more — what is that?

But it was too late to find out what it was.

Bruce had already stabbed it through his own leg.

The green liquid in the syringe sunk into his flesh, and joined the cells in his bloodstream.

Bruce’s entire body shivered violently as it adjusted to the adrenaline.

“That’s your plan?” Dick hissed, no longer caring to be quiet. “To be ready to fight before we even see her?”

“No,” Bruce said, through gritted white teeth. “My plan is to have enough energy to kick down this door, because we both know that Jason won’t open if we knock.”

Then, he took a step back, and started to slam the bottom of his foot into the weak parts of the old wooden door.

It took one kick for them to hear a shout on the other side. It took a second kick for them to hear some of the wood begin to splinter and crack. And it took a third kick for them to hear heavy footsteps rush on the other side, before stopping right at the door.

“Fuck you, Bruce!” Jason shouted, either guessing at who the intruder was or staring at them through the peephole. “You can’t knock like a normal person!?”

Bruce stopped kicking. “Step back.”

“Fuck you!” Jason shouted again.

Bruce was fuming.

“Wait, Bruce,” Dick hurriedly stepped between him and the door before he could start kicking at it again. “Jason, open the door. We’re just here for Cordelia.”

“You’re here to keep her from her mother,” Jason accused.

Dick felt a brief moment of surprise.

Cordelia was usually so secretive with them. It hadn’t crossed Dick’s mind that she would be more open with anyone else. But, apparently, she’d found someone she could confide in with Jason.

“That isn’t why I’m here,” Dick promised. “I want to bring her home so that we can talk about it — you know, like rational people?”

“She told me about how you all surrounded her and kept her locked away in the house,” Jason said. “That doesn’t sound very rational to me.”

“Move,” Bruce said. “He’s stalling.”

“You can’t kick the door when he’s standing right on the other side of it,” Dick snapped.

“I’ll break the lock, instead.”

Bruce started to crack at the lock, ignoring Dick’s irritation and Jason’s curses. His judgement was too impaired by the adrenaline he’d injected into himself, and his mind was too focused on the mission.

Everything else was just white noise.

The door knob broke. It took wood chips with it as it fell, leaving a hole large enough to stick a fist through.

Bruce made to move the door open — to barge into the small apartment and get his sister back — when Jason opened the door, instead, and stuck a gun in their faces.

His hair was wet. His eyes were red.

There was a crazy look in his eyes, like he was seconds away from tossing the gun and punching them both in the face. Like he’d greatly enjoy the satisfaction of feeling the sting after impact.

“Get out of here, old man,” Jason seethed.

Bruce glared at the gun like it was the most despicable thing he’d ever seen.

“She isn’t interested in seeing you right now,” Jason said.

Bruce’s cold, ice blue eyes traveled from the barrel of the gun up to Jason’s face.

Maybe, once upon a time, that would have been terrifying: meeting Bruce’s glare. But Jason had grown up a lot over the years. In fact, he was slightly taller than Bruce now, and big enough to look threatening without even having to try.

“You’re drunk,” Bruce said, suddenly. And Dick did a double take — only then noticing that the redness in Jason’s eyes were not from exhaustion or anger, but from drinking too much liquor. “You’re drunk, handling a gun, and interfering in a situation that has absolutely nothing to do with you.”

That caused Jason to snort, unamused and unashamed and ugly. “Nothing to do with me? Please, Bruce. We both know that this has everything to do with me. The dead mother coming back to life, the runaway kid, the Joker. This is the sequel to my story, and you can’t stand that your part to play in it is still the screw up father.”

Bruce’s face did an angry, violent spasm.

Dick sighed, frustrated, before mediating. “Jason. Look. I get it, okay? The anger and resentment — we’ve all been there. But this can be handled without a fight. So can we just come inside, sit down, and talk about it the way any normal family would?”

Jason’s glare did not leave Bruce’s face. “This family was never normal.”

“We can be,” Dick said. “We’re trying to be.”

“How?” Jason demanded. “By keeping a kid from her mother? What kind of fucked up family does something like that?”

“I don’t want to keep Cordelia from her mother,” Dick said, and forced himself not to glance at Bruce when he did. “She loves her. Anyone can see that. And I think Alicia Hunt can love her, too. But this isn’t a situation where we can behave recklessly —“

“Recklessly?” Jason repeated. “Is that what you think I’m doing? That I have no plan? No ideas? That I would just toss them in a room together and call it a day? Well, I have news for you, Dick: I didn’t go through what I went through without thinking about everything that I could have done differently. Everything.”

His voice cracked.

He’d drunk enough alcohol to let a few emotions that he didn’t want to reveal slip out.

Dick felt a stab of sympathy, and then guilt, because God did Dick understand. He’d thought of that day, too, over and over again. Thinking and rethinking everything that he could have done to save Jason, and to stop their family from going through a tragedy that they had never been able to recover from.

But this wasn’t about Dick.

And, really, it wasn’t about Jason, either — no matter how much he and Bruce seemed to think it was.

It was about all of them.

The entire family.

It was about how one person’s decision always ended up affecting the rest of them, like the chain reaction of pushing one domino into another, and then discovering that the entire line was crumbling.

Tim had pushed Cordelia’s limits. Which, in turn, made Cordelia push Bruce’s.

And now? Now Dick felt his own limits being pushed.

His patience; his physical strength. 

His self-control.

He’d driven all the way across Gotham with his sick father in the passenger seat just to show up at his little brother’s door and get a gun pointed at his face.

It was exhausting.

It was annoying.

And, most of all, it made him miss Bludhaven that much more.

At least the friends he’d made there did not constantly expect him to mediate their arguments and fix all their problems.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Dick said.

He spoke slowly, knowing now that he was talking to two people who had compromised their emotional regulation and judgement. Then, just to make his intentions more obvious, he raised his hands in the air, surrendering.

Jason’s red, blurry eyes narrowed into slits.

“I only meant that we didn’t come here to fight with you,” Dick said. “We’re just concerned about Cordelia.”

“You don’t have to be,” Jason said. “She’s safe. Sleeping.”

Dick was about to respond to that when Bruce’s sharp questions interrupted him: “Sleeping? How could she be sleeping through all this noise?”

No one else would have noticed but them: the sudden shiftiness in Jason’s eyes.

Anyone else would have suspected that he was just irritated by the sound of Bruce’s voice, or that he was momentarily distracted by a thought.

But no one else knew Jason like they did.

Bruce swiped at Jason’s wrist, hitting a pressure point that immediately opened his palm and forced him to drop the gun.

Dick ducked down to catch the gun before it hit the floor.

By the time he stood to full height, Bruce had already shouldered his way into the apartment and called out for Cordelia.

“Where is she?” Bruce demanded of Jason.

“Get the hell out of my house!” Jason responded.

He lunged, wrapping Bruce in a chokehold so strong that they both ended up toppling to the carpeted floor and hitting the side of the kitchen stools so hard that all of them smashed into the ground, as well.

Dick stiffened — worried, at first, that Bruce had hit his head once again. But Bruce, although sick, had managed to catch himself with his elbows, narrowly avoiding what could have been a disaster.

“Jason!” Dick said, sharply — angrily. “What are you doing? Get off of him!”

Jason did not listen. And Bruce wasn’t doing well at de-escalating the situation, either. Because, soon, it was not Jason holding Bruce in a chokehold, but the other way around.

“Why isn’t she awake?” Bruce demanded, pale and frenzied from sickness and adrenaline. “What did you do to her?”

“What did I do to her?” Jason repeated, his teeth gritted and his jaw tense. “What the hell do you think I did to her?”

It was when Jason tried to head butt Bruce in an attempt to free himself that Dick decided that he was finished watching.

So he joined the fight.

He tried to be fair, at first. He tried to force himself in between the two larger bodies, and separate them. But, then, Jason threw a punch, and it sent Dick’s face whipping and his ears ringing.

One eye saw spots.

And then?

Then Dick was done with playing a light-hearted older brother.

“What is your problem?” He demanded.

Dick turned away from Bruce, knowing without having to check that his back was covered, and tackled Jason to the ground.

It wasn’t… one of his best moments: fighting his drunken brother around his living room.

But that’s what happened.

Jason was belligerent. Intoxicated. Dangerous, at the moment.

And incredibly difficult to pin down now that he’d gained so much bulk and rage.

They wrestled a lot more violently than Jason and Bruce had. Mostly, because Dick wasn’t afraid to punch back. But, partially, because sometimes sibling feuds do not die.

Jason was wrestling him like he had something to prove.

And Dick was doing the same.

Furniture was being crashed into. An armchair was shoved aside. The kitchen island was bumped against so much that Dick knew he’d wake up with three bruises from it tomorrow.

It wasn’t until Dick managed to twist his legs around Jason’s arms in a complicated knot that the fight ended.

They were on the floor, beside the sofa, panting and spitting insults at each other like only brothers could. Every word hurt to hear; every word hurt to say. Nothing would have stopped them except the feeling of their own guilt crushing down on their windpipes.

“Is this what you do now?” Jason snarled, even more angry after losing the fight. “Attack everyone and anyone just for him?”

“He wasn’t the one who attacked first, Jason,” Bruce said from off to the side.

His voice only angered Jason even further. “Shut up, asshole!”

“You need to calm down,” Dick said. “Bruce is already injured. You could have seriously hurt him.”

Jason scoffed, disbelieving.

He doesn't know, Dick realized.

Or… he didn’t know just how hard Cordelia had hit Bruce. Or how Bruce still hadn’t fully recovered from the explosion down near Gotham Harbor — because while Cordelia had been resting and healing, Bruce had regularly gone out as Batman, re-opening his stitches and smothering his pain with drugs.

No one knew.

No one except for Dick, Bruce, and Cass.

“Did you ever stop to think that maybe I wanted to seriously injure him, Dickhead?” Jason said.

“You’re immature, Jason. Stop acting like you don’t care!”

“I will when you stop acting like a fucking —“

“Enough.”

Bruce had stepped closer to them, but not to stop the argument like Dick had first thought. Instead, he was standing at the other end of the coffee table, and holding a glass of alcohol.

The sight of real alcohol near Bruce’s lips was enough to make both boys do a double take.

“There are two glasses here,” Bruce said tightly. “You let her drink. That’s why she hasn’t woken up yet. She isn’t sleeping. She’s passed out.”

“Yeah?” Jason glared up at them, challengingly. “So fucking what? Most kids her age drink.”

Dick wanted to shake him. “So her father is an alcoholic, Jason. She doesn’t know what a healthy relationship with alcohol looks like!”

Neither did Jason, it seemed, considering how drunk he allowed himself to be tonight. But at least these words got to him, like Dick knew that they would, because if there was one thing Jason took seriously — it was substance abuse.

He knew what it was like to have an alcoholic father. He knew that some people inherited a gene that predisposed them to developing alcoholism. And he knew how dangerous it was for a kid to start drinking without fully understanding what that might mean for them.

The corners around Jason’s eyes tightened just a fraction as he absorbed what Dick was implying — and just how much harm he might have caused by letting Cordelia drink so much that she’d pass out.

“I let her drink a few glasses before telling her to stop,” Jason admitted underneath two pairs of blue-eyed glares. “But I think she drank some more while I was in the shower. The bottle looked emptier afterwards.”

Bruce set the cup down on the coffee table — hard.

“Keep him there, Dick,” Bruce said, expression stony. “I’m taking Cordelia out of this place.”

He said “this place” like someone would say “junk yard” or “crack den.”

It was just disrespectful enough to cause Jason to start struggling underneath Dick again.

“Get off, Dick,” Jason snarled. “Are you seriously going to take her back to a place she ran away from?”

Dick grunted, and pressed down on Jason’s broad shoulders, keeping his back flat on the carpet.

“You don’t know the full story,” Dick said. “She didn’t run away because she wanted space. She ran away to find her mother.”

“That’s what you think,” Jason said, “but I know a freaked out kid when I see one.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dick asked.

A few feet away, Bruce was knocking on the bedroom door before walking inside.

Jason’s eyes were narrowed. He was looking up at Dick like he was the biggest idiot on the planet.

“You betrayed her,” he said. “You kept her from her mother; you chose Bruce. Do you really think she’ll ever trust you again after this?”

Dick frowned, rejecting the idea the moment it entered his head.

Because he hadn’t done those things.

He hadn’t kept Cordelia from her mother, and he hadn’t chosen Bruce.

He’d… he’d chosen to de-escalate. To take Cordelia out of the ballroom and into the privacy of their sitting room. To separate Bruce and Cordelia when they started fighting. To… to guard the garage doors, so that she wouldn’t leave, because he knew that Cordelia wasn’t thinking rationally, and that she’d likely find danger beyond the Wayne gates.

And maybe that looked like choosing Bruce.

Maybe that made him appear untrustworthy.

Maybe sitting here, on Jason’s chest, as Bruce retrieved Cordelia, made him look like the enemy.

But that wasn’t the truth.

“I just came here to talk,” Dick told Jason. “I’m not choosing Bruce over you, Jason.”

Jason, caught, half-heartedly tried to wiggle out from under him. “Could have fooled me. It isn’t Bruce you’re sitting on.”

Dick felt a flash of frustration. “Bruce isn’t the one who pointed a gun at me. Or who punched me in the face.”

“I thought you weren’t taking his side.”

Dick felt like screaming in frustration. “I’m not. I’m taking my side!”

“Yeah, whatever. Get the fuck off of me.”

Dick didn’t want to.

He wanted to grab Jason’s drunken face and scream at him until he understood that not everything was Bruce vs everyone else. That sometimes it was fighting Bruce vs keeping a calm environment. But he knew better.

Jason was not going to listen to him, especially not right now, after losing a fight in front of his former mentor.

So Dick stood up, and hoped that he’d made the right choice by doing so.

Jason, eyes hard, followed his lead, and stood up, too.

Chapter 66: INTERLUDE: Dick's POV - Part Three

Summary:

“Lemme sleep in today, Alf… Alfred. M’tired and dizzy.”

Bruce glowered in a way that Alfred never would. “I’m not Alfred, Cordelia.”

That was, perhaps, the most effective way to wake her up.

Was it only a few short weeks ago when Dick first met Cordelia?

How much had changed since then: when the morning was so bright, and the kitchen smelled of sweets and baked goods, and Alfred had not been in the very best of moods — but he'd still welcomed Dick into the manor with a smile.

“It is good to see you again, my boy,” Alfred had said.

There’d been a newspaper on the kitchen table, laid out for Bruce to read.

The first page had shown Cordelia.

She was standing beside Bruce, flushed-face and chagrined, and covered so completely by his jacket that she could have been naked for all anyone knew. But Dick thought that she must have been wearing something, since Bruce was sure to look a lot more angry if he’d managed to catch one of his kids losing their virginities in the backseat of some stranger’s dirty car.

“Looks like she had fun,” Dick said to Alfred.

He lightly picked up the newspaper and started to flip through it. Some other images appeared: ones of Cordelia dancing and standing near the bar, wearing next to nothing but smiling giddily.

“Does she like to party?” Dick asked.

Bruce hadn’t told him much about Cordelia’s personality.

Mostly, he’d just talked about how every single one of his plans for her had failed.

“She does not like to do anything, as far as I am aware,” Alfred had answered as he set the table. “Although she has developed the habit of accompanying me as I do the housework. It is rather nice to have the company.”

Dick nodded, taking in this limited information as he read through the article.

Most of it was garbage.

There was a brief mention of Dick. A brief mention of his circus days. An exaggeration of Cordelia’s trip to the Bowery. A weird insinuation that she’d formed some sort of unhealthy obsession with Bruce.

Dick resisted the urge to crumple the newspaper up and throw it in the trash bin.

He hated the media. He hated the way they twisted things. How a young girl’s desire for her brother’s attention became perverted; how a history of performing at a circus became shameful; how a man’s charitable streak became a weakness.

But he could also see the usefulness of it. Because if he peeled back the dramatization, and brushed aside the fabrications, then he knew that he might find some truths.

Like the fact that Cordelia had only gone to the Bowery because she’d been lonely.

Dick could understand that.

He remembered what it was like living in a large manor with no one to talk to but a quiet, stiff-upper lipped butler and an even quieter billionaire.

It sounded fun, in theory: moving into a mansion and having mountains of money added to his name. But, at the end of the day, a large room was still just a room — and money was still just paper.

Absolutely nothing would ever replace the joy that was flying, nor the warmth that was a mother’s hug.

And it was those two realizations that resulted in Dick coming up with his ingenious plan.

“Do you think she’ll like going to the trampoline park?” Dick had asked Alfred. “The one across town?”

Alfred had looked thoughtful at that. “Perhaps. Although, I do not suspect that you will need to try very hard with her, Master Dick. She is tragically easy to please.”

That wasn’t what Bruce had said.

From the sound of his phone call, he’d tried everything, but nothing had changed: Cordelia was still horribly depressed, and in desperate need of affection that she was too frightened to receive.

But Dick knew Bruce enough to know that, maybe, he was simply thinking too hard about it. Because, at the end of the day, Cordelia was just an orphan — like the rest of them. And if there was one thing that all orphans desired most of all, it was a family.

Dick was more than willing to offer her that.

He’d grown out of his jealousy phase, after all.

He no longer compared his treatment to those of his brothers; and no longer counted how many times Bruce said “yes” to Jason when he would have told Dick “no.”

So it would be easy to accept this new girl. To invite her to the trampoline park; to tease her about how cute she was; to offer her the hugs that she’d never receive from her mother again; and to lend her a sympathetic ear every time Bruce did something annoying.

Or…

Dick had thought it would be easy.

He’d thought that up until tonight. Because as he stood there in front of Jason, breathing heavily, he realized something: that it wasn’t just Cordelia’s trauma that he was working against.

It was everyone’s.

Bruce’s trauma from losing that girl all those years ago. That little girl with no face and no name and no body to bury. And Jason’s trauma; not just from dying, but also from being betrayed by his own mother. And Tim’s trauma, too — the trauma he experienced when he was beaten to death by not just one brother, but two.

And Dick could not forget his own trauma, either.

The trauma that made him play peacemaker in a family that was so against peace.

“Are you really going to help that bastard keep a kid from her family?” Jason asked. His words were spat out; cutting. They broke through Dick’s exhausted thoughts as easily as a brick broke through a window. “I mean, for fuck’s sake, she isn’t asking for anything that the rest of us wouldn’t demand.”

It was so easy for Jason to say that. To stand there and be the understanding big brother who would help Cordelia rebel against the overprotective adults. To look at Dick like he was the traitor who was putting Bruce above everyone else.

But that was just because no one ever expected anything from Jason.

No one looked to Jason the way that they looked to Dick.

Alfred didn’t go to Jason to reason with Bruce. Tim didn’t go to Jason for advice. Damian didn’t go to Jason for a fatherly presence. Cordelia didn’t go to Jason for companionship. And Bruce… Bruce didn’t go to Jason and ask for him to become the guardian of a teenage girl.

Jason didn’t have to feel the weight of things like that.

So when a little kid ran to him, crying that she wanted to be with her mother, it was all too easy for him to help. Because if — God forbid — something went wrong… he wouldn’t feel the entirety of the blame fall onto him.

But Dick would.

He’d feel every bit of it like it was a hot iron being seared into his flesh. He’d wear that shame on his body; the guilt, and the regret.

It would never heal.

So he had to think beyond what Cordelia wanted.

He had to think about her safety. Her mental health. The way that her mother, within only a few minutes of meeting her, had pinched her ears hard enough to make her bleed.

He had to think about how the pain had made Cordelia cry out like an injured baby bird. How that sound had made Dick feel a flair of protectiveness that, so far, he’d only felt for Damian before.

And then he had to take into account that Alicia Hunt had already killed one daughter. How she was very capable of hurting this girl who had already experienced enough hurt.

How no good could come from Cordelia meeting her.

And, finally, he had to resign himself to the fact that none of this mattered, because trying to keep a Wayne from doing exactly what they wanted rarely ended well.

“There’s no point in trying to stop her,” Dick acknowledged out loud.

He sounded as tired as he felt.

“Then what are you still doing here?” Jason demanded, as ready to argue as he always was. “Take Bruce and go. I’ve got this under control.”

If only Dick believed that. But, unfortunately for both, he could still smell the alcohol on Jason’s breath.

“I’m going to check on them,” Dick said. He gestured toward the bedroom door, where Bruce had disappeared through some minutes before. “It’s suspiciously quiet in there.”

It hadn’t been his intention, but that ended up being the right thing to say in order to get Jason to back off. 

Dick watched as his younger brother’s eyes became narrowed, and let out a small sigh as Jason charged into the bedroom like a vigilante on a dangerous mission. But once Dick made it to the room himself, he saw that there was nothing dangerous about the situation at all.

The bedroom was small. Smaller, even, than Dick’s bedroom back in Bludhaven.

It barely fit the bed that Jason had shoved into the corner, and the tiny table that he’d placed beside it. The windows were boarded, too, ensuring that no gusts of wind would have frozen Cordelia in her sleep.

And also ensuring that she couldn’t escape.

Dick glanced over at the bed, where Cordelia slept soundlessly, and let out another sigh — but this time, it was one of relief.

She was here. She was safe.

As long as those two things were true, then this situation was fixable.

“What are you doing with that, old man?” Jason snarled.

Dick followed his line of sight, but it wasn’t difficult to find what he was so upset over.

Because across the room, standing above the bedside table, was the tall, dark shape that was Bruce. And in his hands?

A helmet.

A helmet that was as red and gleaming as an open wound.

“You made this for her,” Bruce stated.

Dick’s first reaction was confusion — before he saw it, too. The way the helmet’s eyes were larger, and the ridge of the nose smaller, and the jawline more square.

Those were Cordelia’s proportions… and they were replicated onto a Red Hood helmet.

Suddenly, Dick understood why Bruce’s voice had a twinge of horror in it.

“Yeah?” Jason said defensively. “So what?”

Bruce turned to him and, at first, said absolutely nothing.

Did absolutely nothing.

He just let the silence of the moment fill the room and prickle their patience.

Until —

Both Dick and Jason flinched backward.

Bruce had slammed the helmet down on the bedside table with so much force that it seemed impossible for the wood to not have splintered beneath it. But the bedside table stood strong, and the helmet looked unscratched, and Bruce —

It was not often that Dick felt cowed.

Especially by Bruce, who had stopped being frightening to Dick once he realized that Bruce’s silences were born more from awkwardness than ill intent.

But standing behind Jason, in that dark room, as their father’s adrenaline-filled rage allowed the blue of his eyes to burn bright even without the need of Batman’s mask….

He felt cowed.

And very sorry for Jason when Bruce answered his question with: “So she will not be like you.”

The way he said you was like a batarang to the throat. Like there was nothing worse to be than to be like Jason.

It left both sons speechless.

And caused Jason’s shoulders to cave in, ever so slightly, in a way that made him look smaller — younger. Like the little boy Dick had met all those years ago. The malnourished one, who’d barely stood taller than his chest, and who was always so eager to be a part of the family.

A familiar feeling flared in Dick’s chest at the memory.

Protectiveness.

It was stronger than his fear.

“It’s just a helmet, Bruce,” Dick snapped.

“It was never just a helmet.” Bruce’s eyes never left Jason’s. “It’s a long history of death. A symbol. A direct connection with the Joker. He knew that when he chose it.”

“I also knew that it’d piss you off,” Jason said. “Don’t forget that one.”

“Jason,” Dick reprimanded. 

They both ignored him.

“I will not let you use her as a tool in your petty revenge scheme against me,” Bruce said. “So if that is why you found her and took her here, then know that I will do everything in my power to stop you.”

Dick did not have to see Jason’s face to know that he was offended. “I’m not using her, asshole. I took her here because she wanted to leave — because you were being an asshole!”

This was already a disaster.

Dick stepped in between them.

“B, calm down,” he said. “The adrenaline — it’s making you… hot-headed.”

No. That wasn’t the right word choice, considering Bruce’s eyebrows lowered the moment he heard them.

Dick tried a different tactic.

“Listen,” he said quickly, “I understand that we’re all upset right now and that none of us have had a proper night’s sleep, but we have to stop arguing. Because if Cordelia wakes up right now and sees us like this, then we’re going to scare her. And is that really what we want to happen?”

It wasn’t a question that needed to be asked.

None of them wanted that for her.

Especially when they each glanced in the direction of the bed, and saw how peacefully she slept despite all the noise.

“We’re all here for the same reason,” Dick continued. “We all care about her. We all want her to be safe and happy. So why can’t we work together on this?”

“Because B doesn’t know how to make himself happy, let alone anyone else,” Jason griped.

Bruce’s nostrils flared.

“That isn’t the truth,” he said, low but firm. “Cordelia has been happy. I’ve seen it. She loves being at the manor.”

“Yes, she loves it so much that she ran away from it how many times already?” Jason tilted his head obnoxiously, pretending to count. “Four times? I’ve been there for two of them.”

Dick wished that Jason would shut up, but that was like wishing a unicorn would burst through the window and let each of them take it for a ride around Gotham.

“She’s a teenager,” Dick said. “They’re emotional and impulsive. You can’t expect her to be happy all of the time.”

“All I’m hearing are excuses,” Jason sneered. “But the fact is that she ran away from you guys so that she could come here with me. And you want to know why she did that? Because none of you assholes ever took the time to sit down and listen to what she wanted, and what she knows will make her happy. You’re all a bunch of control freaks.”

“Is that what she told you?” Bruce asked.

“It’s what I gleaned from her stories,” Jason stated, eyes hard and arms crossed. “But, no. She didn’t say that in so many words. Luckily for you, she thinks the world of you. She doesn’t know any better yet.”

His last sentence was filled with so much bitterness that Dick had to look away — to give his younger brother and father a moment to stare into each other’s eyes, and to hate the memories that reflected back at them. 

And while he looked away, he had no choice but to look at the only other person in the room.

Cordelia.

Cordelia, who was unconsciously rubbing her nose, completely oblivious to the fact that she was stirring up the trauma of every single person in the family simply by existing.

It would have been funny if it wasn’t causing Dick so much stress.

“I’m going to wake Cordelia up,” Bruce said slowly, breaking through the silence. “And then I’m going to bring her back home. Do not interfere, Jason.”

“I’ll interfere if she wants me to interfere,” Jason said. “I don’t take orders from you.”

This was as close to an agreement that Bruce was going to get, and he knew it. So when he bent down to wake Cordelia, he did not bother to come up with a retort.

“Cordelia,” Bruce said, shaking her shoulder. “Wake up. It’s time to go home.”

There was no response from her other than the slight scrunch of her nose and the small twitch of her eyebrows.

Bruce shook her again. “Cordelia.”

This time, she let out a disgruntled moan and batted at his hand like it was a very large and very annoying fly.

Bruce shook her more firmly. “Wake up.”

This treatment was just rough enough to break through her slumber.

Cordelia grimaced, eyes closed, as her lips settled into an unhappy pout.

“No,” she murmured.

Another shake; another bothered murmur.

“Cor. Delia.”

“I don’t want to…” she mumbled. Her eyes were squeezed shut. She pressed her hand against Bruce’s forearm, weakly trying to push him away. “Lemme sleep in today, Alf… Alfred. M’tired and dizzy.”

Bruce glowered in a way that Alfred never would. “I’m not Alfred, Cordelia.”

That was, perhaps, the most effective way to wake her up.

It was always Alfred coming to get her in the mornings, after all. And the Waynes were nothing if not creatures of habit. So Cordelia finally opened her eyes, squinting through the dim light that filtered in through the open door, and locked eyes with the looming shadow above her.

There was a moment of… adjustment.

Dick could see her chest expand in a silent gasp, and her cheeks pale in fright, as her body reacted to the shadow — and her tired mind struggled to catch up to the present.

Jason shifted restlessly behind him, but Bruce and Dick were used to Cordelia’s occasional episodes of fright, and so they knew how to react to them. Which is to say that Dick prepared himself to step in, while Bruce did not move a muscle. Instead, he stared down at her, stiff and angry and awkward, and he waited for her to remember him.

“Bruce,” Cordelia breathed. There was relief in that word, despite the less-than-pleasant circumstances. She struggled to sit up. “What’re… where’s Alfred?”

She was slurring.

Bruce’s eyes were decidedly cold. “Home.”

That seemed to confuse her — at least until she started to become more aware of her surroundings. Like the burgundy sheets of the bed that should have been pale yellow, and the dangerous weapons decorating the walls that should have been floral, and the boarded windows that should have been open, and the singular pillow that was much too flat to have survived long in Alfred’s manor. 

Blinking slowly, Cordelia poked the pillow and waited.

It was almost like she expected something to happen. Like she thought that it would puff up underneath her finger if she pressed at it for long enough. And when it didn’t, she frowned, and returned her glassy-eyed stare back up to her brother, searching for an explanation.

Bruce did not offer her one.

“Put these on,” he ordered, instead, dropping the pair of slippers he’d brought from the manor into her lap. “We’re leaving.”

This just befuddled her further.

She picked up the slippers and held them awkwardly, unsure what they were meant for.

Dick decided to throw her a bone. “They go on your feet, Little Bat.”

He’d never seen her so dazed before.

Cordelia was usually so alert — incredibly alert. There were times when she’d stare at Dick like she was analyzing every muscle movement in his smile. But, right now, her eyes were nothing but two icy pools of vague questions and startled realizations. 

She was looking at Dick like he was a tree that had sprouted up in the middle of nowhere. Like she hadn’t noticed his presence until he’d made it known.

“Dick?” She asked, before her attention slid by him to settle on Jason. “…Jas’n?”

Something was coming together in her intoxicated little mind. She did one more sweep of the room, taking in the small size and the masculine decor.

“Jas’n,” she said again, rubbing her eyes. “Did you — hiccup — tell Bruce that I was here? Is it because I — hiccup — threw up on you?”

“…No,” Jason said.

There was a flush in his cheeks that had nothing to do with alcohol.

“You got thrown up on?” Dick needed to confirm.

“I put a tracker on your jacket,” Bruce told Cordelia impatiently.

“The jacket you gave me?” It was hard to tell if the furrow of her eyebrows was from confusion or betrayal. “How small are your — hiccup — trackers?”

“That isn’t what you should be worried about,” Bruce said. “You are in big trouble, young lady. First, you run away to the worst side of Gotham. Then, I catch you drinking again.”

“I was drinking with… with Jas’n,” Cordelia said. “M’safe.”

Jason nodded.

Bruce looked ready to start shaking her again.

“You know nothing about him, Cordelia!” He exploded. “You do not know if he is safe. For all you are aware, he could have been a psychopath.”

“The hell?” Jason said.

He was ignored.

“This is the final straw,” Bruce said. “I have had enough of you listening only when you are in the mood to.”

Cordelia looked strangely anxious about that. “What’re you goin’ to do to me?”

“I’m taking away your video games,” Bruce fumed. “I’m taking away your TV. You will no longer be able to stay in your garden for more than an hour a day. You will no longer be allowed the privilege of having Alfred clean up your room. You will pick up chores around the house, including dusting the empty rooms and cleaning the windows and whatever else Alfred needs help with. And when school begins, you will come straight home. No straying. No exploring. No spending time with your friends. Is that clear?”

It was a sentencing that would have had every single one of his other children screaming in rage at the injustice of it all, but Cordelia only relaxed. 

“S’clear,” she said calmly, and Dick was relieved for exactly one second before she continued, “except….”

“What?” Bruce snapped.

She wilted. “What about my mom?”

Dick did not believe that there was a single question in the world that would have been worse for her to ask than that one. And the proof of that came in the slowly darkening shade of red that was covering every inch of Bruce’s face.

Both Dick and Jason shifted uncomfortably.

They knew that look.

Their father, who had so recently taken an adrenaline shot, was currently using every mental trick he knew in order to keep his anger at bay — and to not let Cordelia see just how close he was from exploding into a Batman rage that would have had even the Joker quivering in fear. 

“Cordelia,” Bruce said.

His voice was impressively, and eerily, calm.

“…Yes, Bruce?”

“Tomorrow, when you are sober, we will have a long talk about your mother and everything you said to me at your garden.” He’d kept the same chilling calm from before, but something in his words must have shaken Cordelia to her core, because by the time he finished talking, her cheeks had become green. “But, for now, you will put on your slippers and you will get up. We are leaving.”

She must have sensed that this was not a moment to push at his boundaries, because Dick had never before seen her follow Bruce’s orders with such silent meekness. 

Usually, she would have glared. Or asked questions. Or prodded. Or tried to manipulate her way out of whatever punishment had been assigned to her. But, tonight, she only lowered her head, and got to work listening.

It made Dick a little sorry for her. 

And it must have made Jason feel the same way, too, because he stepped up to push the boundaries for her.

“You don’t have to go, kid,” he said. “Just say the word and I’ll get them both out of here.”

Cordelia did not pause in her awkward struggle to get the slippers on her feet. “No. S’okay. Mission — hiccup — failed.”

Dick’s sadness for her increased when he caught her sneakily trying to swipe a tear from her cheek.

She sounded so defeated.

He reached forward on impulse, and helped her fit her feet into the slippers.

Cordelia stilled, looking up at him with large, sad eyes that always made Dick want to wrap her in the warmest hugs possible.

“Everything is going to be okay, Little Bat,” Dick promised. “I know it doesn’t look that way right now, but it’s the truth. We’ll talk tomorrow, as a family, and decide what to do from there.”

“You’ll decide to — hiccup — keep me from her,” Cordelia mumbled.

“No,” Dick rushed to reassure. “That isn’t what any — that isn’t what I want. I want you to have your mother in your life. I see how much you love her.”

Cordelia’s wide, watery eyes did not leave his face.

She was too drunk to tell if he was lying or not.

“We’ll find a way for you two to reconnect,” Dick tried hard to show his honesty. “We will. That’s not up for discussion. The only question is how. You believe me, right?”

Cordelia’s doubtful stare lingered on his insistent one, before trailing off to the side, where Bruce loomed.

Her brother did not offer her the same reassurances that Dick did.

“The sooner you get up,” Bruce said, “the sooner we can go home.”

Dick and Jason glared at him, but Cordelia made to stand.

She’d only managed to make it to the edge of the bed, before her entire face paled.

“I think she’s going to —“ Jason started, but it was too late. 

Cordelia lurched forward as if being pulled by the throat, and vomited all over the floorboards next to the bed.

All three men jumped backwards — as swiftly as if she’d thrown toxic venom their way.

“Eurgh,” Jason said, chagrined.

He watched, helplessly, as his floors were quickly covered with the sickly brown substance that had once been a very good meal and a few sweet treats.

“M’sorry,” Cordelia said, before vomiting once again.

Dick took another step backward.

“Jason, get cleaning supplies,” Bruce ordered. “Dick, get a glass of water.”

Dick didn’t wait around to be told twice, and when he got back, he was glad to see that the vomiting episode had run its course. Now, Cordelia was just sitting at the edge of the bed with her legs tucked underneath her and Bruce twisting her black hair up into a knot to keep the strands out of her face.

“I feel badly,” she moaned, her arms curled around her belly.

“Then next time, say ‘no’ when someone offers you alcohol,” Bruce lectured.

She groaned some more. “It felt good in the moment.”

“These are consequences, Cordelia. You have to think things through.”

“Great advice,” Jason said sarcastically, before shoving a bucket of cleaning supplies into Bruce’s chest. “But maybe, next time, you can let the drunk kid rest a little instead of forcing her to move around.”

Bruce glared at him, and would have said something back, if Cordelia hadn’t reached up and tried to tug the bucket out of his hands.

“I’ll clean it,” she slurred. “S’my fault.”

“Leave it alone, Cordelia.” Bruce stepped away from her, and kneeled next to the vomit. “You’ve caused me enough problems.”

He had his head bowed as he tugged on the rubber gloves, emptied the bucket, and began to scoop the vomit into it — so he did not see what Dick saw: Cordelia’s face, twisting into one of surprised hurt.

She looked like she’d been slapped.

“Bruce,” Dick said lowly. “Don’t be like that. She’s drunk.”

Bruce was not listening to him — hadn’t been listening to him for the entire night. And the worst part was that Dick didn’t know how to make him. He felt useless, standing there, and trying to keep the peace, while everyone else said and did whatever they liked no matter who it ended up hurting.

“I don’t mean to be a problem, Bruce,” Cordelia said.

Her green-tinted face was racked with anxiety. She tilted her head downward, trying to catch Bruce’s eye, but Bruce refused to look at her.

“M’sorry,” she said again.

But, again, he said nothing.

His silence caused a bigger reaction than his list of punishments did.

“…Brucie?”

There was genuine fear in her voice, like she thought that this silent treatment was alluding to something a lot colder.

Bruce’s expression hardened. “Enough, Cordelia. When I’m done, we’re going to… leave….”

His sentence trailed off.

His hands stopped cleaning.

Cordelia had crawled closer to the edge of the bed where Bruce was kneeling down, and wrapped her skinny arms around his neck in the most heartbreaking attempt at begging forgiveness that Dick had ever seen.

“I tried to be gentle,” she said, pressing her cheek into his shoulder. “You know that, right?”

Bruce did not hug her back.

But Cordelia did not let go.

“Brucie?” She said again.

“I can’t clean like this,” Bruce said gruffly.

So Dick rushed forward. “Here, give me the supplies.”

Bruce didn’t look like he wanted to.

In fact, it actually looked like he’d rather hand over Cordelia than the bucket full of her vomit. But before he could make a decision that would likely shatter her heart into a million tiny pieces, Dick reached down and yanked the supplies out of his grip, leaving Bruce to clean up the emotional mess over the physical one.

“Is your head okay?” Cordelia asked.

“Hm.”

“You sound like you’re getting a cold.”

“Hm.”

“He’s an asshole, kid,” Jason piped in. “Don’t let him screw up your head.”

Dick sprayed disinfectant on the floor.

Cordelia ignored them both and buried her face into Bruce’s shoulder. “Tell me nothing has changed, Brucie, please.”

There was that saying again. The one that they kept saying to one another: that nothing had changed.

Neither of them had yet to tell Dick what it meant, but he knew that it must have been significant, because it was the only thing that caused Bruce to cave just a little.

He brought one hand upward, and let it rest on Cordelia’s skinny shoulder blades. “Nothing…. Nothing had changed, Cordelia. Nothing.”

She tightened her arms around his neck, trapping him in a hug, as if she were scared that he’d slip away from her. “And you forgive me? For… for hurting you?”

As Dick cleaned the last of the vomit, he thought of all the times he’d hit Bruce, and almost wondered why Cordelia would think that she’d done anything unforgivable by hitting him, too. But that was before he remembered: her father. Her abuse. Her promise to never attack her niece or nephews again.

Cordelia viewed hitting someone she loved unforgivable, because she was not able to forgive her father for hitting her.

Her choice in those woods — her choice to hit Bruce hard enough to escape him — had been more serious in her mind than it ever had been in theirs.

Luckily, Bruce must have come to the same realization that Dick did, because the next words he spoke were a lot softer than the rest, “I forgive you.”

Cordelia’s fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. 

Her face was hidden. 

No one knew what she was thinking.

“And you’ll always forgive me, right?” She asked, choked. “No matter what I do?”

That was a tall — and surprising — order to ask.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dick saw a look of guilt flit past Jason’s face.

Bruce furrowed his eyebrows, suspicious that this was more than some drunken ramblings. “What brought this on?”

Cordelia shook her head. 

“Cordelia?” Bruce frowned.

“I didn’t — hiccup — I didn’t think I would see you for a couple of months,” she confessed. “I was sad.”

Bruce and Dick shared a glance, both knowing that Cordelia was capable of deception, but both also knowing that — sometimes — she was just really emotional.

Bruce rubbed her back. “I would have found you within a couple of days even without the tracker.”

That would not have comforted Dick. Not even a little bit. But it was enough to get Cordelia to stop demanding forgiveness for things that she had yet to do, so he considered it a win, anyway.

“There,” Dick said, after a while of cleaning the mess. He dropped the rubber gloves into the bucket and stood up. “Good as… well, there’s no way to make these floorboards look new again, but they’re clean now.”

“Great. Thanks,” Jason said, deadpan. “Now leave.”

Dick rolled his eyes, but was ready to listen. “Cordelia, are you feeling better? Can you walk?”

“Mm-mmm,” she half-murmured into Bruce’s shoulder. “My head’s dizzy.”

Bruce frowned. Then, stupidly, tried to carry her.

“B, you’re injured —“ Dick started to protest.

But it didn’t matter, because the moment Bruce tried to move her, was the moment Cordelia’s skin lost all of its color.

“Not again,” Jason bemoaned.

That was all the warning they got, and all the warning Bruce needed.

In the blink of an eye, Bruce had twisted Cordelia away from him, narrowly avoiding the puke that spewed out of her mouth, and forced the bucket underneath her chin.

“Fucking lucky piece of…” Jason was muttering.

But they all knew that it was not luck. That Bruce had spent his late teens and early twenties honing in on his reflexes. And while he likely hadn’t done this to deal with puking girls, it did come in handy when he came across one.

“Should I get more water?” Dick wondered.

Cordelia’s face was pale and sweaty as she hacked into the bucket.

Pretty soon, she’d run out of things to throw up.

“Yes,” Bruce said, and then sighed moodily. “She’ll also need something to eat before we try to move her again. Jason?”

Jason shrugged. “I have pancake mix.”

They stared at him, waiting for a longer list.

“What? I just moved in. You’re lucky I have a stove.”

Dick wanted to ask why he’d bought alcohol before he bought food, but knew that it would just lead them down another wrestling match, so he kept silent.

“I’m going to make you pancakes,” Bruce told Cordelia, taking the filled bucket from her. “Lay down. Rest. I’ll bring them to you when they’re done.”

Cordelia nodded, pale and shivering.

Bruce did not stay long enough to help her get comfortable, but Dick did.

“Here, you look cold,” he said, bringing the blankets up around her shoulders. “I’ll make sure the car is warm by the time we leave, okay?”

Cordelia did not immediately respond, so Dick turned to follow Bruce and Jason back to the kitchen, when she finally said, “Can I — hiccup — have another pillow?”

He stopped at the door, surprised, “Uh, sure, Little Bat. I’ll grab one from the couch.”

None of the pillows were up to Cordelia’s usual standard (Alfred had pretty much filled her entire bed with a mountain of soft, feather-filled pillows), but he managed to find one large enough to pass as plump.

He walked back into the bedroom, and held it out to Cordelia.

“Here you go,” he said.

She reached for the pillow, but did not put it beneath her head. Instead, she hugged it to her chest like she sometimes hugged her lamb.

Dick ruffled her hair, shaking it loose from its knot. “Don’t worry, Cordelia. You’ll see Little Heart soon.”

This time, she did not say anything at all, so Dick left her to her nap, and joined Bruce and Jason in the kitchen.

“What did she mean by ‘you’ll always forgive me?’” Bruce was demanding as Jason angrily whisked the pancake mix. “What did you say to her?”

“I didn’t say anything, old man,” Jason snapped. “Not everything is my fault. Maybe it’s something your golden child said.”

“Dick wasn’t the one who looked guilty when she said it,” Bruce said. “He looked just as surprised as I did.”

“Yeah, I know, I know.” Jason whisked more furiously. “You’re both so in-sync. A well-oiled machine. I’ve heard it enough times to get sick of it.”

“Jason, if you know something….” Dick began.

“For fuck’s sake, can you have my back for anything?” Jason snarled. “I didn’t say shit to her.”

Dick didn’t believe him, and from the looks of it, Bruce didn’t, either.

Cordelia and Jason had been in this apartment unit for hours. Who knows what they talked about; what they discussed.

Jason could have said anything. He could have told her all sorts of stories that would only increase her fears of Bruce, and heighten her abandonment issues.

It would be better for them to know. That way, at least, they would be prepared to prove Jason wrong.

But Jason was stubborn, like they all were, so he would not admit to anything if he didn’t feel like he needed to.

“Do you want these pancakes or not?” Jason said, before turning to the stove and dumping the batter in a pan. “I can’t cook and be interrogated at the same time.”

“We’re just asking questions, Jason,” Dick said.

“Shut the hell up.”

Bruce’s lips thinned. “If you’ve done anything to disrupt my progress with her, Jason….”

“You’ll what?” Jason snapped. “Kick me out of Gotham? It’s the same song and dance with you, Bruce. Come up with new tricks. We’re all getting bored.”

“So that’s it,” Bruce said, eyes sharpened. “You told her that I kicked you out of Gotham. She’s worried that I’ll do the same with her.”

Jason’s green eyes flashed in their direction, toxic and angry. “Won’t you?”

“She’s done nothing to warrant that type of punishment,” Bruce said.

Jason flipped the pancake, and pressed down on it with the spatula.

Something sickly formed at the pit of Dick’s stomach.

“Or… has she?” Bruce said. His eyes were narrow as he took in Jason’s forced casual stance. “What is it? What did she do?”

“Oh, you know,” Jason said. “Hit some asshole with a rock, made a scene at a party, ran away on a motorcycle — but you know all of that already.”

“Jason….”

“This pancake is done,” Jason said. He dropped it onto a plate and held it out to Bruce. “The quicker she eats this, the less sick she’ll feel.”

Bruce took the plate, but his stare did not leave Jason’s.

“What?” Jason said, lips curling. “Are you really going to prolong her nausea over something like this?”

Dick was sure that this wouldn’t have worked on Bruce if it had been literally anyone else throwing up in that bedroom. But since it was Cordelia, and since Bruce had gotten used to ensuring Cordelia’s comfort, it did.

“We’re not finished here,” Bruce said.

And Jason blinked.

“How hard did she hit him?” He asked after Bruce had left.

“Hard enough for him to need an adrenaline shot in order to stand,” Dick answered.

They could see into the bedroom from there.

Bruce had given Cordelia the plate, but she did not take a bite. They were talking, instead, their voices too low to hear.

Dick turned away, giving them the privacy that they needed.

He’d learned good and well that, sometimes, the best thing for Cordelia was to let her talk to her brother one-on-one. Anyone else being there would make them choose their words more carefully, guard their feelings too skillfully — and that never ended well for Cordelia’s paranoia.

Jason sat down beside him with a water bottle in hand.

Neither spoke. Jason, likely because he was nursing what was sure to be the beginnings of a bad hangover; and Dick because he hadn’t had a shred of silence since he woke up the morning before.

Outside the window, a few birds began to chirp.

Jason took a loud sip of his drink.

Dick rested his head in his hands.

Tomorrow will be worse, he couldn’t help but think.

Cordelia would be sober enough to fight back on not being able to see her mother. Bruce would be hurt enough to not listen to reason. Alfred would be too busy working with the after-party cleaning crew to help calm everyone down. Tim might cause more problems. Damian might, too. And Jason —

Dick wasn’t sure where Jason came into all of this.

Maybe he was just a reminder of how bad Cordelia meeting her mother could get. Or, maybe, he was a reminder on how useless it would be to keep them apart.

Or maybe Dick had gotten hit in the head, too, and was in desperate need of a good night’s sleep.

Footsteps sounded behind them.

Bruce was returning, oddly silent, until —

“I spoke with Cordelia,” he said. “She told me what you said, Jason. That she might as well get comfortable here, because I would never invite her back, and that this would be the only place she had left to go.”

Dick’s stomach sank.

He lifted his head, preparing himself for another explosive argument, when he caught Jason’s expression: surprise that was quickly covered up with defensiveness.

He hadn’t thought that Cordelia would tell.

“So?” Jason demanded, feigning carelessness.

Bruce’s chest rose slowly. He was taking a deep, calming breath that Dick did not think would work.

“She believed you,” Bruce said through gritted teeth.

Dick glanced into the bedroom. Cordelia was still not eating; her face was hidden beneath the covers.

She was perfectly still.

“Good,” Jason said. “Because it was the truth, and we all know it.”

Bruce’s fists were clenched at his sides. His knuckles were white.

“It was your truth,” he said. “Your lies. I would never let her live in a place like this.”

“‘A place like this?’” Jason repeated. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means,” Bruce snarled. “That’s why you tried to scare her with the thought of living here. You wanted to hurt her, because hurting her would hurt me.”

“Your ego is as fat as your head.”

“And your thirst for revenge knows no bounds.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Jason said. “I’m the worst. Your biggest disappointment. The one you don’t want corrupting your previous little sister or daughter or cousin or — whatever the fuck you call her. I appreciate the review, Bruce, really, but I’m not exactly in the mood for it at the moment. Some dickheads broke down my door and now I have to find some way to get a replacement at three in the morning before some criminal barges in and shoots me in the head.”

Dick winced.

Bruce got angrier.

But Jason was right. They had broken his door, and it wasn’t safe for him to sleep in this apartment without a new one.

So with that in mind, and the knowledge that he would not be able to solve Bruce’s and Jason’s problems for them, he got up and got to work.

First, he went on a search for Jason’s toolbox, which was relatively easy to find considering the size of the apartment. Then, he started to remove the remaining wood from the doorway.

It was almost relaxing to do work like this, even with his brother and father shouting behind him.

All Dick had to focus on was turning the screwdriver and loosening the bolts. And then, he could focus on carrying the wood to the recycling bin and lay it neatly beside it. And finally, he left the unit to go steal a door from one of the many other empty units.

Dick didn’t choose the door directly beside Jason’s.

He told himself that it was because that door looked molded, but really he just needed to move his legs and get away from the shouting for a bit.

But, eventually, he had to get a door.

So he walked through the apartments, inspecting the wood of each, and knocking gently to see if there were any squatters taking shelter on the other side.

He chose a random door on the second floor.

It had darkened wood and felt heavy when he started to carry it up the stairs.

He was sure that Jason would have chosen it, too, but didn’t bother to ask — because, by the time he returned to the apartment unit, Bruce and Jason were still arguing.

He hoped that they weren’t freaking out Cordelia, but knew that they must not have been. Cordelia was not likely to hide beneath the covers if she thought that any of her nephews were in danger. She was more likely to run in between them and danger, weaponless and without armor.

Dick cringed at the memory of her doing just that the day the Joker’s men destroyed the ice cream shop.

What a disaster that had been.

But, at least, her calmness tonight despite Bruce’s shouting proved to them that she was no longer scared that he’d hurt his family.

Just scared that he’d disown them.

Dick tightened the last of the screws, tested the door on its hinges, put the locks back into place, and returned the toolbox to the bathroom cabinets. After that, he started to make more pancakes, believing that everyone would feel better with a bit of food in their bellies.

It wasn’t long before the smell of sweet breakfast foods filled the kitchen, and the sound of sizzling butter mixed in with the sounds of Bruce’s and Jason’s shouts.

Dick opened a few cabinets, searching for the plates, and laid them out on the kitchen island.

He was glad when Bruce and Jason both sat down without question, and began to eat. He’d hate to interrupt their argument, mostly because he knew that it would only make Jason that much angrier.

The skies outside the windows were becoming brighter; the birds were becoming chirpier; and the air was becoming warmer.

Morning had come.

Hours had passed as Bruce and Jason argued.

Dick wondered if he’d be able to take a quick nap on the couch before they finished, but his dreams were quickly dashed by a barked order from Bruce, “Dick, warm up the car. It’s time to leave.”

Trying not to look too disappointed, Dick listened, pressing a button on the keys that would have the seat warmers and heaters blowing out enough hot air to fill the car by the time they walked downstairs.

“I’ll wake Cordelia,” Bruce said, and went into the bedroom.

Dick stood up, stretching his aching limbs. “Jason, do you need help washing the dishe—“

“Jason. Get. In. Here. NOW.”

Bruce’s growl reverberated off of the walls, sounding eerily close to Batman’s.

Dick and Jason met each other’s stares.

“Why couldn’t you just come here by yourself?” Jason hissed at Dick, before leaving into the bedroom, too, and — laughing?

Curiosity got the better of Dick.

He followed them into the room, and —

Was not nearly as amused as Jason.

“She’s… gone,” Dick said, stating the obvious.

The bed, which they had assumed was being slept in, was empty. In its place, forming the shape of a curled up body, was the pillow that Dick had given Cordelia. And the window, that they’d assumed was boarded up, was wide open.

The wood hadn’t closed the window. It had only been made to look like it did.

The wood itself laid beneath it, like an easily removable screen.

“You planned this,” Bruce accused Jason.

Jason, still chuckling, raised his hands in defense. “No. I didn’t. This was all her.”

That was hard to believe, considering how drunk she’d been, but Dick was not in the mood for another hours-long argument between his family.

“It doesn’t matter,” Dick said. “She couldn’t have gotten far. She could barely walk.”

“Um,” Jason said. “I wouldn’t say that.”

He was smirking.

Bruce didn’t like that.

“Explain,” Bruce demanded.

Jason, thankfully, thought it was more amusing to answer his question than to ignore it. He pointed at this bedside table. “She took her helmet and her motorcycle keys. The little bird has flown the coop in style.”

There were so many things wrong here that all Dick could think was: He got her a motorcycle?

Bruce had the same question: “You got her a motorcycle.”

“Yeah,” Jason shrugged. “And Dickwad got her the pillow that she used to make us think she was sleeping, and you started an argument that gave her enough time to escape.”

Bruce opened his mouth to retort, but no sound came out, because Jason was right: they’d all gotten played.

“Yeah,” Jason said again. He crossed his bulky arms, looking smug. “Looks like I’m not the only jackass in the room. Now get out. Your sister is running around Gotham without any pants on.”

Chapter 67: INTERLUDE: Dick's POV - Part Four

Summary:

“I’ve never… seen her face before.”

There were rare moments when Bruce allowed himself to sound vulnerable. But here, in this stranger’s home, Dick heard the smallest hint of a falter.

“I’m driving,” Bruce said.

“That’s not happening,” Dick replied. “With the way you’ve been acting since you took your adrenaline shot, we’ll end up wrapped around a pole.”

They were rushing down the sidewalk to the car, both horrifically aware of how much trouble a pants-less Cordelia could get into — with the media and with the criminals.

“You heard what he said to her,” Bruce snapped.

But Dick was already in the driver’s seat, throwing the door shut behind him, when he said, “Well, you do kick him out of Gotham a lot, B. How was he supposed to know that you treat Cordelia differently from the rest of us?”

“I don’t treat her differently from the rest of you,” Bruce said, and Dick wondered if he knew how big of a lie that was.

Cordelia was treated like a princess in Wayne Manor — albeit Rapunzel more than any other, but a princess nonetheless. Complete with a trusty animal sidekick and a ball in her honor, she was the sweet-tempered child Alfred always yearned for and the obedient ward Bruce always wanted.

In fact, if Dick had been younger, as he had been when Jason was taken in, he was sure that he’d be writhing with jealousy every time she walked into the room and received one of Bruce’s once rare smiles.

“Whatever you say, Bruce,” Dick said, and turned on the car. “Where am I going?”

“Straight,” Bruce answered. “And drive slow, in case she’s in one of the alleys.”

Dick stared at him incredulously. “What? No. Take out your GPS.”

“It would be useless,” Bruce said. “She left the jacket I was tracking in Jason’s room.”

Unbelievable.

Dick started driving, slow enough to check the alleys but quick enough to satisfy his sense of urgency.

“This can’t be our plan,” he said. “Gotham is huge. And Cordelia is on a motorcycle. She could be out of town, or she could have crashed in a ditch somewhere. We have to call in Robin and the rest.”

“There’s no need,” Bruce said. “I know where she’s going. The only question is if she’s gotten there yet.”

Dick blinked. He knew where she — ?

He glanced at Bruce suspiciously. “You think she’s heading towards her mother’s home. But that isn’t possible. Cordelia doesn’t know where her mother lives.”

Bruce’s expression was one of cold stone as he turned his face toward the window and checked the alleys that they were passing.

“She does now,” he said, grim. “I have an unfiltered database of Gotham residents in my phone for emergencies.”

Dick almost didn’t feel the need to ask, because the truth was already glaring down at him just like the morning sun that was peeking from the horizon — but he did, anyway.

Just in case.

“…So?”

“So she took my phone before she left,” Bruce said, confirming Dick’s suspicions. And then, after a pause, adding: “…and my wallet.”

Dick glared at him. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Turn right down this street.”

“Didn’t you just give me a three-hour lecture about why I shouldn’t have ‘allowed’ Cordelia to handcuff me to a car?”

“Hm.”

His short answers were infuriating. Especially because they both had known once they got there that Cordelia would be pulling all the stops to get what she wanted.

Or, at least, Dick had known — and Bruce should have known better.

And now, because of him, they were both driving through Gotham way too early in the morning with Bruce likely having a concussion and Cordelia probably injured and Alfred most definitely concerned about where they all were.

“When did she even have time to rob you blind?” Dick demanded.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed in a way that would have intimidated anyone else if they had not known, like Dick, that he was just thinking.

“Because if it was when she hugged you, then I am going to start having severe hug issues from now on,” Dick snapped. “And there would be no one else to blame except you and your sister.”

“It wasn’t when she hugged me,” Bruce said, and he looked sure enough about that. “I was suspicious of her intentions when she did that, so I kept track of her hands. They were on my shoulders the entire time. Turn left up ahead.”

“Then while you brought her pancakes,” Dick said, turning the car left.

“Not then, either,” Bruce said. “I was wrapping her hand in gauze to keep her wound from getting infected.”

“Great,” Dick said. “Then she’s a magician. I’m sure Tim will be horrified.”

They were heading into a neighborhood that was better than Jason’s, but not by much.

The people here suffered less from crime, and more from poverty. Which was why most of the residents in this location couldn’t be found in official databases — and why the police weren’t often seen patrolling these streets.

It was because these apartments weren’t supposed to be lived in.

They were old. Beyond repair. The only way someone would ever be able to live here safely, was if the buildings were torn down and rebuilt, but no one here wanted that to happen.

It was way too expensive to live in a new building.

Dick chanced a glance down one of the alleys they were passing, but didn’t have much hope to find Cordelia in one of them. The space between the apartments were too small; each wall was within a breathing distance of the next. So if Cordelia was in one of those alleys, then Bruce and Dick would have a hard time getting her out of one.

“It was when she was throwing up.”

Dick’s eyebrows crinkled.

Bruce had been silent for most of the ride — other than when he was giving directions, or asking Dick to slow down when movement was spotted.

“What?” Dick asked, distracted.

“That was the only time I let my guard down,” Bruce explained. “When she was throwing up. She must have taken my wallet and my phone while I was turning her away to throw up on the floor.”

Dick frowned.

His instinct was to reject that theory.

He’d seen Cordelia before she left; saw how drunk she was and how confused she’d been about what to do with a pair of slippers. So the idea that she’d somehow managed to steal from Bruce while she was vomiting felt impossible.

But then he remembered that she’d also managed to sneak her way around not one, not two, but three fully trained and experienced vigilantes within just a few hours.

And then, he realized… that maybe he should stop underestimating her.

Cordelia was crafty. Able to sneak a handcuff around his wrist and lock him to a car. Able to find the Joker within a night, when he and Bruce still could not locate his whereabouts in weeks.

Able to make Damian, of all people, like her after just an afternoon of painting together.

“She’s a smart girl,” Dick said, begrudgingly impressed.

Not for the first time, he thought about how valuable she would be to the team if Bruce gave her a chance.

Predictably, Bruce did not share the same opinion.

“She’s a troublesome girl,” he corrected. “Stop two apartments down. Alicia lives on this street.”

Dick slowed the car down to a full stop in front of a rundown apartment complex that looked worse than Jason’s hideout.

The bricks were practically falling from the foundation with every gust of wind. The door, a greyed wood, was covered in scratches and mold. And the windows — every single one of them — had either a crack or a suspicious smear.

Dick stepped out of the car, and felt his stomach turn with unease.

Had Cordelia really come here? Had she really seen that this was the place her mother was living in?

“B….” Dick said.

“I know,” Bruce replied.

He got out of the car, too — but surprised Dick by stumbling.

“B!”

Dick rushed around the car to check on him.

Bruce was okay… mostly. He’d managed to catch himself before he caused his body any more damage. But that didn’t stop Dick from noticing how the skin around Bruce’s mouth was paler than usual, nor did it stop him from noticing how Bruce’s temples were glistening with sweat.

“Your adrenaline shot is wearing off,” Dick realized. Soon, everything Bruce was trying to ward off — the exhaustion, the pain, the quickly developing cold — was going to hit him all at once. “Are you sure you want to go up there with me? You can stay in the car, Bruce, and I’ll be down with Cordelia in a couple of minutes.”

“No,” Bruce breathed. He pushed on his knees, forcing his back to straighten. “If she’s seen this building, and met her mother, then she’ll be distraught. She’ll need me.”

They walked toward the front door of the building together; Bruce limping, and Dick hovering  just in case he’d need support.

The front door groaned loudly while it was pulled open, as if the knob and the hinges were at least three decades old, and the air inside — it was stale. Stifling. Like an air refresher hadn’t crossed the threshold in years.

Dick coughed and covered his nose with the neckline of his shirt.

The visuals weren’t any better.

The paint off the walls had faded, leaving behind a pale yellow color that almost resemble bruises. And the stairwell was beginning to dip, especially at the center of each step, where signs of wood rot were starting to form.

“Let’s go,” Bruce said.

He was already making his way up to the second floor, his face set in a determined frown.

Dick followed suit.

“Cordelia is not going to want her mother living here anymore,” he said. Every step he took was groaning underneath the weight of his foot. “You know that. Right?”

They would have to find a reason to get Alicia a new place to live, but that shouldn’t be too difficult considering Bruce’s well-known and well-documented history of impulsive charity.

“I’ll figure something out,” Bruce grumbled.

Dick made the mistake of touching the bannister, and felt it wobble dangerously beneath his grip.

Yes, they would need to get Alicia out of this building immediately — or else Cordelia would never forgive them.

Not that it was Bruce’s fault.

He was under no obligation to help a woman he didn’t know, let alone a woman he didn’t like. But now that Alicia Hunt was… family… they would have to treat her as such. And that started with making sure her roof didn’t crumble on top of her while she was sleeping.

“This floor,” Bruce grunted. “3B.”

“You remember the exact apartment number she lives in?” Dick asked, before realizing who he was talking to. “Wait. Forget I asked. Of course you do. My real question is: what do we say when we get there? How do we explain Cordelia… looking for her? And how do we explain that we know she’d be here?”

“We won’t have to,” Bruce said.

They were walking down the musty third floor.

“What do you mean?” Dick asked.

“She knows.”

They stopped in front of apartment 3B.

Dick was staring at the side of Bruce’s head.

“I hate to ask again, but…” Dick said, “what do you mean?”

“You saw them in the ballroom.” Bruce’s determined frown had turned into a resigned one. “They recognized each other. Even though they both look different now.”

Dick had seen that, but it had looked like some sort of temporary breakdown in Alicia’s case, not a realization. 

“She might be doubting what she saw by now,” he pointed out.

“Not if Cordelia showed up,” Bruce said. “They… look alike. Alicia will see herself in her daughter’s face.”

Would she?

Dick had never seen Alicia without her mask, but he had a hard time imagining a face similar to Cordelia’s beneath it.

Maybe because he didn’t want to.

Maybe the idea of anyone hurting Cordelia the way the Joker had hurt Alicia was rage-inducing enough for him to want to avoid ever thinking about it again.

Dick shook his head, clearing away the image of some faceless man pouring acid onto a terrified Cordelia, and said, “So that’s it, then. Alicia knows. There’s no point in keeping them apart now.”

Bruce seemed to be fighting against his own mind, too, but there was no fighting against reality. He might have been able to control Cordelia until she turned eighteen, but he would not be able to control a grown woman.

If Alicia wanted to be in her daughter’s life, then they could not stop her. She could take Bruce to court; she could accuse him of kidnapping and force him to give her daughter up.

She could send him to prison.

They would all have to work together — or the entire family would fall apart.

“Why couldn’t she just listen to me?” Bruce grounded out.

“None of us would have,” Dick said.

Bruce raised his fist and knocked on the door, the entire time muttering under his breath words that sounded almost like “protect” and “regret” and “Jason.”

They waited to hear an answer. Or, at least, to hear movement on the other side of the wood. But they stood there for an entire two minutes without hearing either of them before Bruce knocked again.

“What if Cordelia isn’t here?” Dick asked. “Maybe she was too drunk to find the database in your phone.”

“Then we’re wasting valuable time standing in front of this door,” Bruce said.

His eyes were narrowing on the door knob.

Alarm bells began to blare in Dick’s ears.

“Don’t kick down the door,” he said. “Let me try something first.”

It wasn’t often that Dick had to pull out his wallet in front of Bruce, but since his father’s pockets were unnaturally empty, there was nothing else to do. 

Alicia’s apartment locks looked old. Old enough for just a little bit of pressure to break them.

So Dick searched through the pockets for a card he wouldn’t need, and was relieved to discover that he still had his Gotham Public Library card stuffed in between his college ID and a 20% off coupon for BatBurger.

“You’re going to open the door with a card you never used?” Bruce asked.

He sounded judgmental — which meant that he had definitely seen the coupon.

“Jason taught me how,” Dick said, and shoved the card into the crack of the door.

There wasn’t much of a trick to it. Unlocking a door with a card was a lot like sliding it through a machine. All he had to do differently was wiggle it a bit until it hit an edge in the lock, then force it open.

Both Bruce’s and Dick’s ears perked up at the sound of a click.

“Good work,” Bruce complimented.

Then… he pushed the door open.

The room on the other side of it was unexpectedly tidy. Lived in, for sure, and clearly by someone who didn’t have enough money to upkeep it, but neat. Because although the sofa dipped drastically at the center, there were still wrinkled throw pillows placed strategically upon each cushion; and although the kitchen table had a book beneath one leg to balance it out, there were still place mats in front of each chair.

The person living here was trying.

Alicia Hunt was trying.

And Dick felt… a bit of hope at this realization.

“Miss Hunt?” Bruce called into the empty room.

The apartment was just small enough for her to have heard them if she were here.

When they received no reply, they walked further inside.

The layout was similar to Jason’s. The kitchen and living room had no walls separating them, so Dick could see both the sofa and the sink without having to move a step. But there were still doors for privacy: one for the bedroom, and the other for the bathroom.

Dick left Bruce’s side to knock on the bedroom door, before opening it.

It was empty, too.

The only signs that someone had been in it recently were the unmade bed that took up most of the space and the scattering of make-up powders on the vanity table.

Dick hesitated.

He should walk in.

He should try to find a clue — some sort of hint about where Alicia Hunt could be at the moment.

But….

The bedroom felt too intimate.

He could see too much of Alicia’s inner life just from standing at the door of it.

Like how only one side of the bed looked like it was slept in. And how the bedside table was stacked full of old fashion magazines. And how the vanity mirror was horribly cracked as if someone had thrown something at it in despair. 

Dick shut the door, uncomfortable with the way every nook and cranny seemed to scream out in misery and lost dreams.

He hoped that Cordelia hadn’t come in here.

He hoped that she hadn’t seen.

“What now?” He asked Bruce. “Alicia isn’t here. Neither is Cordelia. Could they be together somewhere, or….”

Dick trailed off.

Bruce wasn’t looking at him.

He was standing in front of the coffee table, cradling what looked like a small photograph in his hands.

Dick joined his side. “What are you…?”

Again, he trailed off, because he knew exactly what Bruce was looking at.

It was a little shrine. A sad one. 

At first glance, nothing about it would have caught anyone’s attention. There wasn’t a vase full of roses to brighten the collection of items, nor were there a wall of polished photographs or stacks of written letters addressed to the person it was dedicated to.

There was just a small white candle that’s edges were greyed with dust and grime. And a dead rose, so old that even lightly touching its petals would make it fall apart. And a silver, round jewelry box that had a smiling ballerina standing on top, frozen in a dance.

And then there was, of course, the photograph that Bruce was holding.

It was the photograph of a little girl.

She had brown hair; charmingly curly, but so short that it barely touched her shoulders. And blue eyes, just like Alicia’s; a unique, misty blue color that had reminded Dick of the fog that settled over the sea in the earliest of mornings.

There were other things about her that were familiar, too.

Like her smile.

It was sharp at the corners, and too wide on a small face. It seemed to leap out of the photo, bringing with it the distant sound of manic laughter and cruel jokes — but then Dick blinked, and the sound and noise was gone.

He opened his mouth, ready to tell Bruce that they had to leave to find Cordelia, when Bruce spoke first.

“I’ve never… seen her face before.”

There were rare moments when Bruce allowed himself to sound vulnerable. But here, in this stranger’s home, Dick heard the smallest hint of a falter.

He felt a stab of sympathy.

For as long as he’s known Bruce, his father has always wanted one thing: to protect the people of Gotham. But more than that, it was children his heart bled for.

He wanted to protect all of their innocence; to shield them from any trauma that would haunt their years.

It was…

It was Bruce’s most unrealistic dream.

“She looks like her,” Bruce said. The tip of his finger touched the corners of the girl’s cheek lightly. “Like Cordelia. Alicia was right, they have the same ears.”

Dick hadn’t noticed.

He couldn’t remember what Cordelia’s ears looked like, but there were other things about the girl in the photograph that reminded him of her: like the shape of her nose — a cute button, perfect for booping; and the largeness of her eyes, and how expressive they were even when captured in a picture.

This girl was half Hunt.

Just like Cordelia was half Hunt.

Bruce’s face was turning paler the longer he looked at the photograph.

“They aren’t the same person, B,” Dick said gently.

Bruce set the photograph down.

His forehead was glistening with sweat. The bags underneath his eyes were getting darker.

He opened the jewelry box as if it were a buried treasure.

The sound of music filled the cluttered apartment as small trinkets revealed themselves before their eyes: a small baby rattle with fake diamonds embedded into the stem of it; a baby blue pacifier with white storks painted on it; a thin notebook that, when opened, tracked the milestones of a child growing up, like the first time she smiled and the first time she walked.

Dick hoped that Bruce didn’t notice how the dates became more sporadic as the charm of listing these events wore off.

He wondered if Alicia ever noticed and regretted ever losing interest.

“I know they aren’t the same person,” Bruce said, yet he didn’t stop staring down at the trinkets like he was staring down at the ashy remains of the child he’d been too late to save. “They have different fathers. Different faces. But I can’t sleep, ever since I learned about what Cordelia’s mother called her. I can’t stop having dreams of Cordelia turning to dust in my arms. I can’t stop feeling like I won’t be able to save her.”

“Save her?” Dick repeated. “From what?”

“Her fate.”

Dick stared. “Bruce….”

“She isn’t supposed to be alive,” Bruce said. “There is no logical explanation for her existence. She should have disappeared the moment she touched this timeline’s ground — maybe even sooner. Yet, every day, she shows up for breakfast as if she’s been here all along.”

“She was a gift,” Dick said, repeating what he heard Alfred so often say. “Just like your father’s note.”

“That note… I keep it in the BatCave with me,” Bruce said. “Despite what I know…. I keep it as reassurance. As long as that note is unharmed, then so is Cordelia.”

“The note is fine.”

“For now,” Bruce said. “But there are too many repeats in the timelines. The Joker’s existence, Batman’s, the man in Crime Alley with a gun, this girl, their names — even Alfred. He’s fallen in love with Cordelia. He looks to her like she’s a daughter, despite her being my ward. Just like in her timeline. One similarity would be a coincidence, but this many….”

“There are things that don’t happen twice,” Dick said. “For example… you. You lived, Bruce.”

“…Yes. I lived.”

His tired eyes settled on the photograph of the little girl as if to say, but she didn’t.

“The universe likes to correct itself,” Bruce said. “I never used to believe that, but Jason showed me otherwise. He was never supposed to die, so he was brought back. But what happens when someone was never supposed to live? How does the universe correct that?”

Dick was worried.

Very worried.

He’d never seen Bruce like this before. So… helpless. 

Even if the world was ending, Dick had always been sure that he could turn to his father and see a plan forming on his lips.

But… who could plan against the universe?

Maybe that’s why Bruce was so protective of Cordelia. Why he was always trying to keep her in the house; why he watched her — just like he was doing with the note.

“I don’t know the answer to that, B,” Dick said, trying to be gentle. “But… there’s no time to speculate. Cordelia is out there somewhere, and she might need our help.”

For a moment, Dick wasn’t sure if that would work. But, in the end, the possibility of her being harmed in the near future was more worrisome than her being harmed in the distant. So Bruce nodded, and backed away from the shrine, and followed Dick back to the car.

“I’m calling Tim,” Dick told him as he turned up the heaters, worriedly glancing at the blurriness of Bruce’s eyes. From the looks of him, he wasn’t just getting a cold — he was getting a full-blown fever. “He’ll be able to access the street cameras from the BatComputer.”

He didn’t wait for Bruce to protest, but Bruce didn’t anyways. He looked far too lost in his own thoughts to concern himself with holding petty grudges.

Tim picked up after the first ring.

“Hey, Timbit,” Dick said, trying to sound as calm as possible. “I need your help. Can you get to the BatComputer?”

“Why?” Tim asked. There was movement on the other side of the phone, like he was standing up from a bed. “What happened?”

“It’s a long story,” Dick said. “Basically, we lost Cordelia and we need to find her. So can you look through the street cameras and let us know what you see? I’ll send you the location of the last place we saw her."

He put the phone on speaker so he could text Tim the address of Jason’s hideout. 

“Those are one of our blind spots,” Tim said, recognizing the address. There was the sound of wind blowing through the speakers of Dick’s phone — a sure sign that Tim was already in the BatCave. “How does she know where our blind spots are?”

“She doesn’t,” Dick said. “Jason did.”

“Jason? But how did she even —“

“Tim,” Dick said. “I’ll answer your questions tomorrow.”

“….Fine.”

Dick heard the keys of a keyboard being kit, and then small mutterings.

Whatever Tim was seeing, he was not pleased with it.

“Is there a problem?” Dick asked.

“That depends,” Tim said. “How quickly do you want to find her?”

“Quickly.”

“Then there’s a problem,” Tim said. “There are hundreds of cameras around Gotham and the location you sent only helps me narrow some of them down. Do you have any other information I can use? Anywhere you think she’d go?”

“We thought she went to her mother’s apartment,” Dick admitted, and gave him that address, too. “But we’re here and she isn’t.”

“She might have gone there before you and left,” Tim noted. There was more typing. “We have a few cameras on that street. Hold on, let me scan the last few hours, and… there.”

“She was here?” Dick asked.

Beside him, Bruce tilted his chin in the direction of the phone.

“Yes,” Tim confirmed. “But she only stayed there for about half an hour before leaving again… with her mother.”

“Her and Alicia are together, then,” Dick frowned.

“Looks like it,” Tim said. “Cordelia drove off with her on a motorcycle. I’m going to track their movements.”

Dick glanced over at Bruce.

He looked… surprisingly resigned.

Like everything he’d hoped wouldn’t happen was coming to pass, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“She’s heading toward the Old Gotham district,” Tim said, interrupting both Dick’s and Bruce’s individual reveries. “I’m not sure why. It isn’t like Alicia can afford a place here.”

Something clicked in Dick’s brain. “Well, maybe not Alicia.”

“Cordelia?” Tim sounded doubtful. “Does she even have a credit card?”

“She does now,” Dick said. “She took Bruce’s wallet.”

“How did she —“

“Tim.”

“Sorry,” Tim apologized begrudgingly. “It isn’t like just anyone is capable of stealing from Bruce.”

“Can you check to see if there were any recent expenses on his account?” Dick asked, ignoring his little brother’s pointed slights.

“I’m already on it,” Tim responded. “And — yes. She booked the penthouse in Orchard Hotel for… the next month.”

The next month?

Dick cringed at the idea of how much money that must have cost Bruce.

“She’s still there,” Tim continued. “Do you want me to get in uniform?”

“No,” Dick said firmly. “We can handle this. Thanks, Tim.”

“You’re welcome.”

He sounded reluctant, like he was still itching to ask questions.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Dick promised, then hung up. “Well… this isn’t the best news, but it’s still good, right? The Orchard Hotel is close. And safe. Cordelia is fine, Bruce.”

Bruce didn’t react the way Dick was hoping he would.

Instead of nodding, or even getting infuriated that one of his kids was spending so much of his money without permission, all he did was thin his lips and say, “for now.”

Dick didn’t know what to say to that. But what he did know was that Cordelia still needed them, so he focused on that and started to drive.

---

Everyone was staring at them.

Or… everyone was staring at Bruce.

And not in the starry-eyed, hero-worshipping way that Gothamites usually stared at their prince. But in the way one would stare at a person who looked ten seconds away from snapping.

Dick couldn’t blame them.

Bruce looked terrible.

Not only was he missing hours of sleep, resulting in his under eyes being the exact color of purple-ing bruises, but his skin was also alarmingly pale from his fever. And his expression — he was haggard. 

Haggard and blatantly annoyed with the check-in girl for not allowing them to have a key to the penthouse.

“I’m sorry, Mister Wayne,” the check-in girl said. “But we’re not allowed to give keys to a booked room without explicit permission from the person who booked it.”

“But she’s his ward,” Dick argued.

“And she paid for the penthouse with my credit card,” Bruce said.

The check-in girl glanced between them doubtfully. “Do you have proof of that?”

Bruce glared at her.

The girl’s eyes widened, a hint of nerves peaking below the surface, but also — recognition.

Cordelia and Bruce always looked the most alike when they were glaring at someone.

“I can — give the room a call?” the check-in girl offered.

Bruce’s lips thinned. “Don’t.”

“D-don’t?” The girl stuttered, unsure. “But… giving you a key without proof would be against protocol. This is the easiest solution for everyone.”

Not for them.

If Cordelia got a heads up that they were in the lobby, then she would find a way to escape before they could even reach the elevators.

“The easiest solution would have been to check the age of your guests before allowing them to purchase a room here,” Bruce said coldly. “Or did you already know that she was a fifteen year-old girl using stolen money when you let her have the penthouse for an entire month?”

The implied threat was obvious to anyone within hearing distance: that if Bruce didn’t get what he wanted, then he would expose the company for helping a teenager run away.

The check-in girl paled.

“Um — can I — I’ll have to speak with my manager about this,” she said. “Can you wait here for a moment?”

Bruce was still glaring, but he released her from her suffering by giving her one, stiff nod.

The girl left as quickly as she could without appearing like she was running.

“Hm,” Bruce hummed unhappily, watching her go. “Speaking with them will be a waste of time. Hand me your phone.”

Dick handed it over, and watched as he called Tim.

“Loop the cameras in the Orchard Hotel lobby,” Bruce ordered into the phone, before pausing, his dark eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, we’re here. At the front desk.”

Tim was speaking on the other end.

From the frown on Bruce’s face, whatever he was saying was not something that Bruce wanted to hear. 

“What happened?” Dick asked.

Bruce’s heated eyes flashed upward, toward where the cameras were semi-hidden on the ceiling. “Tim said that the cameras are already looped.”

Dick’s mind was racing.

Already looped? Could there be a criminal somewhere within these walls, planning a heist or a kidnapping or something more insidious?

Or was Cordelia the cause of this?

Had she, in her drunken state, managed to access the security room and loop the cameras herself?

From everything else she’d managed to do today, Dick wouldn’t put it past her.

“Forget about looping the video, Tim,” Bruce said into the phone. “Focus on finding out where she must have gone. Cordelia wouldn’t have sabotaged them if she was planning on staying overnight.”

Bruce waited for a confirmation that his orders would be followed, before hanging up the phone.

And Dick?

Dick was already on the other side of the desk, rifling through the room keys until he found the one for the penthouse.

There was no use staying in the lobby, and no use driving around Gotham in the BatMobile with no destination to drive to. But there could be a use in visiting the penthouse; in finding Alicia and getting whatever information they could out of her.

Bruce seemed to agree.

They both left the front desk, ignoring the stares that they were getting because they knew that no one would stop them, and headed down a hallway until they reached the elevators.

The ride to the penthouse was a stiff one.

Bruce had spent most of last night trying to avoid this; trying to keep Alicia Hunt as far away from his family as possible.

And now they were heading directly toward her.

Now… they were too late.

Cordelia had met her. They’d spoken — likely for a long period of time. And Cordelia had gotten attached enough to book her a stay in the most luxurious hotel in Gotham.

There was no going back from this. No cutting Alicia Hunt from their lives.

Cordelia had made the decision for all of them, and now they just had to find a way to deal with it.

The elevator slowed down around them.

Dick felt the unpleasant sensation of lightness, followed quickly by gravity, before a bell dinged and the elevator doors slid open.

He wasn’t sure, exactly, what he had been expecting.

Maybe the tenseness of the night had gotten to his head, but he would have been less surprised if the doors had opened to reveal a raging ghoul staring back at them. But now that he thought that, he realized how ridiculous that was.

There were no raging ghouls.

There weren’t even criminals.

Because they weren’t dealing with a monster tonight.

They were dealing with a mother.

So it shouldn’t have surprised him, really, that the first thing he noticed when he and Bruce stepped into the penthouse was that it smelled like strawberry shampoo and rich coffee. Nor should he have been surprised that the second thing he noticed was the humming.

It filled the room like the music from the jewelry box. Except that the humming did not have the sad, broken tune of rusty levers and thin strings. Instead, it was deeper and human and full of an emotion that Dick could only describe as a nostalgic joy.

It was Alicia Hunt.

Dick glanced around, searching for a sign of her, but the penthouse was too large for her to be seen immediately, so he and Bruce kept walking deeper into the rooms until….

She was there.

Sitting on the balcony, her back turned toward them, with both glass doors open and the white curtains flowing about like the skirts of a dancer. 

Dick and Bruce got closer, and the closer they got — the more they noticed. 

Like how the sun was shining down on her.

It was a spotlight — her very own — providing her with the warmth that she needed considering the early morning and the fact that she was only wearing a bathrobe that barely covered past her hips.

And how the table she had her tanned legs resting up on was covered with magazines lying open, and two cups of what looked to be coffee that she couldn’t have drunk on her own.

More evidence that Cordelia had been here. That they’d talked, and bonded.

Bruce’s hand rested on the wall closest to him, his cheekbones a bright red color that appeared to scream fever.

“Hunt,” he said, all pretenses at formality gone.

And Alicia Hunt startled.

Chapter 68: INTERLUDE: Dick's POV - Part Five

Summary:

“I know that you are hiding something, Hunt.”

“I’m —“ the smooth half of Alicia’s face was becoming as pale as the disfigured half “— I’m not.”

The humming that had filled the penthouse suite like a warm summer breeze broke off into a gasp.

Alicia Hunt turned, her heated blonde curls bouncing and her knees tucking in close to her chest.

It would have been the perfect pose for a photoshoot. Her tousled hair; the way her ankles covered the apex of her thighs just enough not to expose her; how one shoulder of her bathrobe slipped down to reveal the caramel tan of her skin. Any photographer would have been delighted to capture it….

If not for one-half of her face.

It was disfigured. Wrinkled, pale, and ghostly. Like wet paper that would tear from a single touch. While the other half remained heartbreaking and beautiful; clear of any deep wrinkles or obvious signs of age, glowing like the dewy petals of a lily, and coloring with the shock of seeing her two intruders.

Dick would have looked away, to give her privacy as she covered her cleavage with a thin notebook she’d been scribbling in, but he found that he could not stop staring.

Because Bruce was right: Alicia did look a bit like Cordelia.

The button nose, the heart-shaped lips, the doe-like eyes that were too large on a small face. But — most of all — the fear.

It shone out of her with the intensity of a scream.

Bruce flinched from the sight of it.

“Alicia.” He amended his tone on instinct, trying to soften the jagged edges. “We aren’t here to hurt you.”

She didn’t look like she believed him.

Alicia lowered her feet to the ground, slowly; her large eyes flickering between the two of them as if anticipating an attack.

“…You aren’t?” She eventually asked.

“No,” Dick confirmed.

But it wasn’t him who needed to convince her.

Alicia’s attention settled on Bruce’s taller, bulkier figure. “Then what are you here for?”

“Cordelia,” he answered. “She brought you here. Didn’t she?”

The name made Alicia blink, as if she couldn’t quite believe that she’d heard it.

“Cordelia,” she repeated, her tongue cradling the name like it was her own special treasure. “Yes. She brought me here. She told me that you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Wayne.”

Cordelia had lied. But Alicia was staring too hard at Bruce, trying to gauge his reaction just like her daughter did, so Bruce remained tight-lipped and outwardly neutral.

“We don’t mind,” Dick jumped in. “We’re only here to find out where she is.”

“She left,” Alicia said. “About half an hour ago. I tried to get her to stay, or to go back home, but she insisted that she couldn’t.”

“Did she mention where she was going?” Dick asked.

“No,” Alicia said. “I… didn’t ask.”

Bruce’s lips thinned.

Alicia must have seen their distaste. She lowered her eyes and added, “She told me that she would come back here in a day or two.”

“Did she at least say how far she was going?” Dick asked. “A room away? A town away? A state away?”

Alicia shook her head silently, her gaze still trained to the floor at their feet.

Dick and Bruce shared a look.

They’d both seen it, even though Alicia didn’t want them to: the whitening of her knuckles.

She was gripping the notebook a little too tightly.

Which either meant that saying no to them was making her anxious, or that their questions were veering in a direction she’d prefer to avoid.

“Did she say anything else?” Dick asked. “Something… not related to where she went?”

“No,” Alicia said. “Not really.”

She was a good liar by civilian standards. Her voice remained even, and she did not quicken to answer, nor did she hesitate. But Dick knew that these weren’t the only things that gave away a lie.

“Then what did you talk about all night?” Dick asked.

“Nothing,” Alicia lied. “Mostly, we drank coffee and watched the skyline. Would you like some?”

“Some —?” Dick started.

“Coffee,” Alicia said. “I still have half a pot left over.”

She was trying to change the subject, or to bribe them, but it wasn’t going to —

“You two… drank together?”

The roughness in Bruce’s voice startled Dick, and caused him to glance at the older man sharply. But Bruce was not looking his way; instead, his eyes were trained on the two cups sitting atop the table near Alicia.

“Just coffee,” Alicia promised. “She smelled intoxicated, so I thought she needed something to fill her belly.”

It was a reasonable explanation. Mature.

Dick saw no reason to dwell on it.

Bruce saw differently.

“And what did you put in the coffee?”

Alicia’s expression was carefully blank. “Milk, chocolate chips, a dash of cinnamon, and a pinch of salt. It was my mother’s recipe. The hotel was nice enough to offer the ingredients.”

Dick opened his mouth, ready to bring the subject back to whatever Alicia was hiding, when Bruce — once again — surprised him by saying, “I will try some.”

There was the smallest moment between Bruce’s request and Alicia’s nodding.

“Would you like a cup, too, Mr. Grayson?” She asked.

It shouldn’t have startled him that Alicia knew his last name. Many people in Gotham did.

“No,” Dick said. “Thank you.”

He was antsy, and impatient.

They hadn’t come here for coffee.

But Alicia was getting to her feet, the notebook still clutched to her chest, as she stiffly walked by the two men to head into the kitchen.

Bruce approached the table she’d left, and peered down at the two cups.

One was empty; one was full.

“You know, she asked me the same question you did, Mr. Wayne,” Alicia was saying, her voice echoing around the suite from a room away. “Your… Cordelia. What did I put in the coffee?”

Bruce picked up the spoon near the full cup, and stirred. “It’s a smart question to ask, considering your track record.”

There was shuffling in the kitchen. A bit of clattering. 

Dick thought that if Alicia wasn’t going to slip something into Bruce’s drink before, then she was definitely going to do it now.

“I was under the impression that you were the only person who remembered me,” Alicia said. “And what I’ve done. Or, at least, you were until last night. I’m sure all of Gotham is talking about it now.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” Bruce asked.

He took the spoon out of the coffee cup, carefully dried it with a napkin, then slipped the napkin into his pocket.

“No,” Alicia said. They could hear her returning to the room. “It’s strange. I spent my entire youth trying to stand out and get noticed. Yet tonight? All I wanted to be was another pretty girl in a dress.”

She entered the room as Bruce was rifling through the magazines on the tabletop.

Every single one of them had Alicia on the cover; dolled up and air-brushed to perfection.

It was a stark contrast to the woman in front of them, with her destroyed face and sad eyes.

She handed Bruce the small cup of coffee.

“If you want me to leave the hotel, then I will,” Alicia said. Then, after a tense pause, she dug into her robe pockets for a thin roll of cash. “And here is the money she gave me, too. I knew I shouldn’t have taken it. Any of it. But old, selfish habits die hard.”

Dick and Bruce looked down at the roll of cash she was holding out.

It barely looked like a thousand dollars.

“Keep it,” Bruce said.

Alicia stilled, before hesitantly putting the money back in her pocket.

There was a tremble in her fingers that she was trying hard to hide.

“What do you want in return?” She asked.

“A call,” Bruce said. “If Cordelia returns here, you will give me a call. Immediately. And without her knowing.”

Alicia nodded, slowly. “I can do that.”

“Good,” Bruce said. He took a sip of the coffee. “Now give me your notebook.”

The woman blanched. “What?”

“The notebook you were holding,” Bruce explained calmly. “Give it to me. I need to write down my number for you.”

“I — there’s —“ for the first time since they walked in, Alicia was fumbling with her words. It took two breaths before she recollected herself. “I misplaced it. But you can use the back of one of these magazines.”

They watched as she inched around Bruce’s bulk to get to the table he was towering over, then watched as she reluctantly picked up one of her cherished magazines.

Bruce’s pale, tired face remained neutral. “I’ll need a pen.”

Alicia seemed to realize this, too. But to get him a pen, she’d also have to lead them to where she “misplaced” her notebook.

“Or maybe you can tell me your number, instead, Mr. Wayne,” she said. “I can memorize it.”

“No,” Bruce said. “This is too important. I don’t trust your memory.”

Dick glanced between them, wondering which would win out: Alicia’s fear of discovery — because there was no mistaking now that she was hiding something in that notebook — or Bruce’s determination to discover.

“I remember important things very well, Mr. Wayne,” Alicia said. “I won’t forget your number.”

“Really?” Bruce said. His eyes were boring into hers as he asked, “Wasn’t it just last night when you forgot to take your medication?”

Alicia winced. “How did you…. That was different. I didn’t forget. I just spend so much of my time alone that I… I must have fooled myself into believing that I no longer needed it. But my reaction to your girl showed me otherwise. I will be dependent on my medication for the rest of my life.”

Her voice was tinged with sadness, and even a bit of regret. But if she was expecting sympathy from Bruce following that statement, she did not get it.

Bruce’s eyes were cold as he stared down at her.

“Be that as it may,” he said. “I would still like to write the number down.”

“Mr. Wayne….”

She was running out of excuses, and Bruce was running out of patience.

He leaned forward — subtly using his height to intimidate — before saying, “I know that you are hiding something, Hunt.”

“I’m —“ the smooth half of Alicia’s face was becoming as pale as the disfigured half “— I’m not.”

“You’ve spoken to Cordelia for hours,” Bruce said. “You let her into your apartment. You followed her here into this penthouse suite. You drank hot coffee together and accepted her money. You, who can’t accept help without asking what people want in return. So what did Cordelia want in return, Alicia?”

“She….”

The grey in Alicia’s eyes were thinning as her pupils dilated. She looked almost ashen as she stared up at the looming man in front of her.

Dick’s fingers twitched, fighting the urge to step in between them. Not because he disagreed with Bruce — he, too, wanted to know what Alicia was hiding — but because this woman really did look so much like Cordelia, and he hated to see those similarities as she was being frightened into submission.

“She didn’t want anything in return,” Alicia said. “Except —“

“Except what?” Bruce said.

“Except — friendship,” Alicia said. “She asked me if we could talk again.”

That didn’t surprise Dick. If there was one thing clear about Cordelia, it was that there was nothing she valued more than quality time with her family.

But that was just it: family.

It wasn’t weird for someone to want to spend time with their brothers, or their butlers, or their many nephews and nieces.

It was normal. Sweet. Natural.

But for all Alicia knew… Cordelia was a stranger. A stranger who she’d hurt only a few hours before at a party.

“Didn’t you find that request odd?” Dick asked out loud. “That a drunken girl you’ve never met before last night showed up to your apartment, brought you here, gave you money, and asked to be friends?”

Alicia shook her head. “No.”

“No?” Bruce repeated, disbelieving.

“I didn’t find her strange,” Alicia clarified. “I found her… familiar. She’s — like me.”

An uncomfortable silence followed her explanation.

What could she mean? That Cordelia was also mentally unwell? That she was also a killer? That she was also a social outcast? Or….

Or did Alicia somehow know — like Bruce had predicted — that Cordelia was also a Hunt?

There was no way of knowing without also revealing.

Bruce, in his exhaustion and pain and irritation, became cruel. “She isn’t like you. She will never be like you.”

He walked around her, heading toward the kitchen, where they all knew the notebook and pen had been stored.

Alicia made a panicked noise at the back of her throat, and hurried to get there first.

Both Dick and Bruce watched as she ducked beneath the kitchen counter to grab the notebook from its hiding place. Then, Dick watched as Bruce cornered the woman so that he could easily tug the notebook from her grasp.

“What are you doing?” She said, breathless. “You can’t take that. It’s my property!"

Bruce wasn’t responding. He was too busy skimming through the notebook, his face becoming stormier and stormier the more words he read.

“So this is it,” Bruce said coldly. His frigid eyes lowered from the pages to settle on the woman he’d cornered into the wall. “The real reason why you accepted her ‘friendship.’ You’re using Cordelia for a story.”

“Give that back to me, Mr. Wayne,” Alicia said. “Please.”

But Dick, affronted, was already joining them to snatch the notebook from Bruce’s hands so that he could read the evidence for himself. Immediately, a few words and paragraphs jumped out at him like shouts of betrayal demanding to be heard:

….As much as the Waynes want us to believe that their newest find came from a long lost relative, my copy of the original, un-edited version of the Wayne family tree will quickly reveal one alarming truth: that all the Waynes are liars….

….How did I, a scarred model in exile, manage to get a copy of the original? Well, while many consider a schoolgirl with a crush to be the most foolish of creatures, I believe that there is something to be said about the fact that it was my old crush on Dr. Thomas Wayne that made me the only person in Gotham who could see through the deceit of his offspring….

….Look at the original tree and ask yourself: who would have the money and power to change a public record at the snap of his fingers? Maybe the same person who was able to acquire a child without any of us knowing until the ink of the papers had already dried….

….Where did she really come from? Why develop a cover story that makes Cordelia into a Wayne….?

….My midnight talk with her on my penthouse balcony sheds some light on her mysterious past: an alcoholic, abusive father. An asset (dead?) mother. A young girl living with men yet in desperate need of a woman’s guidance….

….Drunk and likes to be in the worst side of Gotham. A tragedy waiting to happen. An innocence waiting to be stolen. A skirt waiting to be torn. She is either very good at sneaking out, or Bruce Wayne has grown so sheltered that he’s forgotten just how bad Gotham can be, especially for pretty little girls….

Dick’s ears felt hot.

Every word was a punch to the gut. Every sentence was a stab wound.

And what made it worse was the knowledge that neither of these feelings were half as bad as what Cordelia was going to feel once she knew.

“She trusted you,” Dick said, furious. “She helped you. You were going to write a story about her anyway?”

Alicia, quickly determining that there was no escape since both of the men were against her, sank submissively into the wall behind her.

“It’s a good opportunity,” she said, voice soft. “Everyone is interested in her. Every reporter is going to have an article about her out in just a few hours. I will be the only one with information like this. About her past.”

“Information you coerced out of her,” Dick snapped.

“I didn’t have to coerce her.” She was shaking her head. “She was very open.”

“She’s drunk!”

Alicia didn’t have a defense for that.

“You can’t stop me from writing this story,” she said, instead. “You can take my notebook away, but you can’t take my memory.”

She was right. They couldn’t stop her from writing the story. Not even if Bruce bribed every media outlet in the country. Because a story like this….

It would be too big. Too sensational.

A Wayne mysteriously showing up on the doorstep of an infamous model? Proof that Bruce, or someone close to him, had tampered with government documents in order to alter his family history? Suspicion that the Wayne family was growing using illegal methods?

Every newspaper company in the country would be desperate to get their hands on a story like this. And not just for the exclusive, but also to finally get one back on Bruce for all those times he’d sued and threatened them with lawsuits.

This was going to be a disaster.

Their family did not need this stress. They were already going through so much with Cordelia, and the Joker, and Tim. Not to mention all the other problems that erupted around the city every single day.

Alicia’s story coming out would be the thing to send them all over the edge.

Beside Dick, Bruce seemed to come to the same realization.

He was glaring. Angry. Maybe at Cordelia, for being reckless. But mostly at Alicia, for doing what he’d been worried she’d end up doing: hurting his little sister.

“It isn’t a good idea to get on my bad side, Hunt,” Bruce said. “When it comes to the media, I can turn a blind eye. My family is used to being watched and judged. They’ve thickened their skin to it. But this story you’re trying to write is different. This article could crush my kid, and that is something that I will not allow.”

Alicia’s eyes flickered, an old fear forming. “Are you threatening me?”

“No,” Bruce said. “I’m presenting you with a better opportunity.”

Without looking his way, Bruce grabbed the notebook from Dick’s hands, pulled a pen from his pocket, and began to write something down on a new page.

Dick was just about to peer over his shoulder to see what he was scribbling, when Bruce held up the page for Alicia to see.

“Do you recognize these names?” He asked.

Alicia did. “Of course. They’re investors in magazines all around the world.”

“They’re also good friends of mine,” Bruce said. “In a way. We eat lunch together infrequently.”

“I don’t understand,” Alicia said.

Dick was beginning to. And he thought that Alicia was beginning to, as well, if the hope blooming in her face was anything to go by.

“I have connections, Hunt,” Bruce said simply. “And money. Two things that will bring you further in the media industry than a one-off article about Bruce Wayne’s — what is it now? — fifth kid? Seventh? No one can ever remember. I certainly can’t.”

He lowered the notebook so that it was within her reach, the names still on display.

Alicia, hesitant and uncertain, licked her lips. “Mr. Wayne, are you… offering to introduce me to those names? But they would never want to work with me now that I….”

She touched her scars resentfully.

“Like I said,” Bruce shrugged stiffly, “they’re my friends.”

The hope in her eye had been temporarily snuffed out by the memory of her disfigurement. But at his assurance, they alighted once again.

She looked back at the notebook, visibly hungry.

“What do you want in return?” She asked. “For me to kill the story on your girl?”

“That,” Bruce said. “And a promise from you to stay away from her.”

Dick felt like he’d been kicked in the chest.

“Bruce…” He said warningly.

“Quiet, Dick,” Bruce said sharply.

But that was asking too much from him.

An expose on the family would cause irreparable damage, but they’d get through it.

This was different. This was keeping an orphan away from her living, breathing mother. This was going against everything that they, as a family, believed in.

“No,” Dick snapped — furious. “You can’t ask her to do that.”

“He’s right,” Alicia said, soft and begrudging. “Cordelia needs…. She needs a — a….”

She couldn’t seem to say it. But it did not matter, because they all knew what she was thinking.

A mother.

Cordelia needed a mother.

Dick did not know how Alicia could have figured this out, but she had, and that had to mean something.

Bruce did not look like he agreed with that sentiment.

“Do you really think that you are the best person to give that to her, Hunt?” He demanded.

Alicia flinched. Her fingers, which had been subconsciously reaching for the notebook, pulled back to reach for her stomach, instead, almost as if she were expecting to feel a swell there.

But her stomach was flat. And whatever she was feeling for had already been lost to her long ago.

A flicker of grief crossed her features; more intense than the greed they’d seen there before.

That small glimpse of humanity — that sign that she actually did care about Cordelia, at least a little bit — gave Dick his own flare of hope.

“You don’t have to make this deal, Alicia,” he urged. “Cordelia is a great kid. She’s sweet, and funny, and smart. And our family has been doing much better ever since she’s joined it. In fact, the only thing wrong with her is that she gets a little sad sometimes, but I think that’s something you will be able to understand.”

Alicia was listening — he could tell.

Her thumb, already pressed against her belly, began to rub soothing circles over it as if trying to comfort an unborn child.

“But…” Alicia hesitated, “the notebook….”

“Cordelia doesn’t have to know about the notebook,” Dick said. “I won’t tell her. I’ll make sure that he doesn’t tell her, either.”

While it infuriated him to know that Alicia was capable of betraying her daughter so easily, he also knew that it would not be right to keep them separated due to his own personal grudge.

Cordelia wanted this relationship. Badly. So badly that she’d been willing to fight them all for the chance to speak to her mother one more time.

Dick had to respect that.

He had to make sure that Bruce didn’t ruin this for her.

“You won’t regret having her in your life,” Dick said. “You won’t regret having her as a… friend.”

“As a friend,” Alicia repeated, her voice in a murmur.

The tension in the room was rising.

Dick could feel Bruce glaring a hole into his head from the corner of his eye.

But that wasn’t important. What was important was making sure that Cordelia didn’t lose out on having a relationship with her mother, even if it was complicated and warped by time and legalities.

Her mother was her mother.

“I….” Alicia sighed. Her thumb, still pressed against her flat stomach, stilled. “I’ll take the names.”

“What —“ Dick started, appalled.

But Bruce was moving swiftly, already pushing the notebook into her waiting hands.

It was like he’d been expecting this answer the entire time.

“I’ll call you in a few hours to iron out the details and to wire you the money,” he said. “In the meantime, you can familiarize yourself with these names and think about what it is exactly that you want from each of them.”

“I will,” Alicia murmured. She was holding the notebook with great care. “Thank you, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce’s lip curled.

He turned to leave, not bothering to respond, and left the two in the kitchen.

Dick could hear the ding of the elevator sound from a few rooms away while he stood there, frozen, half furious and half in disbelief, as Alicia gently closed the notebook and held it to her chest. It was like she was holding something previous. Like that notebook wasn’t going to shatter Cordelia’s heart.

Like she wasn’t leaving them to pick up the pieces.

“Dick?” Bruce called.

His voice was too calm — too self-assured.

It grated on Dick’s senses. It made him want to walk over to the elevator just to punch Bruce in the face. It made him want to reach down and shake Alicia by the shoulders. It made him want —

Bludhaven.

It made him want Bludhaven.

And maybe that’s what gave him the motivation to unstick his feet from the floor, and to follow Bruce into the elevator. Maybe that’s what encouraged him not to punch Bruce and shake Alicia.

Maybe —

The elevator doors were stopped from closing.

Dick blinked, trying to see past his own cloud of fury.

Alicia was standing between the doors, keeping them from sliding shut with an odd look in her eyes — one that Dick sometimes saw in Poison Ivy’s victims as they awoke from their infected hazes.

“Wait,” she said, suddenly desperate.

Bruce’s entire body stiffened.

“Just… tell me one thing,” Alicia urged. “Please.”

The elevator door was trying to close on her. She ignored them.

“Cordelia and I,” she said, “we’re connected. Aren’t we? She… she means something. I can feel it.”

Neither of the men spoke.

Neither of them would ever trust Alicia Hunt again.

“You — you have to tell me,” she said earnestly. She brought her hand to her belly again. “If somehow she is my…. You have to tell me.”

Bruce had never looked more cold toward a woman in need in his life.

It was enough to make her take a step back.

“Enjoy your money, Ms. Hunt,” he said, and reached down to push a button that would close the doors in her face.

“Wait,” Alicia insisted. She turned to Dick. “Mr. Grayson —“

It was too late.

The elevator doors closed, leaving her alone in her penthouse suite.

And leaving Dick alone with Bruce.

They didn’t speak to each other the entire way to the ground floor. In fact, they didn’t even glance at each other until they passed the lobby and felt the crisp chill of the morning air hit their tired faces.

Only then, did Dick trust himself to talk rather than shout.

“She knows,” he said.

“She won’t tell,” Bruce replied.

“But she knows.”

There was an edge in Dick’s voice that Bruce responded to with a defensive, guarded glare. “And she gave up Cordelia anyway. This was the right thing to do, Dick.”

It wasn’t. There was nothing right about this situation at all.

He’d come out here to find Cordelia, to bring her home and to help her reconnect with her mother. Not to — to — to buy her. Like she was a pet. A product. Something that could be gained ownership of with just a little bit of dirty cash.

This was wrong.

“Give me your phone,” Bruce said.

“No,” Dick snapped, instinctually wanting to deny Bruce of something.

“I need your phone, Dick.”

“Why?” Dick demanded.

“To call Tim,” Bruce said. “I need to know if he’s found Cordelia by now.”

Dick wanted to tell him no again. To walk away and take the next bus back to Bludhaven.

But Cordelia was still out there.

He smacked the phone into Bruce’s awaiting palm.

Bruce hummed, displeased, but was smart enough not to say anything as he dialed Tim’s number and pressed the speakerphone button.

Alfred’s voice immediately came filtering through.

“Master Bruce.”

“Alfred,” Bruce said, genuinely surprised. “What are you doing with Tim’s phone?”

“Answering it, Sir,” Alfred said. “But that isn’t the real question, is it? The real question is: what on earth have you done this time?”

A tightness formed at the corners of Bruce’s mouth.

Yet another person was upset with him tonight.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Bruce lied.

“Why did you not tell me about Miss Cordelia’s mother?”

“Alfred. I don’t have time to —“

“You most certainly do.”

“You don’t understand,” Bruce said. “Cordelia is missing.”

“She is not missing, Master Bruce,” Alfred said. “She only just called to inform me where she was not twenty minutes ago.”

Dick and Bruce met eyes, stunned.

They’d been chasing her all around Gotham. It felt like a slap to the face to know that Alfred had been given the answer to her location so easily.

“She didn’t call me,” Bruce said.

“Well. Perhaps you should ask yourself why.”

Alfred was being especially snippy during this phone call. 

Dick could see Bruce getting irritated by it — but he could not sympathize.

“Where did she call from?” Bruce asked.

“From Mister Allen’s,” Alfred explained. “I also had the opportunity to speak with Mister Allen himself. He let me know that he has a bedroom she can occupy, and that he is more than willing to take her in for as long as we need.”

Bruce looked as if he’d bitten into an incredibly sour grape.

“I’ll pick her up immediately,” he said.

“Absolutely not,” Alfred said sharply. “She is a fifteen year-old young woman. If she wants space, you need to give that to her.”

“She is not a normal fifteen year-old,” Bruce argued. “She attracts trouble. Almost every time she left the house, she nearly died.”

Alfred went quiet. “There have been many times when you have left the house and nearly died, Master Bruce. Do you think you would take it well if I suddenly decided to trick and lock you in the house for as long as you have done to her?”

Bruce couldn’t answer that honestly, so he didn’t answer it at all.

“Besides,” Alfred continued, “all things considered, there are few places safer to stay than Mister Allen’s residence.”

“Hm.”

Alfred treated that response as an agreement. “Excellent. I will have breakfast ready for you when you return, Sir. But I will also be awaiting an explanation for all these secrets you thought necessary to keep from me.”

“Alfred….” Somehow, Bruce managed to look both like a chastised boy and a stubborn father. “I can’t just let her run away whenever she wants to. Especially to the house of a man she knows I don’t want her to be around.”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred started firmly. “For as long as we’ve known Miss Cordelia, you have been trying your hardest to ensure that she stopped being so frightened of you. Well, congratulations, my boy. You’ve accomplished what you once thought was impossible: the young miss is no longer scared. In fact, she is beginning to rebel like every other teenager out there, because she knows that you are a safe person to rebel against. So do me a favor, Master Bruce, and do not punish her for making a discovery that we have all yearned for her to make for months.”

It was a good argument. One that silenced even The Batman.

Which made Dick wish that Alfred had been included in this mess all the way from the beginning. Because if there was one person who could have talked some sense into Bruce — it was his pseudo father.

“Do you really think this is for the best?” Bruce asked, reluctantly (and finally) seeking advice. “To let her stay at Barry’s?”

“I do,” Alfred said. “Give her time to recover from last night. When she is ready, she will come home.”

Bruce still did not look like he was one hundred percent with this plan. But, eventually, his exhaustion and Alfred’s guidance was enough to make him consent to it.

Dick watched as he said his good-bye’s to Alfred, and then followed him back to the car.

There was a lot to talk about on their way home. Like Jason, and Cordelia, and Alicia, and Tim. But, unsurprisingly, neither of them were willing to bring any of that up. Bruce was too tired, and too much in pain. And Dick? Dick just wanted to drop Bruce off at the manor so that he could head back to his own apartment in Bludhaven.

Something that must have been obvious from his expression, because he hadn’t even put the car in park before Bruce said, “You’re leaving.”

“I should have left a long time ago,” Dick replied.

“But you didn’t.”

Dick shrugged.

“I told you,” Bruce said. “What we did tonight was the right thing.”

“I don’t feel good about it.”

“You think I do?”

“I know you don’t,” Dick said. “But that doesn’t really change anything, does it?”

Dick wasn’t looking at Bruce. Not even when he got out of the car and made his way to his motorcycle. But that didn’t stop him from feeling Bruce’s stare as he sat on his bike and kicked it alive.

“She’ll be sad to see you go,” Bruce said.

Dick gritted his teeth at his father’s last-ditch effort to manipulate. “People get sad sometimes, Bruce. They get hurt. You can’t protect them from everything. In fact, it’s better that you don’t.”

He was sure that if he turned around, he would see Bruce clench his fists. “I didn’t force Alicia to take that money, Dick. I didn’t force her to start writing that article. But she did. She chose fame over her own daughter again. Just like she did all those years ago. Just like she did in the Flashpoint timeline. Do you really think it would be better for Cordelia to have someone like that in her life? Do you really think she deserves that?”

Dick was shaking his head. A bit of sadness was breaking through his cloud of rage. “To be completely honest with you, Bruce: I don’t really think she deserves us, either.”

And with that, he drove away.

And as he passed the city lines, he hoped that the further away he drove from the manor… the more his guilt would lessen.

Notes:

We return to Cordelia's POV in the next chapter!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of What Was I Made For?