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Chapter Text

Damian is fifteen when his father dies. 

It's not - expected. But it's also not unexpected. Bruce has always had the most enemies. The rain is fitting, light enough so they can see his headstone, smooth marble with cracks of onyx between it, but heavy enough that each of them are soaked. The water runs over each crook and groove in the headstone, seeping into the ground where a casket lays, empty except for an urn of ashes. Next to them is Jason's grave, the casket long since removed from the ground, the headstone still there at Jason's insistence. The two lay side by side. 

Cremation is forbidden for Jews. Bruce was Jewish. It was his last wish, to burn him despite his religion - so that no one could use his body again. Protecting them, even in death. They burnt it and watched it go up in flames. Duke and Richard were crying. Damian watched with a kind of disconnected apathy. 

Then they buried him. Because they could let their enemies take Bruce's body away from them, but not his religion. He would be buried. Richard and Jason lowered the casket into the ground, in the rain. They didn't wear suits. They wore button down shirts, ironed by Alfred's shaky hand. Bruce always hated the suits anyways. 

The public funeral was two days ago. The superhero funeral yesterday. Jason had remained stoic when making the arrangement, for Bruce to wear a suit, so only his face was visible, eyes closed and at peace. One day. One day of it. One day of fake apologies and people going up to them 'offering their condolences' and then preying for their money. Damian had almost refused to go. Almost, because he could see the red, blotchy faces of his family, and knew that they couldn't take much more. It was better around superheroes. But still not enough.

They moved him into more comfortable clothes, then they cremated him. They put the urn in the casket and closed it. (They didn't nail it shut. There was a catch mechanism on the inside to open it.) They stood in the rain as Jason and Richard piled dirt on him, packing it tightly. The loose bits rolled around in the rain. Damian stared at the letters on the headstone. 

Jason and Richard joined them under their umbrellas. Soaking wet, but they didn't care. They raised the umbrellas higher and drew them tighter into their circle. Alfred tutted and took their jackets. 

"He's not coming back this time." It's a statement, a fact, and a question all in one. Bruce has died before. He's always come back. 

Batman. The man, the myth, the legend. 

He was man. Man can die. 

"I don't think so, baby bat," Timothy mutters, squeezing his shoulder. Damian swallows, blinks the droplets out of his eyelashes, hand going up to take Tim's hand in his instead. Something to ground him. 

"Is it bad that I hope he doesn't?" Jason asks nobody in particular. Cassandra leans into him immediately, her black dress getting wet. 

There is no answer. 

There doesn't need to be. 

They troop to the manor simultaneously, the rain slowly getting heavier. Alfred ushers them to the shower. Damian stands under the hot spray for a good five minutes, staring at marble walls and how they look so much like a grave. When he's done, he pulls on a shirt, then one of Richard's old sweaters, swallowing him, and then he gathers Alfred (the Cat) in his arms. 

He has never been a crier. That doesn't change. He sits, cross-legged on his bed, with an armful of fur. They still have dinner. He doesn't want to eat it. All the food the past two days has been cardboard. 

His door opens to Cassandra, eye bags and all, hand wrapped around Duke's wrist, the other beckoning to Damian. He obliges, standing with Alfred still in his arms, and follows. 

They make their way to Bruce's room. The door is wide open, and shows Richard, Jason, Stephanie and Timothy already piled onto the bed. Bruce always made sure to have enough pillows for all of them. Especially once they all started coming to his room. Nightmares were common. Bruce never turned them away. There were always extra pillows for Cass, blankets for Jason, who needed warmth when he woke up shivering from the cold, digging up his grave, finding his own body there with green Lazarus eyes. 

Damian lets Alfred choose his own spot and moves to his. Buried under the weight of Richard and Timothy and surrounded by them. Duke joins their pile. Cass inserts herself between Stephanie and Tim. 

They lay there until morning. Damian passes through sleep and wakefulness fluidly. At one point, Alfred makes them all drink a cup of water and some crackers. 

The first morning is always hard. 

It gets better. 

(It has to.)

***

(He still remembers the last time they all piled into Bruce's bed, when he was alive. A comforting weight next to all of them. They could crowd around him and find a spot. There would be bickering. It feels empty, without his shadowing figure.)

***

They share Batman between Jason, Richard, and Tim. Richard does most of it, leaving Blüdhaven to his teammates when he can. Jason appears as Red Hood less often, but no less terrifying, and his loyalty keeps the deep underground of Gotham deep underground. Red Robin is only used when they need to go international, or dealing with Ra's. 

It works. They keep Batman alive, even as Gotham changes, the signal high in the sky. 

Until it doesn't. 

Richard's funeral is no less saddening than Bruce's. Jason handles it, as he does, funeral and wake arrangements. Richard is - was - fine with being cremated. He leaves Nightwing empty, another mantle to take up that is no less daunting than Batman. It's sudden, and it doesn't even happen when he's Batman, or Nightwing. It happens when he's a civilian, with witnesses to explain. 

It's well planned. But they are no match for a Wayne's fury. Jason takes care of it. It's taking a toll on him. 

Unlike Bruce, they don't lower a casket into the ground. They put a headstone, a memorial next to Bruce, next to Jason, and then they scatter the ashes to the water. It doesn't rain. It's sunny and there are birds chirping and it's so undeniably cheery that Damian wants to scream and shout. But he doesn't. He stares at the headstone with clenched fists and he curses every deity in existence. It's so Dick Grayson, so Nightwing. It makes Damian want to scream. 

Unlike before, the superheroes come to the cremation. They come for the funeral and the wake and they stay. Some of them wear masks. The Waynes don't bother. 

They all crawl into the bed. Sometimes, when Damian closes his eyes, he can feel their ghosts, Bruce and Richard, pressing against them. Comforting them beyond the grave. It feels so empty, the sprawling length of the beds meant to accommodate more, not less. It shouldn't feel this empty. 

They pull Alfred onto the bed. Not 'pull', but their exhaustion and their silence works wonders. The elderly butler sits next to them, with a hand on Timothy's back as he trembles with sobs, and murmurs, "I know."

They don't have the energy to get up the next day. 

But they get up the next. 

It has to be enough. 

***

Batman dies. Jason takes over. Tim goes silent and his wrath is worse. Batman was never supposed to be justice. Batman was a symbol of danger, of warning. Bruce was justice. He was mercy. 

Batman is anger, now. He is pain and he is lashing out. 

And then - and then - 

Duke is gone. 

Too late. Too late for all of them. Dead. Gone. 

There isn't even a body to bury. He heated up and burnt himself inside out to stop the pain. If he ever said a last wish, they never heard it. There is no will. There is nothing but ashes, and it feels too familiar. 

He was the last to join their family before Bruce died. Sixteen. Damian was thirteen. Now, he is eighteen, and Duke was twenty-one. Younger than Dick. The youngest to die so far. 

He feels so hollow. It's like a pattern. They'll lose someone. They move on. And just as they find their feet, someone else dies and their whole foundation cracks all the way down to their roots.

He doesn't bother with describing the funeral. It's the same. Significantly less people, but the people who matter, who mean something, are all there, and they all mourn. They all stand at his grave, underneath the cloudy sky, and they stay silent because even in death, they can never manage to say something. 

Damian still doesn't cry. He touches the headstone, rough texture against his calluses, and then they go back to the manor.

It never gets easier, with the bed becoming steadily more empty. 

Batman is rage. He is pain, he is wrath, and mercy is hidden under layers of grief. 

It has to change. It has to. 

***

For a while, it stops. They celebrate birthdays with no deathdays, and on the anniversary of deaths they pile into the bed and they grieve. Damian passes the age that Duke was. He lays in the bed on his birthday and thinks about what it means. They keep each other safe and Damian wears the cowl for the first time. 

(He hates it. He hates wearing it. The ever-present reminder of those who came before him. 

He is Robin. A mantle passed from child to child. He will not give that up.)

(But he sucks it up. He wears the cowl and his lips tighten and he wears it because Jason deserves a break.)

They grieve and they mourn and they lash out, but they never leave. 

And then it starts all over again. 

***

Tim gets hurt first. His knee is utterly smashed into pieces and he walks with a limp, a cane in his right hand. He won't ever be able to walk again. Crippled for the rest of his life. He doesn't want a prosthetic. But he also hates that now, the cowl falls to Jason almost fully. Even though they all take a turn - Damian, Cass, Jason, not Steph, because Steph stays Spoiler and she gets into every crevice of criminal.

Jason is Batman. Batman is wrath and pain and anger. He is grief and cutthroat. He is - 

Jason is vengeance. Batman doesn't kill the joker. But Jason does. 

He shoots him in the spine like how he shot Babs. He shatters his kneecaps like how he did to Tim. He breaks every bone in his body like how it was done to him, and he leaves a crowbar clanging on the ground when he burns the body with vengeance. There is no Bruce to revive him. To stop him.

Damian doesn't feel bad about it. 

None of them do. 

It's a silent plea to never speak of it again. 

***

Cass dies before Tim. They work themselves to the bone finding the killer and they make them pay. 

It doesn't make them feel better. It doesn't make anything better. 

But it's what Cass deserves. 

She leaves each of them a letter, the date showing that it was first written after Duke died, and edited in the years between. 

Damian cries for the first time when he reads it, tear marks on paper marked with elegant cursive, her name at the bottom. Cassandra Cain-Wayne. She knows who she is. 

Do you know who you are, Damian?

They pile into the bed and they don't move. 

They stay there and they grieve and they feel their hearts breaking. 

***

Tim dies later that year. A stroke. 

It's at this point that they realise no matter how immortal they seem, they are nothing more than human. Tim fell on his knee and couldn't get up. He died in pain, alone. 

Damian doesn't feel like getting up anymore. He wants to stay in this bed and not think. He doesn't want to go to the funeral. He wants to sleep and he never wants to get up. 

But he does. 

For Jason. 

Jason, who cracks under the pressure of Red Hood and Batman and the Wayne son, the heir. 

Damian takes the funeral arrangements and he doesn't question when Jason shows up, bloody. He takes the brunt of the press because he still doesn't cry at the funerals, and he tells them in very few words that their lives will be ruined if they ever cross a line. 

Stephanie drops Spoiler. 

She becomes Batman. For Tim. Because Jason needs a break and they give him exactly that. 

But first, they lay in the bed and they don't get up.

***

It works. It works. Stephanie becomes Batman. Damian takes Robin, still wears those colours, and he doesn't care if he is mocked. Robin was Richard's, then Jason's, then Timothy's, Stephanie's, Duke's. He is Robin. Batman needs a Robin. Robin will always need a Batman. 

After three months, Jason takes back up Red Hood. 

He hates it. He knows that Jason hates it. It's a reminder of who he was, someone who hated and driven by fury and green to kill Batman. It's a reminder of the Joker who killed him, then left Tim crippled, before he stayed dead. 

But Jason takes it anyways. 

Batman and Robin take care of crime above the sewers. Red Hood takes crime below. 

And when it becomes too much for him, Damian takes over. And they start switching roles. Sometimes, Stephanie will join him as Red Hood. Sometimes, Jason goes back to Batman. Sometimes, Damian takes up the cowl. 

The patrols are getting fewer. The hours shorter. 

They don't stop. 

***

The universe is a sick joke. 

Alfred dies next. 

Old age, coupled with an attempted attack on the manor. 

Alfred always seemed invincible.

None of them are invincible. 

They lie in the bed and it feels so cold.

***

Stephanie dies as Batman. 

Damian carries her body back to the manor and fails in not crying. 

He cries for every Batman he has been a Robin to. He cries for every Robin that he has been a Batman to. He cries for every Signal, and every Spoiler, and every Black Bat. For Agent A. 

It hurts. More than ever. More than being stabbed, because at least he feels something. He feels only hollow, numb. 

***

And then there were two. 

They stand under one umbrella, the two of them, Jason's arm around him. It rains. 

Damian is older than Tim ever lived. Than Richard. Than Duke. 

He would give each and every one of his years for them to live one more.

***

And then there was one. 

He stands under the umbrella, next to a row of marble headstones.

He lies in the bed. 

He mourns. 

He shuts himself off. 

***

It ends as it starts. 

A Wayne, kneeling, in a pool of blood. Alone, afraid, and pained. Tired. 

He takes off the cowl and he watches the poison swirl in the cup. He would not use a gun. Nor a blade. He does not want to drag it out. He wants it to be over quick. He wants to join them. 

He wants to join his family. 

He feels the blood from his wounds, and with shaky hands, raises the glass to toast the air. 

Damian Wayne. Grandson of the Demon's Head, Son of the Bat. Robin, Batman, Red Hood. Even Nightwing. Just once. 

He lived. He loved. He lost. 

He wasn’t the best, by any means. But he’d like to think that he wasn’t the worst.

He downs the poison. 

Batman and Robin are Gotham. Gotham is Robin and Batman. 

There have been many. No one knows for sure. How many there were, how long, who they truly were. If they were human. 

There are myths of a man. A man who lost everything and made the mantle. Those who joined his flock. 

And eventually, Batman - the man, the myth, the legend - fades into just that. A legend.

***

Barbara Gordon drops her keys into the bowl, and wheels herself to her monitors. 

It's been a long few weeks. 

All the condolences from the superheroes, from the rich snobs. The caped and suit communities. 

She closes her eyes, head in hands, taking a deep breath. "Damn you, Damian," she mutters, before switching her computers on. 

There's an email for her. Waiting, in her inbox, staring at her. She stares back. 

Sly bastard. 

She opens it. A video file, of Damian in Robin gear, the cowl set to the side. 

She doesn't want to press play. 

She does anyway. 

"Date: April 25th, 2026. Time: 10.37PM, nearly time for patrol." Damian looks down at the katana in his hands. "I. Don't really know what to say." Barbara snorts. That's a first. 

"I suppose, first things first. If you've already been to the will-reading, you'll know all of this, but I want you to hear it from me. I'm leaving you the whole Wayne heritage. Or, at least, most of it. I'm donating half of the money we have to charities around the world, and all the other estates in different countries to reliable charities as well. Not the safe houses. And I've left at least one property in every country that we have ties with, public or not, for you. And the rest of the money. This includes..." he pauses, looking into the camera, swallows. "It includes Richard's apartment in Blüdhaven, and the manor.

"I know the memories it holds. I won't fault you if you decide to never step foot in it again. But it's your home as well. You...you should have it. If you would not like to use it, I would like for it to be turned into an orphanage. Or an animal shelter. Ultimately, it is your decision, and well, it's not like I will be alive for it anyways."

Here, Babs pauses it. She takes a deep breath, glares at Damian's face on the screens. "I hate you, Damian." I love you, kid. 

"I'm sorry, Barbara." Here, she startles. Damian's never called her by her first name. It's a weird sort of poetic, that he says it for the first and last time over video. "I'm sorry for leaving you. For not telling you. But I think you knew." The scars on his arms that didn't come from patrols - he barely patrolled anymore. "The sightings of Batman has slowly decreased. Just like how Robin disappeared. And Red Hood. I think you saw this coming."

She did. She didn't want to. But she did. 

"Wayne Enterprises has changed Gotham. Less Arkham breakouts. Because of...because of us. I think it's time for me to go. Gotham doesn't need Batman. It doesn't hurt. But I..." he looks at the cowl, eyebags deep and looking like a void. "I'm so tired, Babs." Even in death, he still surprises her. "Tired of being alone. Jason died a year ago. I can't. I can't do this anymore. I wasn't meant to be Batman. I was meant to be the Demon's Head.

"Our family is dead, Babs. All of them. Father, Richard, Timothy. Cass. Steph. Jason. Duke. Even my grandfather. They're gone. You've always been there for me. You've always understood. You are the all-seeing Oracle, after all." He cracks a small smile. She doesn't. "It's lonely. Living without them. I have you. But I think you feel it. I was never meant to live long. None of us were. With out penchant for running headfirst into danger."

"No, you weren't," she murmurs.

"I don't know if there's an afterlife waiting for us. If they're waiting for me. I don't think that anyone knows. I don't know if there's a Hell or a Heaven. I don't care. I don't want to be alone in this life anymore. If there's a second chance, then I'll take it. But this life isn't for me anymore.

"I really am sorry. For this. For leaving. But telling you would've made it harder. And I was too cowardly. I'm sorry.

"I hope that if the afterlife is real, you'll join us. If it isn't, then I hope I'll be reincarnated. Maybe into a tree. They don't have to do anything to be useful. They can just...exist. I think I'd like that." His eyes go glassy. 

"Tonight is the last night I'll ever go out. Yesterday was as Batman. Today, Robin will make their last appearance. I hope it'll be our last appearance. Babs, I'm sorry for putting this on you. But you want the same thing I do. So, promise me." His eyes find her through the screen. "Please. I don't know if you'll die a year after like we have. More than three hundred days after each other. But I think you're strong, Babs. Stronger than any of us. Stronger than me. You're living, surviving, in a wheelchair, and you've lost everyone. 

"You are stronger than me. I hope you realise that. I hope you live a life filled with love, and I hope you never forget us. 

"This request might be too big. But I have to try. If there's someone who wants to become us - to become Batman, to bring back the mantle, to become Robin, then please. Watch over them, all-seeing Oracle. Make sure that Batman isn't born of death. Make sure that Robin isn't born from vengeance. Make sure that they never aim to hurt, but to protect. Make sure that Batman isn't born of wrath, this time - make sure they start right, make sure they start in justice, and they start in love. Make sure they have their family. Make sure they build one if they don't. Make sure they don't get their wings clipped because of a maniac. Make sure they are as safe as they can be.

"It isn't fair to ask this from you. I'm sorry." This might be the most 'sorry's that Damian has ever said. "But I know children. I know Gotham. They certainly couldn't stop us from becoming Robin. From Batman. And that's not fair. You're strong. You can do it. I believe in you. I believe in Oracle, in Batgirl. I know that you might not be able to stop them. Or maybe Gotham needs them again. Needs a Batman. Needs a Robin. I don't know how the future will look like. I hope it stays how it is now. But promise me you'll do what you can. 

"Promise me they won't be Bruce Wayne. Promise me it won't end in violence. Please."

His stare is still on her. She feels it as if he's still alive. 

"I promise," she whispers. 

He's silent for a while more. "If it goes to plan, I will be dead. Maybe you didn't say anything. Maybe you didn't promise. But whatever it is, thank you. For being by my side. Our side. For being our family. Thank you, Oracle, Barbara. If there ever is a Batman or a Robin, and you show them this, then - I'm sorry that you had to take it up. And I hope you learn from our mistakes. In the end, we made something good - built from violence and blood, but it worked. We worked. We were a family. I hope you find a family, whether it's blood or water, whether it's violence or peace. Everyone deserves one. You too, Babs. We're waiting for you. This is Damian Wayne, formerly Red Hood, formerly Batman, and Robin for the last time, logging out. Goodbye. I love you."

The video ends. Barbara swallows. 

She lets herself sink into the words. 

Then she starts typing. 

She is the all-seeing Oracle. Damian is - was - right - she is strong. She's not dying yet. 

She can do an orphanage. And she can look after any wannabe Batmans. 

She promised, didn't she?

She touches the screen, the background a picture of all of them. Together. Messy, chaotic, but her family. "I'll see you soon," she whispers, a vow, a promise. "But not too soon."

She is the ever, all-seeing Oracle. 

She'll fade. Like Batman, and Robin, and Spoiler and Red Hood and Red Robin and Nightwing. Maybe one day, there will be someone for her to see - to look after the same way Bruce did for an orphan who watched his parents die, or a street kid who stoles his tires, a millionaire's neglected son. Maybe one day, Oracle will come back, with Batman and Robin - because Batman always needs a Robin, like how Robin always needs a Batman.

But for now? 

She'll work on an orphanage and a few animal shelters.

***

‘Damian Wayne, the last of the Waynes, an old family in Gotham, died in a car accident at thirty years old. Before he died, he made several large donations to charities around the world, and updated his will just before death. Barbara Gordon, a family friend, spoke for him at his funeral, and only she and her father were present for the cremation per his request. As the owner of several estates and now a millionaire, Barbara has converted most of Wayne Manor into an animal shelter and orphanage and spent much continuing to upgrade Arkham’s and Blackgate’s security, as well as continuing to support the Justice League. Gotham’s criminal rate, which had slowly been decreasing since twenty years ago, notably when Bruce Wayne died, is now the same as any other city.

‘She is in her mid-fifties now, and states, “It was Damian’s last wish. I hope he’s happy, wherever he is. Not too happy, though. Not until I get there.” The only section of Wayne Manor that is not open to the public is where the Wayne family is buried in the back garden, and some of the rooms in the north wing. Anyone is welcome to come and adopt a pet.’

- The Daily Planet, The Wayne Family Tragedy, Lois Lane and Clark Kent

'That's the thing about friends, isn't it? The more you love them, the more it hurts when they go.' - King Andrias

Chapter Text

Dear Tim, my brother:

I hope you never read this. 

***

Dear Stephanie, 

Words don't come easily. They never have. 

***

Grandfather,

I hope I had a chance to call you that before you died. 

***

Hi, Barbara.

It's been a while, hasn't it?

***

For Jason:

First off, if I have not given it to you yet, there is a book beneath my bed. 

***

Damian. 

My littlest brother. 

I hope you're okay.

***

The letters are passed out in silence, and they are read the same way. They are sealed with black wax, a bat-shape pressed into the middle, and their names written in cursive on the front. Tim looks at the letter in his hands as if it is a dagger. Stephanie rips hers open with shaky hands. Alfred carefully peels back the wax on his. 

Damian uses a knife to cleanly slice underneath the wax, flicking it open. 

They retreat into the shadows to different parts of the house. 

This is for them. Individually. 

***

It's selfish. I have always been selfish when it came to our family. You feel the same way. We may all come from different places, but one thing we all have in common is that we are (over)protective of people in our family. I hope that holds true.

It's been true. Since we joined. Every one of us. Every time I see you limp, I just want to bundle you into a hug. I don't think that I have ever felt a greater need for vengeance than when I see what that clown did to you. It's a reminder. Of what he did to Jason, to all of us. I think it's fitting that Jason was the one to enact revenge. I still think he deserves worse.

I still think you deserve better. 

***

You know this. You know my struggles. You helped me. For that, I will eternally love you. 

I know you're hurting. And I know you can't find your words yet, either. I don't know if you picked it up from me, but I know how it feels. To not be able to express yourself in a way that others understand. 

You, me, Duke. We've all lost our words at some point. Whether it's magic or technology or grief. We've been there. For each other. 

You helped me do that, Steph. You gave me my words.

I'm sorry I'm not there to give you yours back.

***

There isn't really much else to say. I love you. We all do. You'll probably outlive all of us, Alfred. You're our Agent. Our rock. Sturdy. Invincible. Or, at least, the image of it. 

I hope that you remember you can relax sometimes, too. You don't have to be the parent that you were for Bruce. 

You raised someone who turned out good, human. He taught us the same thing. No matter how hard it was for the message to get across. We can survive on our own for a day, too. 

It might not seem that way. But we can. Bruce raised us like you raised him.

Strong.

***

I think that Batgirl should die with me.

Maybe it's already died. You, me, Steph. I took the shadows, you took the screens, and Steph changed the name. Batgirl is a myth, like Robin. Maybe it's dying. Robins are more popular, now. 

But I think that Batgirl should be for us. For Gotham, yes. But for us. Oracle, Black Bat, Spoiler. Our mantle.

I'm not making much sense, am I?

***

It's something Bruce showed to me, before he died. Something that I've kept. It hurt all of you to look at it, but I couldn't risk them being thrown out.

I don't think you would. But you tend to be brash when you grieve.

I know about lashing out, too.

***

You've always taken grief the hardest. Ever since Dick...

You're good at hiding it. But I'm better. 

You don't have to be so good, Dami. 

***

Tim exhales, breath trembling as his hand ghosts over the elegant script, pain flaring up in his knee. 

Don't deny it, Tim. You deserve so much more. More than what that bastard did to you. More than what Jack and Janet left you with. Or didn't leave you with. You deserve to have a family that stays alive. 

We all do. 

We both know what happens when we want things. 

Tim, you deserve so much more. A goodbye that doesn't involve letters. I hope we get one. I hope that life gives us that.

But after Duke - 

I need this. 

If I didn't get a goodbye, you deserve one. In pen or in voice. 

You don't know how much this family loves you, Tim. So much. So, so, much. You don't know how much they worry about you when you do reckless things on still-healing leg, or how they fret when you pushed yourself into casework because you were benched because of your knee. You don't know how much they love you. 

You don't have to be useful, Tim. You can just be you. 

You don't have to earn love anymore.

***

Do you remember the night after Duke died? We laid in the bed, again. I couldn't speak at all. I was so mad, Steph. So, so, mad, in a way only this family can make me. 

Steph remembers that night. She remembers closing her eyes and wishing it were a dream. She remembers shuffling closer to her siblings and drawing them close. She remembers sunny skies that she yelled at.

You gave me my words back when I couldn't. You gave me everything. 

I'm sorry I can't give you anything.

You'd probably be scolding me for apologising too much. But I cannot help it. You should have your words. It pains me to think that you lost them because of me. 

But not as much as it should hurt. Because you will get your words back. 

You will, Steph. 

You are every bit the girl I first met. Brilliant, cheeky, determined. Batgirl. 

The girl I know you are doesn't give up. And you are that girl, because I have seen you through grief and pain, and you have never wavered. 

You are Stephanie Brown-Wayne, and you do not give up. 

***

Alfred's fingers trace the grooves of the bat in the wax, firm and cold.

You are our glue. But you're human. 

I don't think even you can get used to this. The dying. I hope you aren't.

You've lived through Bruce, Bruce's parents, and now four of his children. You have weathered all this, and you have held strong. I hope you aren't thinking of breaking anytime soon. 

That means that you need to crack. 

You are cracking. I see it, grandfather. 

(Alfred chokes when he sees the word.)

You are cracking, and you will shatter if you do not break first. If you break, you can build yourself up. If you shatter, you'll be lost. 

Don't leave us like that. 

Don't let us shatter.

***

Robin was Dick's, first. It was passed down from Robin to Robin to Robin until Robin and Batman came hand in hand. Until Gotham became them and they became Gotham. 

Batgirl doesn't have that. Batgirl is not Gotham's protector. Batgirl is us. We are Batgirl. 

We didn't have a Batman, like Robin. 

I don't care if Batgirl isn't well-known, or if Gotham doesn't know us. 

Just the people that know Batgirl know that we did it ourselves. 

You're strong, Babs. Independent. You got involved with no reason. Before you, before Bruce, I never understood getting involved because it was the right thing to do. I was born, made, into this. 

I admire you. Everything about you. How you don't give up. 

You may not be standing, but you got back up. 

Barbara laughs hoarsely. 

***

It's a picture album. Collected from Bruce's childhood. Alfred knows about it. We've been adding to it. 

Not just Bruce. Dick, you, Tim, all of us. Birthdays, random photos. 

I know that you usually like words in your books, but I think it'll be a nice change of pace. 

Jason stares at the white cover of the book, yellowed pages peeking out.

I know it hurts you. Looking at memories from your time as Robin. But you need it. 

You hurt so much, Jason. It hurts me. It hurts me so much just watching you. 

You're barely holding yourself together. 

You need to remember who you're doing this for. 

Our family. Gotham. 

So that a Robin never gets his wings clipped again.

***

You're with us. With family. We might be bad at showing it, but we love you. For whoever you choose to be, Damian. If you choose to kill, or if you take your grandfather's position.

I don't think you understand that fully. 

You're not a soldier, anymore. You're not an heir. You're our brother, and a grandson, and Robin. 

Do you know that?

Damian twirls the knife in his hand, almost absentmindedly, the facade cracked by the fingers slowing, before he puts the blade down. 

Do you know who you are?

***

I give you my love freely. We all do. 

Don't forget that. You can ask for help. 

Your intelligence is the reason you came in. You are the reason you stayed. You are the reason you are a Wayne. You were always a Wayne. You just had to realise it. 

I love you, Tim. Don't beat yourself up over my death. Over any of our deaths. We were destined to die early. 

With all the love in the world that I can and cannot give you,

Cass Cain-Wayne, your sister.

03/04/2018

***

You don't have to use your words right now. God knows I didn't right after.

But promise me that you'll try. For all of us. 

Words don't come easy for us Waynes. 

Don't let that scare you. You haven't let anything else, why start now?

I love you, Steph.

With all my words and my voice, 

Your sister, 

Cass.

04/04/2018

***

When I see them, I'll tell them how much you love them. 

I hope you take my advice to heart, as I have taken yours. 

Thank you, grandfather, for all these years. Live many more. 

Thank you for helping to make me into the person I was when I died. 

My thanks and love,

Cassandra Cain-Wayne.

05/04/2018

***

Thank you for giving me Batgirl. Thank you for being my Batgirl - my mentor. Thank you for giving me a chance to be myself.

It has been an honour, Oracle.

Your friend, former Batgirl, former Orphan, former Black Bat, 

Cass.

06/04/2018

***

Our memories are the most important part of us. More than our words, our skills. 

You are our memories. Our memories of a Gotham that was old, and that didn't have a Red Hood. We have no other memories. 

Jason, you are us. Alfred is our glue, Stephanie is our backbone, Barbara is our safety, Tim is our protector, Damian is learning, but he'll grow up to be our love. You? You embody all of us.

Keep Gotham safe. Keep our family alive.

That means keeping yourself healthy, and safe, and sane. Take a break. If Alfred doesn't make you, or the rest of our siblings don't, then I will. I don't care if death lies in between us. 

With my worries and my care, 

Cass.

07/04/2018

***

I'm sorry for giving you another reason to grieve. I'm not sorry for whatever reason I'm dead. 

I'm proud of you, Damian. For how far you've come. You've learnt to love, to accept family, to trust.

Don't forget those lessons. Don't forget any of us. 

With my pride, and my regret that our time is up,

Your sister, 

Cassandra Cain-Wayne.

08/04/2018

***

Tear stains mark each and every one of their papers. 

In her room, below her bed and tucked safely in the bed frame below the mattress, is a small envelope, sealed with the same wax and written in the same writing, unnoticed by anyone. It sits there, collecting dust, ten words never to be read.

***

My brothers. My father. 

I hope I’ll be seeing you. 

Cassandra.

09/04/2018