When any one of Bruce's kids were asked what they think about Cass’ partner, the answer was “the nicest and kindest person, and Cass is lucky to have them. They are the type to help old ladies cross the street and feed stray cats on the way from work”.

If they were to ask Hunter Smith, a reporter for the Gotham Gazette, he would answer “an unhinged psychopath”.

The scene was set. You and Cass were leaving a caffe, while you held your cat, Crow, in one arm, the other one intertwined with Cass. You were both dressed for the weather, and the black cat had a little yellow sweater, matching with the yellow collar. It was late enough in the evening for you to be yawning, but the sun hasn’t set yet.

A few steps from the caffe, you hear a small child scream “kitty!” in delight, and you turn around, showing the black puffball to him. The child, excited, tugs on his mother's hand and wants to pet it. 

You’re delighted as you crouch slightly - after letting go of Cass - to instruct the little boy how to properly pet Crow. She meows (to everyone’s delight) as the boy gently lays a tentative hand on her back and feels the soft fur.

In that moment, Hunter rounds the corner, on his way from work.

Cassandra Cain-Wayne is… usually unapproachable. Rarely leaving the Wayne Manor (as far as the magazines know), and private to boot, fiercely protected by her adoptive father. She spoke rarely, even in group interviews, and solo ones were few and far in between. 

The last one was a year ago, done after a Wayne Industries showcase. She barely spoke more than three words for every question, and the interview lasted for less than 2 minutes.

Hunter's eyes lit up. His thoughts were going a mile a minute, but all pointing to “a Wayne with public training would never make a scene if he cornered them to talk”.

—

“Gotham Gazette reporter under-fire after altercation with partner of Cassandra Cain-Wayne” Damian reads outloud, looking at the screenshot of a video printed into the newspaper, filmed right as you started reprimanding the man.

He is the only person at the table that actually reads the morning newspaper, and the sole reason the paper delivery guy has to trek outside the borders of Gotham (and gets a handsome monthly tip for it). Even Alfred has switched over to a laptop, after much deliberation.

All of this gives Damian a profoundly serious yet unserious vibe, as he folds the newspaper with his fingers enough to be able to look at you over the rim of the paper.

You’re sitting at the massive table right next to Cass, munching on your morning cereal, pointedly not looking at him.

After the encounter two days ago, you opted to stay with your girlfriend, mostly waiting for the media attention to die down. Your coworkers did text you, a little worried, after you requested time off for a week, but you reassured them everything is alright.

Despite the outburst being mostly in Cass’ defense, things with her have been a little tense - at least from your point of view. She observes you more, looking with those slightly unnerving big brown eyes, all over your body, every move.

The relationship is only four months old, albeit after a long while of friendship, so the two of you are still learning some things about each other, even if the dust has settled on the honeymoon phase.

And Cass has learned, that apparently, you take no shit when it comes to her, and will not allow her to take shit either.

Damian straightens the newspaper and goes back to eating his eggs, leaving you to stew in silence. Your eyes flick over to your girlfriend’s hands as she eats, and then go back to your bowl as you finish your cereal, put the utensils in the sink, and nearly bolt back to Cass’ room.

It feels like you are wracking your brain, wondering if she will break up with you, the opening of the door snaps you out. You expect Cass to come in and change out of her pyjamas into training gear, or to sit next to you in silence.

You don’t expect her to speak.

“Thank you. I love you.”

You let out a short, aborted noise of surprise. 

During your entire relationship, Cass rarely spoke, but did more as you were together longer. When she speaks in private, it’s not empty words with no tone, like in interviews. She puts thoughts, meaning and her heart into a single sentence, and you love hearing her voice every time.

“Didn’t know how to say it. Thank you,” she says again, coming closer. 

You stretch a hand out in her direction and beckon her closer.

She does, and sits next to you. You let your head fall on her shoulder, just to exist in her bubble.

“I love you too, Cassandra.”

@katzline @pixiedustaddictsblog @kiicchii @himelita @yumnumz @yuurisfavblog @literallyrousseau @adorablepandasuniverse @nyx-of-night @twentytomidnight

You can’t be blamed for staring. Not really.

Well, maybe a little. It could certainly be construed as creepy if the object of your terribly obvious appreciation ever actually looked your way. As it stood though, Cassandra, or “Cass” (as you had heard the blonde, Stephanie, call her), had never so much as glanced in your direction. It was a fact that did absolutely nothing to deter the relentless teasing of your friend Nicky the second the two of you were out the door of the gym each week.

Being pulled to work out with her originally hadn’t been thee highest ranked activity on your list of “fun things to do with friends,” but you had been swayed regardless because it was at least time spent catching up. It wasn’t the worse place either; the space was clean, close enough to affluent neighborhoods you didn’t have to watch over your shoulder as much, but far enough a membership never broke the bank, they had drinks at the front that were always cold, and a small group of regulars that left you to your own devices. A win was a win was a win; so was the post-workout treat you made Nicky pay for each time. And now the silly little crush you had that had grown just tacked itself on to the list of things making it a worthwhile trip.

“Could you be any more obvious about it?” Nicky asked from the treadmill beside you. She wasn’t even sweating today, not that it mattered, the one day you came with her had turned into her easy day for the two of you to walk and talk.

“I am not being obvious.” you say, face crinkled up in annoyance at her pointed comment.

“And the sky isn’t blue.” she deadpans, looking back to the treadmill dash and upping the speed. “You could, you know, try talking to her.”

“I’m not going to go bother someone mid-workout. Especially not someone who seems to take it as seriously as they do.” To a point that was true, the duo seemed to either focus intently on their own training or get swept up in whatever little competition they egged the other on in at any machine they were using.

“Coward.” was the only quip you got, but the smug look on your friend’s face screamed she had plenty more locked-and-loaded.

Refusing to add the kindling she seemed to want so desperately, you settled on sticking your tongue out at her; an act truly reflective of a mature adult. Satisfied she had seen it, and the consequent lack of a retort, you turn back to focus on your own workout before you risked tripping in front of every other gym-goer present. From the corner of your eye, you caught sight of that same head of short black hair that had your attention locked back in, this time at the pale blue mats that were overdue to be replaced. They were both doing handstands near the back wall, though it seemed Stephanie was trying to nudge Cassandra over with one leg, risking her own forms stability in the process. It did nothing to tip her and Cass seemed more than amused about the increasingly desperate attempts. The sight alone made you snort and turn away before you could be caught by them.

And then there was the feeling of eyes on you, a familiar burning that settled on you until the hair on your arms stood on end. It was something you pointedly ignored in hopes you could save face if someone else had finally taken notice of what continued to distract you. Despite the lingering feeling of being watched, the last half hour of your walk finished without incident – and without you going to tumble over your words in a bid to speak to your gym crush despite the persistence of your wonderfully aggravating friend – and both you and Nicky were out the door and down the street to the café to complete your weekly ritual without fuss.

The next week began the same: picked up at the same time, arriving to the gym at the same time, the same exercises to warm up. That same insistent little habit you had formed before you had realized; your eyes zeroed in on Cassandra without your permission before you even realized what was going on, but the distraction cost you this time. Nudged slightly out of it’s normal position, your leg collided with the metal edge of the row machine, echoing a brash noise you ignored over the sudden pain that had you sucking in a breath before you could create a new curse word.

Nicky choked down a laugh next to you, patiently waiting for you to recover in silence the moment she knew you were okay. A few others stopped, an assortment of blurry colors and unfamiliar faces, glancing over if at all before returning to their own sets.

You turned, eyes narrowed like you dared her to laugh again when you finally felt you could move; you would throw her into Gotham Harbor if you heard even a wheeze. Message received, she held her hands up in surrender and took one step out of range in case you decided to lunge for her anyways.

“That-“ she started.

You cut her off before she could say anything else, hand in the air and pointing center mass at her. “No. Not a word about it.” you warned, already headed towards the open treadmills and tossing your jacket on one of the chairs lined against the wall where you could still see it. “Not one.”

She seemed to stare past you for a moment and shrugged before taking her normal spot next to you. “They have to have access to a private gym, right?”

You took the change of topic in stride, mulling the question over and knowing already who she was referring to. “Probably? Or they could afford it.” It had taken too many weeks before you had put together that they were a part of the Wayne family; in your defense, most of the wards seemed skilled enough in avoiding the press determined to hunt them down.

“And they still come here.” Not much of a question, Nicky seemed to barely register she had said it as is, already cranking up the incline and speed on her treadmill.

“I mean, I’m sure it’s nice to get out of the house sometimes, even if you live in a giant one.” you say, almost missing her reaching over to attempt messing with the settings on your own device. You swat her hand away with a warning and a scowl, falling into your usual conversation that lulls only when she catches you looking for a woman you’re too scared to talk to or at the sound of the door opening.

It's getting cooler outside, but the temperature in the gym is always set too high. Everyone suspects it’s because the owner, who sits at the front desk working, is right under the air vent and is convinced everyone else must be freezing like he is. You’re all waiting for the day someone drops from heat exhaustion, but it won’t be today when his wife walks in the door and lectures him. He sulks over to the covered thermostat and you’re so busy watching you almost miss the feeling of eyes on you again, turning on instinct to look for who it is.

Four months of quick stolen glances have maybe given you too much confidence in the idea of never being caught, because when you look over next you freeze enough to misstep the second you catch her eyes. Head snapping around like you’ve locked eyes with a wild animal, you can almost swear you hear yourself get whiplash as you look over to Nicky for help.

She is helpful to the sum total of zero. All she can do is open her mouth and try not to laugh until she finds words suitable enough for the situation. “Because that was exactly how normal people react to their crush looking at them.”

“I’m sorry that other people didn’t just make eye contact with the most attractive person on the face of this Earth, but I did and now I don’t know what to do.” you hiss, head lowered and practically begging her to save you from the situation you know logically shouldn’t have the skin all the way up to the tips of your ears burning.

“I’d say act normal but we’re really past that I think.” Nicky says, taking a sip of her water and turning her head like it could hide that offending smile you see.

Your phone buzzes on the stand, the silenced alarm ringing up at you and informing you both it is time to leave. “Thank you, Gotham.” you say, already stepping off the treadmill before it comes to a full stop. The sooner you wipe everything down the sooner you can get out, get your coffee, and then lament your reaction over fleeting interactions with pretty girls for the next 72 hours of your life.

And then Nicky is behind you, shit-eating grin so wide on her face you swear you astronauts must see it from space. “So,” she shrugs, rocking on her heels, “bad time to tell you they’re walking over here?”

“What?” You pause, wipes in hand before risking a look at her.

“Getting closer.” she says, plucking the cleaning supplies from your hand and practically spinning you back around to the treadmills. Her grip on you only means there is no chance you can make a break for it, not that it would save your dignity if you took off like a bat out of hell now.

Stephanie makes it to you first, but Cass is barely even a step behind her when she speaks. “Are you okay? You were limping on the treadmill a bit.”

It actually catches you off guard, and Nicky as well. Too engrossed in your conversation earlier, neither of you had noticed, but now that the spotlight is on it you can feel the throbbing running up and down your leg. You’ll be sporting a nasty bruise for some time, you’re sure of it before you ever even pull your pants leg up to take a look. “I busted it coming in, that’s all, but thank you.” you assure, slowly trying to scoot backwards behind Nicky.

Taking the cue, they both seem to back off, but not before sharing a look with each other that you can’t place. “Well, we just wanted to make sure, but we’ll see you guys around.” Steph says, Cass nodding once in your direction as she silently agreed. You flush, stopping yourself from ducking like a coward – Nicky would never let it go if you did – and thanked them again.

Lips pursed and gears visibly turning in her head, there was no stopping her the second their backs were turned. “They’re single, by the way.” Loud enough to be heard by everyone around, it catches their attention and has both Cass and Steph turning around to see what the pink-haired menace at your side is starting on about.

“Nicky!” you squawk, quieting yourself and taking a quick scan around before you start pulling her out the door.

She plants her feet for a moment, voice raising to get her words across. “Just, you know, if anyone in particular is interested in that very important information. They’re very single. They’re also very free Tuesday night!” She can’t get anything else out (you worry what comes next would be her calling Cassandra out by name) before you’re in front of her, squaring your shoulders and throwing your weight into the front of her body to force her out the door entirely.  She relents with a huff, without a choice, and you both barely manage not to go crashing to the ground as the door swings shut behind you with that same annoying squeak that demands a healthy layer of WD-40 it never gets. “Someone had to do it.”

“You owe me so much,” you start. “You owe me your first born, and all of your food for a month, and –“ you’re cut off by a tapping on your left shoulder that has you freezing in place. When you dare to turn around Cass is right behind you, quiet as a church mouse and holding the jacket you had abandoned in a desperate attempt to get Nicky as far away from them as you could. Whatever perfume she had been wearing, or whatever she had picked up is sweet and suddenly you find your tongue feels too heavy in your mouth, too dry to form any sounds that might actually pass as human.

“Forgot this.” she says, offering it to you. And oh. It’s the first time you’ve actually heard her speak, usually too far away to catch anything she says.

You would really like to hear her voice again.

Nicky jams her finger into the base of your spine, overly saccharine smile on her face, and that’s all it takes to snap you back into reality and take the clothing item back. “Thank you, you didn’t have to.”

Cass cocks her head to the side, like she’s studying you and for a moment you feel that same heat you swear you had felt over the last few months, watching you maybe just as much. Whatever she finds after a moment she seems satisfied with and you can feel yourself exhale the breath that had stuck itself halfway in your throat. “Wanted to return it.” There’s a little smile on her face you almost miss, like she might know something you don’t.

Feeling left out of the loop has never been so confusing – you’d love to know what you’re missing, but you don’t mind it as much if you’re at least part of the reason she’s smiling.

Scuffing your shoes against the sidewalk to tamper down your nerves, you nod, trying to find your voice once again now that it seems to have gotten lost for a second time. You find it the second you hear Nicky snort behind you and it takes restraint you’re unfamiliar with not to elbow her in the ribs. “Well, thank you again.” you say, unsure what else to do as you slip your jacket on. There’s a piece of paper brushing against your fingers in the right pocket that you don’t remember having before, and you glance down as you pull it out, almost missing what Cass says next: “See you Tuesday.”

You catch the smile, the wave; you give one of your own because it’s hard not to when she’s directing them right at you. And then a heartbeat before the door closes behind her the synapses in your brain fire off and you realize what she’s said and what you’re holding. “Wait.” It’s her name on the scrap paper, number scrawled underneath. There’s a tiny note at the very bottom telling you to ice your leg punctuated by a smiley face.

This, currently, is the most important thing in your possession and standing still on the sidewalk you decide that not even the Joker is prying it from your cold dead hands. (You’ll put it in your phone before you even sit down at the café table.)

“She’s been checking you out for months by the way.” comes that all too familiar voice.

It is rare that Cassandra feels the need to train when you are on the Manor grounds.

She gives you her undivided attention. Sits with you and watches movies and listens to you read out loud to her. There are very few times where she isn’t touching you in some way or looking right at you.

And yet, as she holds your hand while the machine beeps away, she craves the methodical push and pull of muscle during training, combat simulations and patrol.

She isn’t going on patrol. Bruce gave her a “free week” (translation: she got benched) after a date she had with you ended disastrously.

The disaster came at no fault of hers or yours. Wrong place, wrong time.

A wannabe gang leader got his hands on a single batch of Scarecrow’s fear toxin. Enough to make a few syringes and play himself up as a threat, take a coffee shop hostage with the help of some hired muscle.

A coffee shop that you and Cass have chosen as a date location, for its immaculate hot chocolate and cute, heart-shaped deserts. You’ve been there so many times the owner knows you by name and gives you a corner booth, where Cass can hide from paparazzi but still sees every exit.

A coffee shop that you sat at when, through the window panes to the outside, you saw a big van stop in front of the shop. A white, bulky vehicle, the kind in the “kidnapper van” jokes.

The door of the van slid open. 

Cassandra, with the perfect view of all the exits, had no way of using that knowledge as ten men with assault rifles came out in rapid succession, followed by a man with a bandana over his face. All she could do in the short time before they were told to hand over their phones was to quickly press the panic function Bruce built into the frame.

It would be comedic how quintessentially Gotham the whole thing felt, if you weren’t fighting for your life only ten minutes later.

Because it was the middle of the day and Batman only patrols out at night.

Cass internally ran the calculation on how fast Bruce could get to the shop. If it even was him, and not anybody who was available.

God, she wanted it to be Bruce. The way a scared kid wants her dad to pick her up when the situation feels profoundly wrong. She isn’t weak by any standards, a deadly assassin trained from birth, but momentary fear gripped her from head to toe as she realized the danger extended to you.

Her perfect weak spot.

She cannot take all of them without a suit, even if she knows every move they can make before they make it.

The decision to wait cost her dearly, but she knows if she tried taking them on her own, she would be dead and the result would still be the same.

Yet she cannot get the sound of your screams out of her head.

The gang leader needed to demonstrate that the syringes were the real deal. And who doesn’t he choose but the boyfriend of the most valuable hostage he accidentally stumbled upon?

Cassandra Cain, adopted daughter of Bruce Wayne.

The rest of it is a blur. You thrash around and flail in the hold of a grunt. The wannabe gang leader speaks over your manic shouts, a villain-like monologue about how the people in the shop are all dead unless someone pays a ransom, not knowing the man is already fucked.

After two minutes of a seizure-like state, the man grows tired of you shouting over his speech about his dreams of taking over a part of Gotham and killing the Batman, and has one of his henchmen knock you out with a butt of their gun.

From the moment you hit the floor, Cass doesn’t remember anything until you are in a medically induced coma at the manor.

You look uncharacteristically still against the pillows. So still, so quiet, yet not peaceful. There is nothing peaceful about the scabbed-over claw marks on your forearms, a souvenir of the time you awoke from consciousness before being put into a coma forcefully, only to try to pierce your own skin with your nails.

You are so, so still.

She cannot sense you, predict you, in her own special way. Normally, she would take comfort in the love radiating off you. The way she would know about you putting a hand over her cheek to stroke it before you even do it. The way you can never surprise her with a kiss, but she enjoys it nonetheless. 

It scares her shitless.

She refuses to leave your side. The heart monitor beeps and shows a steady blood pressure, as it has been for the past few days. At the beginning, it had irritated her. Now, the sound becomes her friend, as it reminds her you are healing well.

The toxin worked through your system in the first thirty-six hours. During those days, Cass barely slept.

At least the chair she has next to your bed is comfortable (after Damian forced Cass to swap the plain chair that was in the room before for one she can sleep in).

She hasn’t trained in over a week. She itches to punch something.

The idiot who took over the coffee shop is in jail now, she can’t settle a score with him. And besides, while finding and getting to him would be easy, it would also mean leaving your bedside.

She looks at you and can’t sense you. You are so still.

Just a steady rising and falling of your chest. Your eyes don’t move rapidly under your eyelids like during the reign of the fear toxin over your body. Your hands don’t twitch, you don’t smile, you just lay there.

Cassandra feels pathetic.

She, more than anyone, knows she could not have taken on everybody during the hostage situation. Even if she moved as fast as humanly possible, one of them would have gotten a lucky shot.

She knows you would not have forgiven her for that. For getting hurt for you.

Cass stares into nothingness while holding your hand. Before dating you, never in her life has she had absent-minded little movements. No picking her nails, twirling her hair around her finger, nothing.

You’ve changed that. She strokes the back of your palm, thumb going back and forth, sometimes squeezing your hand three times rapidly with her fingers.

The little wordless way to say “I love you”.

Doctor Thompson has already pushed the chemical that should bring out of the coma into your IV. According to her, it could take up to seventy-two hours. 

She has been awake for more than forty. She knows she is stretching herself thin, but every time she tries to doze off in the chair, her brain flashes her images of the heart monitor flatlining, even if the steady beeping lulls her into a sense of security.

The chair is comfortable, only the best in the Wayne manor. But no matter how soft the cushion is or how good the lumbar support may be, she is holding your unmoving hand and kicking herself for not finding a way out of the impossible situation.

Nobody from the family, sans Alfred and Bruce, has tried to bother her. They know she is laser focused on watching you like a hawk, looking for any twitch or stutter of breath.

Her father only comes to update her on the expedited court case about the wannabe gang leader, and Alfred brings food for her.

After doctor Thompkins told them you could wake up from the coma any minute, the little pastries and food the latter brings always seem to have extra.

She squeezes your hand three times.

Weakly, you squeeze back.

It’s like she is electrocuted. A shot goes off in her brain, her eyes snap to your face.

Your eyes are half-lidded, but open. You look so tired, so frail, and yet you’re alive, awake, and looking at her like she is your entire heart. She doesn’t remember anyone else in her life ever looking at her like that.

Like she hung the moon and stars, like she is the day and the night, like she is both the princess and the dragon in a fairy tale.

Like she’s everything.

She just stares, still holding your hand. The rhythmic movement against your skin has stopped, but she dares not let go. She fears this is a dream.

She wishes she could say your name. Tell those three little words. Call for Alfred, Bruce, or just… say anything.

Words to describe what she feels come hard.

Instead, she squeezes your hand three times again, as her eyes fill with tears.

You, still weakly, squeezed her fingers back.

---

Taglist:

in the beginning of a girl's life, there is little to love and everything to despise.

From the way the toys are created with boys in mind and the only cool things are given to the boys, you had learned to despise what was given to you with a title of 'girl'. You always had to be the damsel in distress, you always had to be the one being saved, and you could never hold a sword and cheer about how you had saved the princess from the tower and loved her to the moon and back. The misogyny you develop as a result of whatever the hell it was that the system taught you is ingrained into your blood, and you despise your girlhood. You hate being a girl because pink is girlish and it isn't strong enough. You hate being a girl because you aren't strong.

then comes trying to stick out— Then comes trying to be different from everyone else, Then comes trying to be one in a million.

Then comes sticking around girls who are tomboyish like you, then comes sticking around people like you, realizing in a cruel dawning that boys would never like you no matter how girlish you came to be, and realizing that boys would only ever see girls as something to play. It didn't matter if you weren't like the rest of them; they would think of you as the same as the rest anyway, so you find solace in the girls like you. You stick with girls like you, girls who are quiet, orphans. You blink at the black-haired girl owlishly on the street, the street light illuminating her, and you open your mouth, but she understands nothing. She doesn't even blink.

You try and motion with your hands.

She understands then, fishing something out of her pocket, and you exhale in relief.

You bow as a sign of thanks as she disappears into the darkness.

The pad in your hand crinkles slightly as you rush to the nearest tent to change.

girlhood is a rollercoaster of things under the rain of society you receive as a result of your biology.

You dig through the back of a Nordstrom rack to find thrown-out clothes you can try and wear, staying vigilant to stay away from cops and not get yelled at by the employees, tossing what you could wear into a bag, tossing what you couldn't into another, some instinctive and part of you desperate to take care of the other young ones on the street who were worst off than you, even if it didn't matter whether or not they survived the winter. You finish in the trash, the smell normalized in your system, the rats no longer bothering you.

You meet her again tonight, her tilting her head at you, you blinking owlishly at her again, and this time, she motions the same with your hand, and you rummage through your pocket, handing a similar wrapper to her, smiling. You settle her hair and draw in the gravel with your broken shoe the way to the bathroom, and she nods at you as a thank you. You watch as she disappears, her black hair fluttering behind her, and you haul the trash bags over your shoulder, looking for the street children.

The bags drag through the gravel as the first snow in Gotham starts, and you change into new clothes and shoes as the children do too, and you smile at them sadly, heart whispering, souring in your chest, and you wonder if you could have a family. Maybe you would have been happy had you been in a family that loved you and did not care to have a son, but it wouldn't have been the same. You wouldn't have been loved even if you did end up in a family that loved you, because that was not a life for you to live.

You tilt your head at the girl who blinks back at you, a candy bar in her hand, handing it to you.

You wonder if she stole it.

Well, not that it matters. You pat the spot next to you as the two of you sit down by the docks, and you snap the bar in half, handing part of it to her as you stare down at the Gotham waters— waters with so many chemicals that you would probably die if you had a sip (not that it stopped you. Clean water was still a privilege to have.)

She tilts her head at you, pulling on her lips, imitating a smile.

You smile back.

girlhood is forcing yourself not to throw up over despising what you are to others.

The mirror in the convenience store is bloody from Batgirl's fight with a random man who tried raping you in the stall. The man is unconscious in the stall, and you heave, eyes wide, heart ringing in your ears as you try and return to the real world. You feel a hand on your back, a hand too gentle to be a man's, and the hand doesn't move, almost as if there to ground you. You don't have the courage to move, the fear rendering every part of your body unable to, and your final break into reality comes in the form of hot, scathing tears that fall in fat blobs onto the dirty tile, and the cry that rips past your lips ricochets off the walls, the agony causing the ground to shake. You sob into the girl's shoulder as she holds you, slightly worried, unsure if she was doing the right thing. She thinks it's correct since you haven't made a move to shove her off.

You cling onto the black of her clothes, your whole body quivering from the attempt, grounding yourself in the cling of Batgirl herself. She wishes she could speak to you, maybe. She wonders if it would be better if she could speak to you, but she supposes that all you need right now is a shoulder to cry on. The man she's just beaten is going to be dead in the next three minutes if she doesn't call for help, but she finds herself frozen while embracing you.

It's scary. She admits that— and if the man who caused you fear to this degree is going to die because of her, then so be it. You matter more.

You pull away eventually, apologizing for keeping her, voice hoarse. You don't say anything after the first word, everything tumbling past your eyes as you stare at her.

She nods her head, finally calling for backup as she walks you back to your camp, and you wonder.

You type on the broken phone you fished out of the back of a Best Buy, showing her the screen.

you like girls?

Batgirl disappears before you get a response.

You weren't even able to tell her answer based off her body language or eyes because she was covered head to toe.

girlhood is picking up pieces of yourself after a bad day, tucking yourself back into what you have, learning to slowly cherish yourself again.

You stare at the mirror in your apartment this time. The pieces of your life fall back into your hands slowly, the scars from getting into fights on the streets slowly learning to heal. Old wounds start to mend themselves. The scars from when the boys at school would throw themselves at you, the wounds from when you had fought to free yourself from the police when caught stealing, the wounds from everything.

You blink at Batgirl at night on days that she visits, your window unlocked, her wrapped in your bedding, and you don't offer much other than that.

You aren't seeing each other.

You two are... friends? Best friends? Girls?

You don't know. The concept of relationships is far too complicated for your well-being, and they're too much for you to care about. All you care about is how her hand feels rough in yours as you paint her nails black, her gloves pulled off. You wonder if it's a sign of trust between the two of you. You'll never get to see her face-to-face, maybe, but it didn't matter. She looked just as confused as you when the two of you first got the bag of makeup, the two of you huddled on your couch as you watched people teach you how to do makeup on the internet.

Batgirl can't do her makeup, but you can, and you let her do yours as she watches the video.

She tilts your face with her calloused hands, hands stained with so much blood that it could fill a bath, hands rough from everything she's handled up until that point in time, and you giggle, a smile on your lips as the brush dances across your face. The blush is spread, and you stare at yourself in the mirror, laughter spilling past your lips as half of your face is pink with the powder, but there is no malice behind your laugh.

You find your girlhood with Batgirl slowly, lips pulled into a smile, teeth fully out for her to tilt her head at.

She finds her girlhood where she's allowed to cry and smile and scream in you, and you find your girlhood where you have friends that aren't boys and talk about what you love until your ears fall off.

You find parts that you lost in each other, hands laced together under the moon on the roof, the stars visible in the sky, laughter spilling from both your lips, something lost found again.

because once the storm is over, girlhood causes the clouds to clear and one to fall in love with herself again.

You spin slowly in your room, a pair of broken pointe shoes dug out of the dumpster behind a ballet studio, and Batgirl claps enthusiastically as you bow at her afterward. The shoes were scrubbed clean after much hard work from the two of you, and the shoes were fixed with a little google on your new phone.

You find a part of yourself that you lost while dancing for Batgirl, your steps too masculine, your stride too proud, but you're happy. There's something that blooms and spreads through your skin as you spin and spin and spin, your head spinning for you to calm down yet you don't, a laugh on your lips as you continue spinning until Batgirl catches you in her arms, a smile surely on her face from the way her mask was pulled. She stills, you still in her arms, and you smile foolishly.

She tries the shoes on eventually, and your eyes sparkle as you look at her, her spins are much more graceful and elegant than yours, her bows much more dainty than yours, but it makes you all the more in love with her, your cheeks flushing with warmth as you tackle her to the ground with a laugh, smiling down at her with a laugh.

"We should dance together," You click on your phone, showing her as you kick your feet.

She stretches her arms above her head as she takes the phone from you, clicking back.

You rest your head on your pillow as she clicks and taps, and you blink slowly, closing your eyes eventually, a content smile on your face as you think about the two of you. You're happy like this, your heart racing in your chest with her next to you.

You love her, you think.

Batgirl shows you her phone, and you smile cheekily.

Her answer is yes this time.

girlhood may leave, but it will come back. Just as it's ingrained into your skin, you're engrained into its heart as well.

Batgirl goes missing on you for a couple months, maybe even a couple of years— you lose count.

The memory of her stays in your apartment, even when rent goes up slightly and you wonder whether or not to move, you stay there, her black nail polish dried up on your vanity, the makeup long expired and new one sitting in replacement of the old one. You sit in front of your vanity mirror doing your own makeup now, memories of Batgirl's rough hands still on your skin, but a smile on your face as you do, her love still with you.

You sign up for ballet classes eventually, being moved back and forth to play the more masculine characters, sometimes playing the girls, other times playing background characters, but you never once forget the black bat in your room in the dead of the night. You adore her to the moon and back, sure that you'll never find someone as precious as her ever again— and for that moment in time, you're happy you had known her.

Even if she had been nothing more than a cryptic friend of yours, you had found a part of yourself that you denied to own for the longest time because of her, and you loved her with your whole heart, even if it weren't something you could have done with someone else. You found a piece of you back slowly, love for her spilling through the cracks of your girlhood to connect with hers, the two of you only for each other.

But there's something else— You have a ballet to attend.

An anonymous invite to the audition, a generous gift from an anonymous sponsor, and a pair of ballet shoes that you could only dream of having as a child.

Your hair has grown too long for you to play the role of a masculine lead, and your nails are done to look pretty. Your roles are no longer the ones of masculine stride and form, your spins are delicate, and you wonder for a moment while getting ready who the other lead would be. Would you click with them? Even if you don't, it's not a choice.

The ballet ends as you sob with your lover in your arms, the curtains pulled, and your whole body freezes when you remember the feel of your skin on hers.

The girl grins up at you, opening her mouth to speak to you.

"I love you too."

sometimes, girlhood is pressing your lips to the girl you love, smiling against her lips, giggles slipping past your lips as you both gasp for air behind closed curtains—

16 – that was how many days had passed since your girlfriend had been due back. No messages or heads up on a mission extension. Nothing but silence. She always made sure to come by the day after she arrived back in Gotham, or at least got a message to you. 

But this time there was nothing, and the stress was beginning to claw at your skin like a rabid dog. 

You understood, of course, after she had finally told you who she was, that sometimes – most times – if a mission was to go longer than expected, there would be no way for her to tell you. 

It never stopped the worry. 

You had called out of work for the day and the next – too worked up over every possibility that could go wrong. Too scared of what might have happened. And then too scared at the prospect of never finding out at all. 

The day had been spent stress cleaning anything you could get to in the apartment. Furniture rearranged so much so that the resident of the floor below you, an older lady, had come up to ask you to stop. You had only been able to give her a half-hearted apology before closing the door and going back to sweeping the small kitchen. 

The worry must have been written all over your face, because she came back later with a small plate of food wishing you the best. 

Still, after you had cleaned every possible thing that you could, and the gifted food had been devoured hungrily – a blessing since you had neglected to eat in your current state – that left you with nothing to do but think. 

That was the last of what you wanted. 

But your mind refused to focus on any other hobby, and if Cass had found out you had gone out alone in this state, at 2 in the morning, she might try and lock you inside the apartment next time. 

Or have one of the other Bats start checking up on you. 

But there was nothing to temp you out as is. Not unless you received a call about your girlfriend, or a message from her specifically. Nothing could stop you from flying out that door fast enough to put the Flash to shame if that happened. 

But an hour later found you still sitting on the couch, with nothing but the sounds of the city as white noise against the raging tempest of your mind. 

There was nothing else you could do for the time, and with the weight of the day wearing on you, the only option you had was to go to bed and try to sleep. Even if it was nothing more than fitful attempts. 

So, you did. Hardly even bothering to slip into something comfortable enough to sleep in and crawling under the covers, one of your pillows hugged tightly to your chest as you buried your face against it and tried, just tried, to sleep. 

Eventually, the weight of your eyelids and coldness of the room won out, and you drifted off. Deep enough that when the front door was unlocked and pushed open it never even made you flinch. 

Of course Cassandra moving through the apartment was not enough to wake you – she was always so quiet and so careful. Years of training and knowing the apartment like the back of her hand left waking you out of the realm of possibility. 

Just how she liked it. Interrupting your sleep was something she usually tried to avoid unless something was wrong. 

And this time she was certain all she wanted was to get cleaned up and slip into bed next to you. Until the responsibilities of the day could be avoided no longer. 

But that meant a shower – she was long overdue for one, and while you would never say a word about it, she’d rather be clean before she slipped under the sheets and curled up against you. 

The sound of the running water, even through the closed bathroom door, was eventually what woke you. 

The culprit failed to register at first, as you blinked slowly, trying to ignore the sound gently pulling you back to the waking world. Brushing it off as your girlfriend taking a shower after patrol, like so many times before. 

Until the water stopped, and you snapped up, head whipping around to look in the direction of the bathroom, because that was when it had dawned on you. She had not been on patrol, because she had not been home. 

It’s hardly a minute later before Cassandra slips out of the bathroom and makes eye contact with you, giving a tired smile as she makes her way to the bed and sits on the edge. There’s a look of concern on her face and you cannot place why until she reaches out, putting a hand to your cheek and brushing away tears you were unaware had begun to fall. 

Her voice is so soft as she speaks, and you can hardly hear it as you try to reign your emotions in. “Are you okay?” 

There is no movement, nothing, for what feels like a lifetime, until you shoot forward and pull her into a hug, burying your face into the crook of her neck and not bothering to stop the tears. You hold on to her white-knuckled, like loosening your grip for even a fraction of a second then she’ll vanish from before you. 

Cassandra says nothing, at a loss for words for the pain she feels responsible for, just rubbing what she hopes are soothing circles into your back. 

You are unsure how long it has been, but finally it registers that she had asked you a question and to pull back enough to look at her. “I’m better now.” You let out an apologetic sound, pulling back to wipe the rest of your tears away as the crying finally subsides. “I’m sorry, I've just been worried,” you assure her. 

The two of you had been dating long enough for you to know when something was wrong, and you can see the way she reacts, like the beginnings of a sentence rest on her tongue – one she bites back. It is enough to prompt you to ask what is on her mind, taking her hands in your own as you move to get more comfortable. 

Cassandra seems to pull away, though her own hands tighten their grip on yours. 

It doesn’t take much else before the answer dawns on you. “You have another mission?” 

She sighs, and her shoulders drop before she finally meets your eyes with a regretful look. “I leave in a week. It will be another month at least, likely longer.” 

It isn’t ideal. In fact, it just leaves you with a feeling of dread. She had already been gone so long and now you were going to lose her again? Your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest and break at the same time. 

Cassandra manages to pull you back to the present, calming you as she gets your attention and seems relieved when you finally focus back on her. 

But something is wrong, like she isn’t telling you everything, and it leaves a feeling of unease prickling along your skin. “Is there something else?” 

Cassandra hesitates before nodding. “We don’t have to talk about it tonight though.”  

“Cass, please, just talk to me.” 

It is then that she withdraws her hands from your own, seeming to buckle in on herself. “I’ve been thinking. My life is taking a toll on you, and I'm not sure how much longer this relationship will last because of it.” She pauses, eyes focused on her own hands clasped tightly together in her lap – she had faced so many dangers in her life, taken things head on, but the possibility that her next words could become a reality was terrifying. “And I would understand if you wanted to end things.” 

Like a dagger to the heart, her words sink in. “Do you want to end things?” 

“No!” Cassandra hushes after her reflexive outburst, embarrassed. “But I see the way you worry. Look at tonight - I made you cry. Why would you want to stay in a relationship like this?” 

You can see in her eyes that she expects you to agree, to tell her that everything she said is true and send her away for good – but that she desperately wants it to be wrong. And it is, you intend to assure her of that. 

“I knew when you told me you were Orphan that this wasn’t going to be easy. I knew there would be plenty of nights where I wouldn’t know what had happened to you until later, and that one day, if – and I say this as an extreme – you got hurt and never came back that maybe I wouldn’t even get closure on that. That I would never find out.” 

She jumps at that, “someone would tell you. If it did happen, they wouldn’t leave you in the dark.” 

It’s a small reprieve, if only for a moment, that she had thought of that, but it still terrifies you as well. 

“My point is, I’d worry about you even if we broke up, and I’m not willing to walk out of this relationship. I knew what kind of person you were when we started dating, and I could never ask you to give this life up.” 

Cass pulls you closer, until you’re in her lap, and you offer no fight as she does. More than happy just to be near her. 

Just to be sure that she’s really with you. 

Her soft voice only confirms that it isn’t a dream. “I don’t want to lose you.” 

“Hey,” you call softly, tilting her head until she is looking at you. When you have her attention, you pull her forward, kissing her like you had been wanting to do for more than a month now. “Everything is going to be okay,” you assure her. 

Cass hums, content and put at ease with your answer. Resting her forehead against your own and closing her eyes, you both enjoy the moment, until she shifts, pulling you down with her onto the bed to sleep, unwilling to let go.