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6:29 pm
“We’re collecting all the isms tonight,” Jason announces.
No one, including Jason, has any idea where in Gotham he is, but his four-ish (the value is subject to both positive and negative change with frightening frequency) siblings and one sort of in-law, sort of friend, sort of ally person, can hear him clear over the comms. Jason’s doing some last-minute fidgeting in his new suit, uncomfortable with the way it pulls over his frame. Finally, he releases his cuffs from their torture and mounts his motorcycle. No, he’s not supposed to be riding a motorcycle to the gala. Yes, he’s doing it anyways.
If taken to a vote, all five will vote that this whole thing is entirely Jason’s fault. Jason will blame Tim. He has a bad habit of doing that.
The other four siblings are in the largest not-secret Wayne Manor garage, piling into a sleek black limo while hiding their own comms. They don’t usually wear comms to a gala, but tonight they’re on a special, secret mission. In Jason’s words: collect all the isms. Tim gets into the driver’s seat of the limo that he is 100% not qualified to drive. Usually the designated driver is either Tim or Dick, but if Damian’s coming, then Dick gets automatically sentenced to the back. In a limo, “the back” means 95% of the car, but it’s the thought that counts.
Dick, Damian and Cass each have their own rows. Dick’s got a navy blue suit, and although he’s far more comfortable in it than Jason is in his, he still sprawls, tense and uptight, in his long row of white car cushions. He carefully brushes his slicked-back hair over the comm, though it’s near impossible to spot if one isn’t looking for it. Damian is scowling furiously in a little black tuxedo.
Cass is perhaps the most out of her comfort zone, in a sleeveless midnight blue dress and black high heels, but she appears outwardly the most comfortable as she leans back in her seat and closes her eyes. Concealer has been carefully applied to hide her scars, and then, because her eyes were closed and her brothers are menaces, a little bit of silver eyeliner was as well. She hasn’t noticed yet, but once she does, all the brothers will blame Tim, including Tim. In this instance he is truly the one guilty party. In his defense, it does look quite nice.
“All of them?” Tim echoes skeptically as he pulls out Wayne Manor’s driveway. He shouldn’t be driving in his nice forest green suit, but literally no one in the car knows or cares that they’re supposed to have an actual driver except for Tim, and he much prefers the closeness of his family, the Waynes, over the overly formal stiffness of his old family.
“Yep,” Jason says over the comms. “I think between the five of us we can pull it off. Now the bingos, I don’t think anyone’s getting bingo tonight.”
“I agree,” Barbara says dryly in their ears. She isn’t coming to the gala, but she’s on the comms so she can gleefully keep track of their bingo sheets.
The game plan is properly convoluted: the Waynes will simultaneously play bingo and a drinking game out of microaggressions at the gala tonight. All of them filled out their bingo sheets at some point during the past week, writing such gems as “a Rogue crashes the gala and B fakes puking in the bathroom to escape” (Dick), “Tim has an emergency because he thought he could eat something he’s allergic to (wrong) and didn’t tell anyone (bad) and goes into asphyxiation ( :/ ) right in front of the reporters” (Jason), “some old lady pinches Damian’s cheeks and he stabs her with the knife he’s pretending he’s not concealing” (Tim), and “window” (Cass. No one’s quite sure what that means, but no one is brave enough to ask).
Tim would like to register a formal complaint with the second one, because not knowing that he’s allergic to something is not the same thing as not telling anyone, and anyways that’s why he’s carrying an epipen, Jason. Damian is the only one who didn’t fill out a bingo sheet, because he sees “no use for such a childish form of entertainment.” But he agreed to the comms, because comms means a mission, and like any good Robin he absolutely despises feeling left out. Knowing how competitive his siblings are, Tim gives it half an hour before Damian caves and participates.
The drinking game is more simple: one sip for a basic, ignorant comment. Two sips for an underhanded insult. Three sips for an ism combo. If a physical fight breaks out, chug the whole glass. The first person to get bingo wins, unless a fight starts. The person to start a fight wins automatically because they will subsequently be murdered by Alfred, then Bruce, then Alfred again just for good measure. As the only sibling legally able to drink, Dick is going to be wasted by the end of the gala.
All the siblings gave varying levels of consent to this plan. It was Jason’s idea, because he hates galas and loves causing problems on purpose. Dick agreed easily because he also hates galas and he also loves playing games with his siblings, even if they’re stupid as hell. Tim agreed last, because he hates galas, but he also treats them as part of his job, a job that is completely ruined if his siblings are arguing over a game in his ear. Eventually, he was convinced for similar reasons to Damian and Dick: wearing comms makes it feel like a mission, and Tim loves missions with his family. They don’t happen nearly often enough, and the stakes are always much higher. Damian consented to wearing the comm so he could mock his siblings from across the ballroom. Barbara agreed because she, like Jason, loves causing problems on purpose, and unlike Jason she has absolutely no skin in the game. Cass shrugged and said “why not?”
The only one who didn’t consent was Bruce, but that’s okay, because he’s not involved anyway. Neither Barbara nor the siblings have told Bruce what they’re planning, and they intend to keep it that way.
6:57 pm
The gala is being held in the Gotham Metropolitan Museum of Art, and when their limo pulls up outside, the white limestones are all lit up and the sidewalk is swarming with well-dressed people. Tim has no choice but to leave the limo right there, plonked obnoxiously right by the streetlights. They really should’ve hired a driver. As Tim parks the limo, a motorcycle comes to a stop perilously close to the limo’s rear end. It’s Jason, of course. At least he’s wearing a helmet (red) which he tosses in the limo before Cass can close the door.
“Alright, gang. Babs.” Jason rubs his hands together. The only reason his suit isn’t stained (yet) is because Alfred might cry if that happens, and not a single one of them can stand the thought. “You got the sheets?”
“You bet,” Barbara says in their ears.
The siblings start up the wide stone steps. Valets in black suits hang back just out of sight, but every one of them keeps a lazy eye on every person present in an instinctual need to watch for potential enemies. Bruce, somewhere inside floating between groups of gala-goers like the airheaded prince of Gotham he pretends to be, is doubtless doing the same.
“Excellent.” Jason eyes the great arched doorways with barely concealed glee. “Time to cause problems on purpose.”
7:33 pm
It is, of course, Jason who scores first. Astonishingly, it is not his fault. After a tame round of introductions, the Waynes scattered across the museum hall. Tim is actually keeping up connections and the public face of the Waynes. Dick is keeping up polite conversation with anyone who talks to him. Cass is standing stock still and waiting for things to happen to her. Bruce tried briefly to guide her in conversation and failed miserably. Damian is actually admiring the artwork and beating a stiff, subtle and hasty retreat anytime it looks like someone might be approaching him.
Jason, naturally, went straight for the buffet table at the far end of the hall. He is lounging around the white tablecloth, picking through the food options and keeping his broad shoulders angled towards the crowd. He’s sampling the desserts (fruit custard, surprisingly good, and creme brulee, bad and gross) when someone taps him on the shoulder.
“Excuse me?” A middle-aged man offers a plate full of half-eaten food to Jason, who has a bad feeling as to where this is going but still stubbornly stares in confusion. “Could you take this back, and while you’re at it could you get us some more of those cheese puffs?”
At least he’s somewhat polite. Jason still bares his teeth. “I’m not a waiter.”
The man gives Jason another look over. His skepticism slowly bleeds into dawning horror. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Todd–”
“Todd-Wayne,” Jason cuts in, just to be difficult.
“Right, uh, Mr. Todd-Wayne, sorry. So sorry.”
Jason shoves the creme brulee he’s holding in his mouth and chews slowly while maintaining eye contact with the man until he backs away. In his other hand, he raises his glass; one of those dainty little sherbert glasses filled with sparkling apple cider. Then he scans the gala floor for his siblings.
Dick has escaped his latest conversation and raises his own glass to cover his mouth. “Don’t tell B you said that,” he teases. “He’ll cry.”
“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Jason tosses back.
Across the hall, Tim sidles next to Damian and the painting he’s currently admiring, not to talk to the demon brat, but so that he can pretend he is. “Does that count?” Tim asks tentatively.
Jason lowers his glass. That’s the thing about these interactions. He can’t prove why exactly that man thought he looked like a waiter. He never can.
Dick catches his hesitation, even from dozens of meters away. “Yeah, it counts,” he says firmly. “One shot.” He raises his champagne glass, the 21+ year old bastard, and takes a sip.
Jason gulps way more than one sip of apple cider, and by the paintings he sees Tim take a sip of his own drink. Even Damian does, though it’s unclear why. His little face puckers like he’s smoking his first cigarette rather than drinking cherry juice. Cass makes sure to make eye contact with Jason before she very slowly drains her drink (water). Jason hides a smile, unwilling to admit that the quiet act of solidarity is affecting him. Plus the man who thought Jason was a waiter wasn’t that rude, or that obvious. Maybe this gala won’t be so bad after all.
7:45 pm
Then a woman who doesn’t recognize Dick approaches him, and it gets obvious.
“Hi! I haven’t see you before, I’m Mariana, call me Mary.” A tall woman with a bright smile offers Dick a hand to shake, and he straightens out of his relaxed slouch.
“I’m Richard,” Dick says, offering his own 10,000 gigawatt smile.
“Nice to meet you,” says Mary, releasing his hand, “where are you from?”
“Gotham,” Dick answers, but from the way her brows draw together and she hesitates over her next sentence he already knows where this is going.
His eyes flick over the hall. Tim’s joined Jason by the buffet table, and in his ear they’re seriously discussing the quality of each food item. Damian’s disappeared behind the paintings. Cass is still exactly where she was ten minutes ago, though now she’s giving one-word answers to an older couple who are clearly hoping that she’ll agree to talk to their socially inept son.
“Oh, but where are you from?” Mary repeats, emphasizing the last word like that reveals her secret hidden meaning. They must really think it does, otherwise Dick wouldn’t hear it nearly so often.
Dick winks. “Heaven.” And then he takes a sip from his champagne glass. A long sip.
Tim leans against the buffet table. “Hey O, cross off my square for ‘Dick covers up his discomfort by flirting.’”
Jason’s attention snapped to Dick when he heard Mary’s second question like a missile seeking heat, and now they’re both taking a shot and watching Dick while Mary laughs awkwardly and fumbles out an excuse to get away. Cass silently takes another sip of her water. Damian is nowhere to be seen, but Dick chooses to imagine that he’s drinking in solidarity.
“Timmy,” Dick says sweetly once Mary is out of earshot. “You’re my least favorite sibling.”
“Damn, I shoulda done that,” Jason says ruefully, raising his glass just enough to cover his mouth. “I have ‘Dick copes with people sexualising him by sexualizing himself.’”
Dick closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. When he speaks again, his tone is sickeningly sweet. “I take it back,” he says into his glass. “Jason the worst.”
“He’s just saying it like it is,” Tim defends.
Jason smirks. “Love ya too, D.”
Bruce slides up to Dick and wrinkles his nose slightly. “Are you drinking?”
Dick sighs while Jason and Tim snicker in his ear. “No drunk I’m not Dad. Wait.”
“Do I want to know?” Bruce asks while Jason, Tim and Barbara laugh like a pack of hyenas in the background.
“Don’t worry about it,” Dick says, waving his free hand airily. “I have four responsible, sober minders.” He adds a deliberate pause. “And you.”
Bruce does that thing with his face where he implies that he’s rolling his eyes without actually stooping to do something as plebian as rolling his eyes. “Very funny.”
“Thank you,” Dick says brightly, and walks off briskly.
8:38 pm
Next on the chopping block is Damian. His escape to the paintings was foiled by the presence of little old ladies who do the exact same thing, and the presence of an unaccompanied child has them flocking like vultures to roadkill. Damian’s highly-refined observation skills let him know immediately that there is no escape. He resigns himself to one long, excruciating conversation, and reminds himself that he promised his father he wouldn’t stab anyone, not even a little.
“Aren’t you just darling,” one woman croons, and Damian viscerally regrets his promise.
“You must be sooo glad that your father took you away from…there,” another old woman, complete with the white curls seen in movies, insists.
Damian’s frown resembles a glare. “Why?” She cannot possibly know where he is from, nor the hellish childhood he received courtesy of Ra’s al Ghul.
He is aware that the game his siblings have concocted deals with context and subtleties specific to Gotham and its elites. He refused to play, as he is sure that his lack of familiarity with Gotham in comparison to his siblings (specifically his brothers) will give them the advantage. Now it appears that although he refused to play the game, the game is playing him instead. It’s a rather unpleasant feeling, not knowing the insinuations posed to him.
Tim would understand both the unpleasantness of ignorance and the implications of the woman’s statement. Unfortunately, he can hear Tim politely engaged in conversation with one Ms. Andersen, who cornered Tim and Jason by the buffet table and is taking remarkably little offense to Jason’s monosyllabic grunts. Dick is conversing with several people, and Cass too is fending off a Ms. Miller, a Ms. Davies, and a Mr. Lee.
“Well…” The woman darts a look at her companions, but they offer no help. “You know, with all the violence…”
Damian’s glare comes full force and he scowls. “I have found Gotham to be appallingly violent,” he says flatly, and stalks away.
He does not run away. Definitely not. He walks in a dignified and refined manner away from the little circle of women and rounds the art display.
Once he is back in the main hall, Damian seeks out his siblings in the crowd. Cass locates him first, because of course she does, and raises her glass in a toast. Ms. Andersen drifts away, freeing both Jason and Tim. Jason refills his glass.
“Nice one, Lil’ D,” Tim says.
When Damian does not complain about the nickname, his four siblings realize that something is wrong. Dick quickly disengages himself from his conversation partners and weaves his way through the crowd towards Damian. Tim frowns and Jason raises an eyebrow.
“Damian?” Barbara asks. “What square do you want me to cross off?”
She asks because Damian did not fill out a bingo sheet, but Damian finds himself hesitating uncharacteristically. He is not sure he can describe what just happened for a patrol briefing, much less a bingo sheet.
Damian waits until it looks like he’s talking to Dick before he responds. “I do not believe my interaction counts towards your drinking game,” he says awkwardly. “She is not…wrong.”
There’s a beat of silence where Tim and Jason scan the gala for the woman so they can glare daggers (metaphorical, not literal, at least not yet) at her and Dick pulls Damian into a one-armed hug. Cass is the most successful. She finds the woman, trips her, and then melts into the crowd during the ensuing commotion before anyone realizes what she did. Damian hasn’t the faintest clue how Cass knew that was the woman who spoke to him, but she was right.
“Hey,” Jason says gruffly. It’s the tone of voice that indicates he wishes to be protective and brotherly without revealing his ulterior motive (having emotions). Damian relates, but he happens to think he’s more successful at it than Jason. (He’s not). “She said that because she’s a piece of shit who thinks you’re a mini terrorist in the making or something. Which is fucked up, because of a lot of reasons, but one, terrorists and the League are not the same thing, and two, she doesn’t know a goddamn thing about the League, she's just a piece of shit. Got it?”
“And you’re not responsible for what you did with the League,” Tim jumps in. “No kid is an assassin or terrorist, and if they are, it’s the fault of the adults responsible for them. Okay?”
I am not a child, Damian protests in his head. But he still hasn’t let go of Dick. “Very well,” he concedes. “Oracle, I believe I shall have the square for ‘imbecile fails to comprehend the difference between a terrorist and an assassin.’ Thank you.”
Alfred must be really rubbing off on him if he’s saying thank you unprompted now.
“That’s not…” Barbara sighs. “Sure. Whatever, kid. Youngest’s rights, or whatever.”
“Two shots,” Dick declares, his face somewhere above Damian’s head.
He finally pulls back from Damian in order to down two shots of his alcoholic beverage. Damian is beginning to believe that he will in fact end this night drunk as a skunk, to borrow Tim’s turn of phrase.
“Come on.” Dick loops an elbow through Damian’s arm, stooping awkwardly in order to do so. “Let’s go refill our drinks.”
Damian yanks his arm away, but he follows Dick to the drinks table. Cass threads her way out of the crowd and joins them. For a brief, shining moment, all five siblings stand around the table, clink their glasses together, and drink. Damian hates to admit that there really is something comforting in their unity.
8:57 pm
Cass is the only one to break the two-shot ceiling, not once, not twice, but three times during the course of the evening. The first two incidents occur back-to-back, just before the ninth hour of the night sinks into the brightly-lit museum floor.
“Are you lost, honey?” An older woman in a wine purple dress bends slightly to address Cass, her brown eyes wide and concerned. She is accompanied by an older man, likely her husband. Their bodies read vaguely concerned and mostly disinterested. Cass can handle that.
“No,” says Cass.
“Where are your parents?” The woman in the purple dress presses, leaning further into Cass’s personal space.
Cass’s eyes flicker around the hall, seeking out Bruce’s light gray suit. “There. Father.” She lifts one hand and points.
The woman twists to follow Cass’s finger, but even before she turns back around it is clear she has no idea who Cass is supposed to be pointing to. “What’s his name, sweetie?”
Cass lowers her arm. “Wayne.”
“Oh!” Concern fades from the woman while disinterest fades from her husband. “You must be Cassandra!”
“Cass,” she corrects.
Purple woman is not listening, though her eyes are fixed on Cass. Her mind is elsewhere. Her body says interest. It is not malevolent, so Cass remains where she is.
“How long has it been?” The man asks. “Since you were adopted.”
Purple woman smacks the man on the arm. “Matt! You can’t just as her that!”
Why not, Cass wonders. Instead of asking, because words are hard, she focuses on what they are saying nonverbally. Reading people in such a nonviolent context is still a little unfamiliar to her. She believes their interest is akin to their interest in a shiny new trinket. It is annoying, but nothing worth serious concern.
“How long since you left China?” Matt reframes his question.
Cass blinks. “Not from China.”
“Oh?” Matt doesn’t give any indication of why he thought she was from China. “Where are you from, then?”
“From…” Cass frowns. There is no good answer to that question.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Matt cuts in before Cass can attempt to answer. “I didn’t realize you don’t speak English!” He bends down, getting in Cass’s face. “Hellooo.” He draws out each syllable obnoxiously and points exaggeratedly at himself. “My naaame is Maaatt Buuurgesssss.”
“Asshole,” Jason says in her ear. Her little brother is so quick to disguise his concern as anger. Cass feels a smile poking at the corners of her mouth. “Two shots.”
“Pretty sure we can count that as ableism and racism,” Tim says. “Three shots.”
“I can’t believe your father left you all alone like this!” Purple woman exclaims. “Flouncing about with God-knows-who while you have no idea what’s going on! It isn’t right. I–”
“Fine,” Cass interrupts. “I’m. Fine.”
Matt frowns. “No, you’re not.”
“Asshole,” Jason mutters again.
Cass smiles.
“Oh, you know those Asian girls.” Purple woman smacks Matt’s arm again. “Doesn’t matter what their fathers do. Always so obedient.”
Despite the words, Cass smiles wider. “Bye,” she says, spins in her high heels, and walks away.
“Asshole!” Jason nearly shouts. He’s lucky that no one is near the buffet table at the time. Also that he’s got a sausage roll wreath stuffed in his mouth, so it’s hard to tell what he’s saying anyways.
Cass knows there is what Jason would call a shit-eating grin on her face. When she is sure that she will not overheard, she murmurs; “Combo.”
“Right you are,” Dick declares. “Three shots, everyone.”
Tim is engaged in an actual business discussion with two people that Cass does not know but dislikes for how they are behaving towards Tim. Yet when another person jumps into the conversation, Tim takes the opportunity to sip on his sparkling water. Jason swallows the sausage roll and chugs his apple cider without counting sips. Damian cordially raises his glass to Cass from across the hall, and she raises hers in return. It’s just water, but it tastes sweet.
9:12 pm
Tim knew before they started that playing this game with his siblings while at gala was going to be difficult. Not because he can’t multitask. Tim is a boss at multitasking, he even multitasks while asleep; nightmares, anxiety, and rest all at the same time! No, this game is difficult because it is so, so much easier to brush aside things people say about him and to him when his siblings aren’t making a fuss about it in his ear.
Case in point: Ms. Moore. She is sixty-four years old, recently widowed, and major landowner that Wayne Enterprises has been trying to purchase land from for quite some time. Most importantly, she likes Tim. This is good. But his siblings can’t seem to get this through their thick heads.
“Thank you, Ms. Moore,” Tim is saying politely, half of his attention on Damian lecturing a hapless stranger on one of the paintings, because he is a goddamn multitasker. “I’d be delighted to join you. Perhaps next weekend?”
A bald-faced lie. Golf is the sort of elitist sport that he would joyfully join Poison Ivy in tearing down. Non-lethally. But instead of repurposing golf courses into public parks, he has to join Ms. Moore in her preferred golf course next weekend, so that he can secure the land purchase for Wayne Enterprises, so that he can repurpose that land into something actually useful.
“What a polite young man,” Ms. Moore coos. One bejeweled hand bats Tim’s forearm before pulling back. “Give me a call when you’re eighteen, okay honey?”
Tim laughs politely, at least he hopes it’s politely because Jason starts swearing in his ear and it’s a little bit distracting.
“Fucking gross,” Jason growls.
Ms. Moore says her goodbyes and Tim keeps his society smile fixed in place. “One shot?” Tim asks. He has his back to the main crowd, so he can only rely on his siblings’ voices for their true thoughts.
“What does that count as?” Dick wonders. “Sexism? Misandry? Just plain old being creepy?”
“Pedophilia isn’t an ism,” Jason protests, and then grimaces so audibly that Tim can hear it over the comm. “God, I can’t believe I just said that. Fine, whatever, take the sexism point Timbelina.”
“Your decision?” Cass questions. “No. Not yours.”
Tim and Dick both go “ooooooh” and also “ohhhhhh” for an obnoxiously long time. Tim lowers his glass, halfway through taking his victory sip. He spins around, searching the glittering crowd for his siblings. Jason is red-faced by a marble column. Dick and Damian are admiring a painting together. Well, Damian is. Dick might as well be looking at a blank wall. Cass is letting the crowd flow around her like water.
“Minus one point for Jason!” Dick crows, ignoring the fact that there are no points.
“Wait does this mean I don’t get a point?” Tim asks, also ignoring the game’s complete lack of a point system. “Cass, do I get it?” He approaches Jason’s column, hoping for a few minutes of reprieve before he goes out to mingle once more.
“No, no points for you Timbuktu,” Jason says, still butthurt. “You don’t get any isms.”
“Unfair,” Tim sighs. He finally reaches Jason’s column and leans against it, shoulder to shoulder with his brother. “The one time I’m actually half-hoping that someone will say something anti-semetic, and of course…”
“Don’t wish for that,” Dick says, because he’s sensitive.
“I mean, I’m like, used to it,” Tim explains. “You know. ‘Cause Bruce is Jewish and I’m Jewish and I’m the only one of us who does anything business related.” He pulls out his phone, opens his official Twitter, and shows it to Jason, who peers over his shoulder and blinks owlishly at the screen like the boomer he is.
“Don’t be used to it!” Dick splutters.
“See, look at this,” Tim says to Jason, completely ignoring the unhelpful older brother in his ear. He thumbs through Tweet after Tweet. “Okay, these are normal…oh, here we go: blood libel, sex trafficking ring, vague Jew conspiracy, oh my bad, a Jewy conspiracy, space lasers? What even–blood libel, George Soros, takeover, industry takeover, Bruce–uh, you know the old one they say about Bruce–”
Jason turns his phone off. “Jesus fucking Christ Timmy,” he says, somewhere between pained and concerned and annoyed. It’s both entertaining and a little heart-warming to hear. “Don’t look at that fucking bullshit, I’ll give you a point if you shut the fuck up.”
Dick sighs. “Language,” he mutters.
“Hablas español, hermano?” Jason says snidely.
“Sí,” Dick tries.
“Mentiroso,” Jason accuses, and Dick just sighs again.
“There are,” Barbara emphasizes, “no points. Tim gets a shot. Everyone take a goddamn shot.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jason says sarcastically, but he does in fact drink his apple cider like he’s taking a shot. And he clinks his glass against Tim’s before he drinks, so in Tim’s humble opinion, the world is doing alright.
“I believe I may cross one more square,” Damian says confidently like he’s not just making this up as he goes. “For ‘Richard reprimands Todd for his atrocious use of language.’”
Both Dick and Jason protest that, and Barbara laughs as she writes it in. Damian’s a smug little bean by Dick’s side, satisfied with his growing understanding of the elusive rules of bingo. Oh yes. Everything is just alright in the world.
9:36 pm
Cass is the last before everything goes to shit. She’s closed her eyes so she can focus on the taste of her water with less distractions. It isn’t as sweet as it was the time she drank with her siblings. Yet the water ought to be the same. Threads of conversation wind around her, but words don’t mean nearly as much to her as people do.
“Hey, baby.”
Speaking of distractions. Cass ignores the comment as she does not believe the term applies to her. At least, she ignores it until a hand comes down on her right shoulder.
Cass pulls away before she turns around and stares cooly at the man over a foot taller than her. His eyes flicker up and down her body, a self-confident smirk fixed upon his pale, freckled face. His entire body screams lust. Cass believes even someone without her training would be able to tell. He is so very obvious about it, the sentiment is overwhelming. Like he really is screaming at her. Cass leans back.
“What’s your name, gorgeous?”
“Gross,” Jason mutters. He’s easily grossed out, she’s discovered. But only when it comes to his siblings.
Cass narrows her eyes, attempting to communicate go away through the small action. “Cassandra Wayne.”
This time it is the man who leans back, perhaps out of caution triggered by the reveal of her last name. His eyes flicker up and down her body again, but slower. Her skin crawls. She wishes to cut out his eyes with a serrated knife. However, she suspects several of her siblings and Bruce would not approve.
“Mr. Wayne choose that dress for you?”
There is some implication in those words that Cass is sure she would understand if only she could understand words as easily as body language. This hypothesis of hers is further supported when Dick speaks up, voice strained.
“I don’t think I like the implication of that.”
Well, that tells Cass nothing new, but at least it confirms her suspicion. It is nice to be right.
“No.”
Cass chose it. She is generally not a fan of dresses, but she quite likes this one. The sleeveless top lets her arms move freely, and the loose skirts let her legs move freely. Most of all she likes the midnight blue color. It feels like home. It tells her she’s meant for softer things.
“Well, you might wanna rethink that dress, sweetheart. It gets people too excited.” His hand descends again and squeezes her shoulder. Cass debates acceptable responses until he walks away.
All of her siblings start spluttering over the comms.
“As soon as we’re done here I’m gonna dig into his financials and ruin him,” Tim announces.
“I shall rid that vile man of his hand,” Damian declares. He’s snarling at a painting. Sort of like a puppy seeing its reflection in a mirror for the first time.
Dick sighs. “Damian, no.”
“Damian, yes,” Jason counters. “Honestly. What can we even count that as?”
Cass shrugs. “Sexism. Insult.” And she takes two sips from her glass. The water is still not sweet.
“It feels like a three-shot incident,” Jason disagrees. He chugs his apple cider and trudges back to the table of non-alcoholic drinks, but not before casting glances at the table of alcoholic drinks. Bruce is there, and he raises a toast to Jason, who snarls wordlessly and serves himself more sparkling apple cider while the poor waiter twitches.
“Sounds good,” says Dick. His sips are miniscule compared to his underage siblings, but he still raises his glass to his lips three times. Damian looks like his fruit juice has violently disagreed with him, but he drinks nonetheless.
“Okay,” says Cass, and takes another sip. It is sweet.
Tim pops up with a warm towelette that he swiped from a passing waiter and makes a big show of scrubbing Cass’s shoulder.
Cass rolls her eyes but her lips curve up. “Thanks. Best little brother.”
“Anything for you, Cass,” Tim says promptly.
Jason makes gagging sounds. “This is why you’re her favorite. Suck-up.”
“Yeah? Die mad about it.”
“Dunno. Didn’t take the first time.”
“Not in public,” Dick hisses, peeling himself away from the paintings to hunt down Jason, who is in danger of being overheard by the waiter. “Tim, you kind of walked into that one.”
“Yeah, I really did.” Tim smirks. He waits as he returns the used towelette to a waiter before speaking again. “One point to Jason. Also, O, cross off my square for ‘Jason makes a death joke.’”
“Fuck you, it’s my death, I can joke about it if I want to,” Jason gripes.
“Me too, O,” Dick chimes in. “I had ‘Jason references his death to be funny’ on my sheet.”
Jason elbows him, somewhat subtly. It’s far from the worst he’s injured his siblings, so Bruce probably won’t mind. Although, Bruce lets Jason literally get away with murder, so there may not be anything in the world that’ll turn Bruce against Jason. Not that Jason realizes.
“And I,” says Damian, whose bingo sheet is completely blank as everyone well knows, but he would never pass up on a chance to rag on Jason.
“Same,” Cass adds. Luckily it looks like she’s talking to Tim, but honestly, Cass doesn’t really care. So what if people think she talks to herself? That’s far from the weirdest thing they could know about her.
“Done,” Barbara says.
“Fuck all of you,” Jason says passionately. “I have no siblings. No allies. Not a shred of support to my name, and what an unrecognized name it is. For shame.” He finishes up his little soliloquy with a solid, “Fuck you guys.”
Tim turns a smile on Cass, but it a grin, his real smile, not the society smile he’s plastered on for hours tonight. “Theater nerd.”
10:21 pm
It’s been a nice night, but it all goes to shit at 10:21 pm. The cause is simple: Jack Drake enters the gala. He is very late and very very drunk. Neither fact seems to register to him.
“Hey, Timbo, ain’t that your dad?” Jason is the closest to the entrance, and at his question Tim snaps up like a meerkat on steroids.
“What is he doing here,” Tim hisses, confirming that the graceless man wearing a black and white suit is indeed his biological father. “He said he wasn’t gonna come. Ah, shit. Fuck. Fuck me.”
Jack Drake is making a beeline for his son, shouldering unaware guests out of the way. Dick abruptly peels himself from the animated conversation he’s in so he can follow.
“He probably woke up and couldn’t find me and realized I was at a gala with you guys and decided to get mad about it,” Tim rambles. He angles himself so he can hide his mouth behind his glass and keep an eye on Jack without acknowledging that he’s seen his father. “He–uh. Hey, Dad. Uh. Funny seeing you here. Thought you weren’t gonna come.”
“Cut the crap, boy.” Jack Drake has an unpleasant, grating voice.
“Uh.” Tim, usually so silver-tongued, fumbles for words.
Dick picks up the pace. Jason hangs back, content to let Dick handle it. After all, ‘handling it’ does not involve punching Jack Drake.
“What, too busy with Daddy Wayne to remember your real father at home?” Jack sneers.
“Dad, don’t–You’re drunk–”
“You’re going home,” Jack interrupts, no indication that he’s even heard Tim. People are beginning to stare now. A flush crawls up Tim’s neck. “Right this instant.” Jack leans in closer. “And then I’ll decide how to deal with your disrespect.” Then he marches off into a crowd that parts for him.
Tim follows for a second then thinks better of it. He slinks out of the crowd and finds Jason. “This is so embarrassing,” he groans. He perks up. “Hey O, can I have a free square? As emotional compensation?”
Barbara sighs. “Sure.”
Dick joins Tim and Jason by the wall. “What did he mean, deal with it?” He asks carefully, as if the former Robin can’t identify the victim voice being used on him.
“He says that all the time,” Tim dismisses, sidestepping the question as if no one in a family of trained detectives will notice. There’s a lot of stupidity to go around. In fact, there’s only one brain cell, and Cass is always in possession of it. “His ego’s fragile, you see.”
Jason snorts. “No shit.”
“He’s all bark and no bite,” Tim continues. “Mostly he just says, um, things. About Bruce. You know.”
Dick sighs. He’s done a lot of sighing this evening. An occupational hazard of having four younger siblings. “Yeah. We know.”
“He is approaching Father,” Damian reports from his viewpoint across the hall.
The three older boys stiffen and seek out Jack Drake in the crowd. He is, in fact, barreling right for Bruce Wayne, who has noticed and is carefully extracting himself from his current conversation so as to cause less chaos. His efforts are in vain, because the moment Jack reaches him, he starts slinging insults left and right. The siblings are too far away to hear properly, but they’re quickly rectifying that problem.
“–Add to your harem of little boys–”
“Oh, fucking hell,” Tim sighs. “This is gonna end up in the press tomorrow, and I’m gonna have to run damage control, and it’s gonna suck.”
“I am not a little boy,” Damian pipes up, mortally offended.
“That’s not…” Dick sighs. “That’s really not the problem here.”
Jason only scowls and picks up the pace.
“–Not enough to get a mail-order bride–”
“Did he just,” Tim splutters. “Call Cass a–”
“Yeah,” Dick interrupts shortly.
“How the fuck,” Jason marvels. He’s chosen a spot close enough to enjoy the show. He may not like Tim’s dad, but there aren’t many things that’ll get him to interfere when Bruce is having a hard time. “Does he even remember what he said twenty seconds ago?”
“No,” Tim says easily. He and Dick draw closer, just short of interfering, waiting for Bruce to give some kind of signal as to what he wants.
“–I know you’re grooming him to stage some kind of takeover–”
“He sounds like a fucking dumbass,” Jason notes. “Tim, I thought he was the CEO?”
“Nah, that was my mom,” Tim says. “In practice. Do you think this counts as anti-semitism or an accusation of pedophilia?”
“Por que no los dos,” Jason quips.
“Combo,” Cass agrees, and across the glittering gala floor, five kids take three sips from their glasses. Even Tim and Dick, who are the closest to the scene.
“–How much money, huh? All you people understand is the fucking green–”
“Anti-semitism,” Damian notes frostily, simultaneously pleased by his increased understanding of underhanded American insults, and pissed that said insults are being directed at his father. He takes two sips of his cherry juice and waits for Bruce to do something other than stand there and take it. The nearby adults exchange a worried look over Damian's head.
“How did he marry a Jewish woman and still keep the violent anti-semitism?” Jason wonders. He lumbers from his spot. “Be right back, gonna pour this drink on him.” It turns out that any sort of ism thrown directly at Bruce is where Jason draws the line, which he himself didn’t know until this moment.
“You’d be surprised the mental hoops people jump through to justify hatred,” Tim says dryly. “Actually, wait, no you won’t.”
“Shut the fuck up, I had the Pit,” Jason grumbles. He pauses his mission so he can argue with Tim unnoticed. “Also, the Pit is a trans ally, it boosts testosterone. Write that down.”
“It also gave you uncontrollable rage,” Tim points out. “So really, wasn’t it setting you up for a hate crime? That doesn’t scream allyship.”
“One point to Tim,” Barbara says.
“I hate you guys,” Jason declares.
Tim snorts. “Yeah, well, just don’t stab me over it again.”
“Tim…”
“And now I know a hundred ways to not get stabbed or shot or thrown down stairs or lose organs, vital or otherwise,” Tim says promptly. “Happy?”
“That’s my lil’ bro,” Jason says cheerfully.
Bruce finally interrupts Jack’s rant, and all five kids shut up so they can eavesdrop like the good little bats they are. “Go home, Jack,” Bruce says. “You’re drunk.”
“Don’t tell me what I am!” Jack shouts. “You think you know my son soooo much better than I do–”
“I mean, obviously,” Tim mutters.
“–Well I’m not gonna let you share him with your boys–”
“Homophobia?” Tim asks delightedly. Wait. Delightedly? Wow, he’s really messed up.
“Incest,” Dick argues.
Jason shakes his head. He’s completely distracted from his quest to humiliate Jack Drake. “He said boys, not kids,” he corrects. “Homophobia.” And he takes two sips. “Can’t believe it took us so long to get to this ism.”
“Same,” says Cass.
“Drake, you will allow Todd to exterminate this man,” Damian commands.
Tim sighs. “No, Damian. He’s my father.”
“Yes, Damian!” Jason argues, very verbosely. “He’s a shit dad. Lemme get rid of him. C’mooon, Timbers.”
“You have a good father,” Damian says stiffly. “It is not Jack Drake.” The stiffness relents, just a tad. “You have a family.”
“Awww,” Tim coos. “Dames, that’s so sweet.”
“Cease your baseless insults,” Damian spits immediately.
Tim chuckles. “That’s more like the demon brat we know and love.”
“He’s seventeen!” Bruce’s voice rises for the very first time since Jack Drake started screaming at him. “Not fifteen!”
“Classic,” Tim grumbles.
Jack swells like a bullfrog. Somehow this last rebuttal he simply cannot take. “I know how old my son is, you son of a bitch!” He swings wildly for Bruce.
For a moment, the kids half-believe that Bruce will just take the punch in order to keep up his soft billionaire persona. But Bruce ducks easily and sucker-punches Jack in the stomach. While he’s doubled over, Jason finally finishes his mission and pours sparkling apple cider on his neck. It runs down satisfyingly on Jack’s off-white dress shirt and black suit. Jack stumbles back, humiliation clouding over to pure rage in his eyes, and runs at Jason like a bull. Jason pauses to hand his empty glass to Bruce, who looks at it with bemusement, then grabs Jack by the shoulders and flips him over.
“O, cross my square for ‘Jason loses it and starts bouncing people off the walls.’ Didn’t think it’d be my dad, though,” Tim muses.
“Same,” says Cass. “‘Jason starts fight.’”
“Thanks guys,” Jason grumbles, then punches Jack across the jaw.
“I mean, thanks Jason, I guess I won’t be ‘dealing with my lack of respect’ tonight, or like, until he recovers, but you know this’ll just come back to bite me later, right?”
“We’ll see about that,” Dick mutters darkly.
“What?”
“What?” Dick blinks innocently.
“You can’t seriously believe that Father will let you live with this man,” Damian sneers.
Tim sighs. “Dames, he’s literally my dad. I already live with him. He’s not just some random guy.”
Damian sniffs. “Fine. I will not let you return to this man.”
“That’s not–Dami, what–?”
Dick sighs, takes a moment to chug his whole glass, and goes to break up the fight. Bruce is calmly watching his son beat up the CEO of Drake Industries. Dick comes to a stop next to him and hands Bruce his own empty glass, which he accepts with the same hand that’s holding Jason’s.
“I win,” Bruce says softly.
“Huh?” Dick drags his attention away from the fight.
Bruce has the tiniest, smuggest little smile that Dick has ever seen. “First to start a physical fight wins.”
A colorful collection of swear words in a wonderful array of languages comes through the comms. Jason kicks Jack a little more harshly than intended.
Dick gapes. “How did you even know?”
Bruce takes a very slow sip from his wine glass. I’m Batman, he mouths. “I know everything.”