[ Prying at the attic window, he considers the merits of leaving his younger siblings to roost. Perhaps it is just evolution, a natural progression from child to bird or bat. Who was he to interrupt Darwinian Law?

The paint unsticks, and the window is shoved open with a squeal.

Then again, if he didn't retrieve them, Timothy would nag. More than he already does. He's already blackmailed Richard down from the chandelier, and now it's time to prod at Cassandra. They have... things to discuss, anyway. Matters of the cowl.

(Everyone knows Bruce intended for her to inherit -- but then again, he didn't plan on dying so soon. And maybe he's rolling in his grave now, to see Damian now standing in as interim Batman. Their relationship as father and son, as strong as it'd grown, had never been strong enough to convince Bruce that Damian was anything but an ill fit for the mantle.

The little known secret is that Damian agrees.)

Stepping out onto the rooftop, he hikes across the slanted shingles to where she perches on the ledge, picking his way sure-footed and casual despite the drop below. His weight drops next to her without much more than a grunt of greeting, and she probably shouldn't wonder about the wind shaking her balance when it's the eldest son's elbow insistently nudging at her side in an unspoken, imperious demand that she shove over and make space for him -- much the same as he does during movie nights. ]

You missed dinner and a show. [ He signs like he speaks, like he moves: brusque, confident, and controlled. ] Richard took up residence in Martha's favorite chandelier. I had to knock him down with a broom.

[ Well, he had to threaten as much, anyway. ]