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Duke is a poet. The others know this from the sticky notes he leaves around the cave and the manor, each with five lines in his neat, blocky handwriting. (“Limericks,” he calls them. It takes Cass a while to learn how to say it, but it’s such a fun word to say.) She hears her siblings read them aloud to each other and crack a smile, even howl with laughter.
Cass doesn’t catch the meaning usually, the words dodging and weaving and shooting past her at the speed of sound. (Sometimes she gets Duke to read them to her later, but he’s always a bit bashful about it, ashamed to break down what he sees as only mediocre jokes).
Still, she likes them. She likes how they make Bruce’s cheek twitch (it’s a laugh to her, even when he shakes his head in disapproval). She likes how they make Tim curl up defensively, trying to act like he’s not amused. She likes how they make Jason chuckle low, even though she can tell it’s not his real laugh (his real laugh is high, drawing air from unknown reserves to keep it going, and it’s too much like His for him to keep). She likes how they make Steph snort, how she always playfully punches the target of the joke if they’re ducking away to get them to show their face to the others. She likes how Damian’s eyes narrow when he’s the subject, and she likes his satisfied smirk when he’s not. She likes Dick’s light laugh, and the shine of pride in his eyes when he looks at Duke.
Cass is the only one who knows Duke doesn’t just write limericks.
Sometimes she sees him scribbling in a notebook, quickly shutting it whenever anyone approaches him. Sometimes she turns a corner silently and sees him mouthing words, squinting in concentration, a hand raised to emphasize some point.
She doesn’t know if he notices her coming and trusts her with this or if she’s simply too quiet, so she always retraces her steps and makes sure to step on creaky floorboards on her second approach.
Duke invites her out to boba.
He hasn’t had it before, which is obvious to her when he almost chokes on a whole boba pearl, but he heard she liked it so here they are.
They’re sitting at a tiny circular table, umbrella overhead, Duke idly pulling his straw in and out of the plastic cover on his tea as Cass cheerfully slurps at her own.
Duke pulls the straw up higher, enough to miss the boba pearls entirely, and takes a sip. He swallows, and the silence hangs between them.
Duke finally breaks it when Cass rips off the top of her cup, leans back with her mouth open like a baby bird, and tips the last dregs of tea and tapioca into it.
“So uh...Cass?”
She tosses the empty cup into the nearest trash can and wipes her mouth on her wrist before tilting her head back down to look at him.
His shoulders are tense, his fingers fiddling with the straw. “I was wondering...I’ve got an event coming up. It’s slam poetry--do you know what that is?”
Cass shrugs, knowing he’ll tell her.
“It’s poetry that’s made to be performed. It’s not just words, it’s how you say it, how you move, how you stand. I thought you might like to come see.”
Alone is written in the twitch of his fingers.
Cass hmms.
Duke nervously takes another sip of his boba. His throat catches on another pearl he accidentally swallows whole. He stuffs down the cough, his mouth twitching in revulsion as he sets the cup down.
Cass smiles at his expense. “I’ll come.”
Duke’s shoulders relax a fraction, his fingers stilling. “Thank you.”
Cass holds up a finger. “One condition.”
“Sure.”
She points at his still-full boba. “Mine.”
Duke grins and hands it to her. “Deal.”
Duke is the first performance of the night. Cass takes a seat at one of the cafe tables as he climbs onto the slightly raised stage and starts talking.
It’s not like the limericks, a joke she can’t catch, a person she can only see from their shadow. She doesn’t understand all the words, no, but she can hear them, see them, feel them all the same.
Desperation is scrawled across his outstretched arm, Gotham embedded in his stance, resilience carved into his expression. Riddler is a set in his jaw, a lift in his voice. Mom is a soft smile, hard pain just beneath the surface, gentle motions flowing into anger and frustration. The Narrows is a gleam in his eye, clenched fists quickly opening.
His voice is the poetry, the rhythm boxing Cass in and then setting her free, rhymes and words and whispers and shouts curling around her and sinking into her, pulling her along, carrying her away, and setting her back again, empty and full at the same time.
It’s poetry she can understand.
Duke steps off the stage to snapping fingers and overlapping happy words Cass can’t catch. He’s shaking slightly (nervous-proud-adrenaline). She runs up and hugs him.
“D-did you like it?” He asks. “I’m sorry if you were bored, I know it’s a little fast, I can explain it later if you---”
She lets go, stepping back so he can see her grin, see her watering eyes. She shakes her head.
“Thank you.” She says, pressing her hand to his shoulder, trying to make him understand, to return a tiny bit of the feeling.
Duke looks startled for a moment, before his tension eases, the adrenaline fading. “Thank you,” he says, (earnest-tired-relief).
Duke brings her to more slam poetry nights. Sometimes he performs, but most times he just watches. Sometimes Cass asks about the poems later, wanting to know about unfamiliar words, thrown off by the conflict between what the poet’s trying to say and what their body says. Most times, though, she simply takes it in beside him, smiling and snapping.
It’s months before Duke shares it with anyone else. Cass knows that he’s nervous about sharing something so important to him with the rest of the family. But she’s happy to just let it be their thing, and she can tell he is, too.