Chapter Text
From the moment he woke, Bruce had reason to believe the day would be exceedingly average.
He knew from the throbbing pulse in his lower back that it would rain today. His knees were reluctant to cooperate, but pulled himself out of bed in spite of his weary bones. A cold shower washed off the remnants of last night’s aches down the drain, same as usual. Bruce dressed in one of the duplicates of the same double-breasted suit he always did, this time in charcoal. He eyed his father’s watch as he contemplated his collection. The watch would struggle to hold onto his wrist when Bruce was younger, but growth and time was the world’s greatest tailor. The worn leather knew him as well as it did Thomas Wayne, but wearing it was akin to a cuff. Bruce sighed and fastened one far more understated on his wrist in its place.
Alfred plated a veritable pile of eggs and a steaming mug of dark roast at the head of the table, as usual. Bruce stifled his grunt as he eased in his seat, and Alfred’s eyebrow raised in acknowledgement, as usual. He reached in one of the endless cabinets and retrieved a jar of pain relief salve Alfred made by hand, and sat it within Bruce’s reach. Neither of them spoke; the silence said more than words ever could.
The absence of footsteps announced Damian’s presence. He sat adjacent to Bruce with a bowl of honeyed oats and a glass of water, inclining his head in Bruce’s direction.
“Father.” The last vestiges of sleep still clung to his son’s voice; it made it sound younger. For the thousandth time, Bruce wondered what Damian sounded like when he was a baby, a toddler, a young child, and every year before Bruce knew him. “I trust you slept adequately.”
“I did.” As well as a person like Bruce could. “I hope you did as well.”
Damian hummed in confirmation and dug into his oatmeal. The key to reaching Damian, Bruce learned, is that he has to let his son approach him on his own. He could not be out stubborned or wrangled into agreement; if Damian did not want to do something, he would not. Bruce wouldn’t let his son do all the work of emotional labor, though. Bruce learned his lesson. Damian prefers to walk on his own, but Bruce would try to meet him half way regardless.
“I leave for work in 15 minutes. Would you like me to drop you off at school?”
“No thank you, Father. Titus needs to be walked. Pennyworth will take me later on.”
Typical answer. Bruce nodded and took a final bite of his eggs. They were bordering on cold now, stiff and chalky on his tongue. He stood and adjusted his tie, saying his goodbyes. The commute to Wayne Enterprises was normal, and so was his elevator ride to his office. The board was meeting today, Bruce would sit round table with people who would see him dead if it meant another million or two in their pockets. For the next hour and a half he would review Tamara’s notes and refine his stance. Every rebuttal had to be considered, and a response would be formulated for each one.
That was normal.
What was not normal was the sight that greeted Bruce when he stepped in the board room.
Every person, save for one, was staring at their phones with a carnivorous shine in their eyes. The sole exception was Lucious. His lips were twisted in a grimace deep enough to look painful. His fingers drummed incessantly on the table over and over again. Judging by the anxiousness cloaking Lucious in a nearly palpable aura and the look of the others, whatever Bruce didn’t know was business affecting him, or reflected closely enough on his life to spell trouble.
Resignation came easy to Bruce, and so did the pit in his stomach. He cleared his throat to gain attention, the board’s heads snapping up in unsettling synchrony. “Ah, Bruce!” Carson Myers spoke first. He was steeped firmly in the Anti-Wayne faction; to date, he had voted in Bruce's favor a grand total of two times. He attempted to have Bruce ousted enough times to compensate for it. “I suppose congratulations are in order!”
The smile that graced Bruce’s lips felt stale but it was serviceable enough as a mask. “You have me at a loss, I’m afraid. What for?”
“Why, your new family of course!” Myers grinned wider, bearing his yellowing veneers in what was an attempt to be intimidating. It wasn’t him so much as it was his words. The pit in Bruce’s stomach sank further. “It’s not every day you get a new sister.”
For a second that stretched into eternity, Bruce paused. The corners of his lips wavered but stayed firm. Sally, he has to mean Sally. The issue wasn’t that Sally isn’t a public figure, or that they hadn’t discussed what it means to be a Wayne yet. That mattered, but it was part of the overarching issue. Bruce hadn’t yet known his sister for a month, and now she and her family were exposed.
One thing was certain: Sally valued her peace too much to willingly do this to herself. Bruce had a leak. Now to find out who.
“Lucious,” Bruce said lightly. Explain went unsaid.
Myers opened his mouth once more to say some drivel, but he was cut off by a withering glare from two directions. “The story just broke 5 minutes ago; the news cycle got a hold of her before we could do anything. It’s plastered on every magazine cover and it’s trending online. We didn’t even get a chance to control the narrative or deny the claims,” Lucious sucked his teeth and exhaled harshly through his nose, running the hand not clutching his phone over his head. “It’s over. Sally Jackson is out.”
Bruce’s phone vibrated in rapid succession like it was waiting for him to be clued into life’s joke of the week. He fished it out of his pocket expecting to see the names of one of his children, but words across his screen read Diana Prince instead.
“One moment,” he bit out, and went to the relative privacy of his office. On the last ring Bruce answered the call, no longer knowing what to expect. The base of his skull ached with the promise of a migraine.
“Diana.” Being short with one of his longest standing friends wasn’t ideal, but she had seen and heard far worse from him. “Now isn’t the time. What is it?”
“So you know.” Diana said tersely. “What have you done?”
Bruce’s lips thinned as tension settled in his shoulders, exhaling slowly into the receiver.
“Family matters do not concern our business, Diana. I will talk to you later.”
“No.” She stated the word like an order. “We will talk now, especially since your family matters concern my own.”
“How,” Bruce grit, “Could this possibly be on your radar?”
“Was this your doing? Is your paranoia behind this, Bruce, or is this poor handling?” Diana demanded answers from him in a tone more reminiscent of Wonder Woman than a civilian. Anger abated to a realization: Diana contacted him on a Wednesday over a woman who should not be of any concern to her; at least, not to this level. She knows Sally, well enough to be personally invested at the very least. “Tell me now, who is responsible for this?”
“I don’t know.” It pained him to admit it. “It wasn’t me. I don’t know who the leak is yet, but I have some ideas. This wasn’t supposed to happen, Diana. None if it was.”
Diana’s response came in the form of a sigh, long and tiresome. For ten long seconds, neither of them said a word.
“Do you remember,” she started, “What I told you and Clark when we first began working together?”
“You have to be more specific.”
“We were having a conversation about our… origins. You know of my parents, and what it means for them to be my parents.”
Bruce stopped and reached back to nearly two decades ago, finding the memory blurred and faded at the edges. “...Yes. I remember.”
“When you asked questions, I told you that day that there are some things that I cannot tell you, and that there is a world you will never know. Secrets of trade, you understand.”
“Get to the point, Diana.”
“The Jacksons and I… frequent the same areas. Their safety is paramount to not only I, but several people of import, Bruce. And now, it is jeopardized.”
“I see.” Not fully, but Bruce was starting to. The implications were startling. “I’m taking care of it.”
“Go to her,” Diana said softly, “Soon. Sally Jackon’s safety is paramount. And Bruce?”
Bruce hummed as he stalked out of his office, forgoing the meeting entirely. “Yes?”
“Truly, I am happy for you. I pray all goes well.”
The line went dead. So much for a regular day, then. Bruce should’ve known.
The journey back to his car was uninhibited, but the whispers and stares accompanied Bruce through every hallway and turn. He took advantage of a lesser known passage to the parking garage; his echoing steps his only company in the hollow of the tunnel. A few taps on his phone screen brought Bruce’s car directly to him, a scant few minutes later he was passing by the gathering press storm flocking to the main entrance of the building. He broke more laws behind the wheel than was permissible, but Bruce made it back to the manor in record time. He haphazardly parked and climbed out before the vehicle was fully stopped, and was met with the person he was looking for immediately.
Tim was in the Cave. Of course he was.
His eyes scanned the screen back and forth, over and over as he took in the chaos he wrought. Tim’s hair was dulled from grease and sweat; its lank hung in his face from the bow of his posture. One minute passes, then two. Bruce cleared his throat before the third one could.
“Bruce?” Tim startled. The pallor of his skin seemed harsh in the light of the computer. It highlighted the purple smudged under his eyes, made them apparent and unignorable. Every so often his body would jolt to its own irregular beat. He hadn’t noticed Bruce standing there, lack of concealed presence and all. “What are you doing here?”
“Tim,” Bruce said, tried not to beg, “What did you do?”
“What do you mean?” Tim tilted his head in a motion more suited to anyone but him before he gasped. The smile that curled his lips was one of victory, but Bruce didn’t know what he won. “Oh, you saw the news?”
“Of course I-” Bruce forced his jaw to snap shut. His lips pressed in a narrow line as he breathed, trying to force his tongue into submission. The tang of iron filled his mouth, familiar, grounding, and revolting all at once. Bruce could not yell; he would not yell. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you move forward on something as monumental as this with no input, Tim?”
He didn’t respond. Tim was too preoccupied flitting from one tab to the next, surely skimming too fast to comprehend anything meaningful. He hummed Take Me Out to the Ballgame under his breath while he. Ignored Bruce, because that’s what he was doing. His foot tapped to a rhythm Bruce can’t hear. Each strike wore Bruce’s patience down more than the last.
“Tim,” he stressed. “Answer me. Now.”
He finally deigned Bruce worthy of a glance, shrugging his shoulders like he could afford to be so cavalier. “You asked me about Perseus Jackson. I couldn’t do it, so I got people who could. Honestly, B, I don’t know what you’re so upset about.”
Don’t yell. Bruce will not yell, he does not– “Did you know he blew up a museum?” Tim spoke like he was listing a fun fact, curious and eager to share what he found interesting. “His third grade teacher spoke to the New York Times about it. Said he was always a “problem child.”
Bruce’s pulse thudded in his ears. He can’t deal with this now; one fire at a time. “You’re benched.”
Tim went still like he couldn’t process what Bruce stated. Finally, his son whipped to face him, outrage written in every line of his face. “What?” He sounded so indignant, like Bruce was the one who erred. “I didn’t do anything!”
Frustration urged Bruce’s hands to move, to act, to do something until he finally grasped the issue. He wanted to grab Tim by the shoulders and shake until sense found its way back into his head. “I asked you,” he said slowly, “To find out about your cousin. Not expose a helpless family to a media blitz. My sister’s family, Timothy! What is wrong with you?”
Hurt flashed in Tim’s eyes, but the words were in the air. It was too late to snatch them back into Bruce’s throat, and it was too late to keep the mask of neutrality from fixing itself onto Tim. “I did,” he ground out, “What you asked me to. You can’t bench me for that!”
“I can. I just did. My decision is final.” Bruce’s volume was controlled once more, but he’d be hard pressed to inject any warmth in his words. “Clearly, your judgement is impaired if you can’t recognize what you did wrong.”
“What I did wrong? You think I didn’t try? That this was my first choice?” A hysterical giggle bubbled out of Tim, discordant and out of place between them. “I had to! Why don’t you understand?”
“You’re not helping me understand, Tim. Tell me.”
“I had to!” He ranted. Tim was gripping hair in a white knuckle hold. “I had to, I had to, I had to!”
“Why?” Bruce bellowed. “Why, Timothy?”
“I–” his voice, so full or righteous fury, tapered off into confusion. “I. Don’t know. Why don’t I know?” Tim trailed off into mummers and whispers as he paced in a circle, walking the same path every few turns. Red lined the whites of Tim’s bloodshot eyes, wide and manic. The anger that grabbed ahold of Bruce abated in a cold wash of clarity as he finally looked at his son for the first time since he stepped in the cave. Tim’s flighty actions, the stiffness of his neck, the frailty of his body. Tim has always been whipcord thin, but he was healthy. He hadn’t looked like a strong gust of wind could be his downfall. Until now, at least. When did this happen? When did Bruce become so preoccupied with his own woes that he failed to notice his child wasting away before his eyes?
Bruce swallowed around the ball in his throat. Now wasn’t the time to run out of words. “Tim,” he said, as softly as he knew how. “Look at me.”
Tim did not. He kept his track, staring at nothing. Bruce approached him, slowly enough for Tim to register. He stopped right in front of his son, reaching a hand out to hold his shoulder. “Tim.”
Finally, finally, his eyes lifted from the ground. “B? When did you get here?” Tim was disoriented now, wavering on his feet like he’d sustained a head injury. Maybe he had. Maybe it was meningetis. It could be anything, and Bruce knew nothing. “I have news for you.”
“Not right now.” Bruce left no room for argument. “We’re going to the medbay.”
“Can’t.” Tim shook his head vehemently. “Busy. Compiling a file about Pers–” he cut himself off. Blood flowed from his right nostril, trailing over his lips and down his chin. A single drop fell down to the floor of the cave. Tim watched it transfixed, like it held the answers to every question he ever asked. “Oh.” A horribly delighted grin soaked in blood uncovered stained teeth. Red, red, red. It always comes back to red. “I’m bleeding.” Tim looked up again, his former rage nowhere to be found. “B? When did you get here?” His gaze was fixed on Bruce, unmoving and breathtakingly young. “My head hurts.”
Something was wrong. Bruce only wished he recognized it earlier before his son’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and he dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
Everything was a blur after that. Tim seizing in Bruce’s arms, Bruce cursing bitterly at Alfred after he wretched him away from his son’s flailing body, Leslie injecting something to make his son go so, terribly still. Bruce doesn’t know when she got there, probably some time between Tim choking on his blood and Bruce seeing Jason’s battered corpse stretching its hand out to Tim’s.
The monitor steadily beeped while Bruce watched his son’s chest rise and fall. He was alive, but Bruce couldn’t look at him. If he– if– Bruce couldn’t save Tim from this. He was as helpless as he was in the alley.
Bruce dredged Dick’s emergency number out of his brain and pressed it into his keypad. It rang two times before he picked up. “Bruce.” Dick was decidedly unimpressed, but concern was evident in his tone as well. That was fine, he had reason to be. “It’s so nice to hear from you. Any news you’d like to share?”
“It’s Tim,” Bruce managed to pry from his throat. “I need you to stay with him. Please.”
“Give me 30.” Dick answered instantly, the sound of movement loud on the line. “I was heading over today anyway. What happened?”
For the second time today, Bruce was clueless. It burned like fire licking at his skin, his own ineptitude threatening to consume him whole. “I don’t know,” he said helplessly. “He’s not well. Just. Please, Dick. Get here soon. I have to take care of something.”
“What could be more important than this?” Dick was enraged. Finding fault in Bruce had always been easy to him, but Bruce didn’t have the energy in him to respond in kind.
“Nothing, which is why I’m trusting his care to you.” Bruce sighed. This very moment, he felt every year of his age. “Sally isn’t secured, and any number of people with ill intent could be waiting to kidnap her and secure a Wayne ransom. She’s a civilian, Dick. I have to get to her.”
“Just–” Dick breathed. “Be quick, alright?”
“I will.” The dial tone was the only one who heard Bruce’s words.
___
Sally knew something was up when Paul came stumbling back scarcely 2 minutes after he left with a dazed look in his eyes.
To be honest, she had been on edge for the last few days, but she hoped against her better senses that it was just postpartum brain scrambling. Her problems had been so blessedly normal for the last few years, but all good things have to end sometime.
“Sally, dear,” Paul said. He was blinking rapidly like he had sand in his eyes. “The paparazzi is asking for you?”