Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alfred’s hand did not slow as he diced the tear-inducing onion with master precision, even as he noted Bruce’s approach. It’s no good to prompt his charge to speak first, he knows. Alfred will simply wait, as he always does.

Bruce dropped into the bistro table chair, lacking the discipline he usually had with a near imperceptible sigh, breaking the monotony of the kitchen. Alfred felt the weight of his stare as he wielded knife against vegetable, and waited still. He did not need to see his face to know that Bruce’s eyes were wide and shiny, with a slight furrow nestled between his brow. He’d donned that expression as a boy, and he wears it now as a man. It was a vulnerability for Alfred’s eyes only; hurt that didn’t take form as stony nothingness or a pained grimace. It was the face of Bruce’s pain, and Alfred wondered what could possibly be the cause of it now.

“Alfred.”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred returned steadily. His stalks of carrots were now neatly shredded into straws. With no more ingredients to prepare, Alfred smoothly flipped the cleaver in his hand and stabbed it into the cutting board. He turned around to look at Bruce, to face the conversation head-on. Alfred did a mental rundown of the children and their well-being, going over their positions over and over again in the privacy of his mind. The world, especially Gotham, had been unusually law-abiding recently, which means life-threatening injuries or kidnappings were off the table. Furthermore, the brand of hurt that Bruce was displaying did not match to an argument with a child of his.

“Did my,” Bruce began, only to cut himself off. Hm, unusually hesitant. Curiouser and curiouser. “Did one of my parents have any extramarital affairs that could have resulted in the birth of a child?” He winced after he finally bit the sentence out, but Alfred finally had more of an idea about where this conversation was going.

“What has prompted this line of questioning, Master Bruce?” Alfred’s non-answer registered instantly. He tracked the line of Bruce’s body as he fought down a flinch, he watched as his eyes got impossibly wider. Alfred sighed and sat across from his charge as he wrestled with the intangible proof that Thomas and Martha Wayne’s marriage was not an ironclad faith forged in fire.

“I will not lie to you,” Alfred stated, drawing Bruce into eye contact. “But ask yourself, is this something you truly wish to know?” Alfred already knew the answer. His boy was a born detective, and he would not stop until he got his answers, even if it hurt. Especially so.

Bruce nodded his head. Alfred firmed his resolve. Very well, then.

“When you were two years old, your father took a business trip to New York.” Bruce’s body jolted, but he did not interrupt. Alfred kept going. “He was gone for a week, but in his time away, he met a young woman by the name of Esperanza Jackson. Their… entanglement, so to speak, resulted in a baby girl.”

Bruce exhaled as if the breath was forced out of his body. His white knuckle grip threatened the integrity of the bistro table. His eyes bounced from the countertops to the cabinets to Alfred, over and over again. He wasn’t handling the news well, Alfred knew, but he was processing regardless. Good signs, good signs.

“Why…” He trailed. “Why didn’t I know?”

“Esperanza Jackson was in labor for 38 hours before she delivered her daughter via cesarean section. She lived for a scant 24 minutes to name her child before she passed due to pre-eclampsia related complications. Her brother took on Young Sally and requested that your father terminate his parental rights in exchange for Esperanza losing her life. Master Thomas agreed to his terms, especially since Mistress Martha had no interest in raising a child that was created outside of their vows.”

Bruce was pale as a sheet and unnaturally still as the weight of Alfred’s words sank in. “Daniel Jackson did not wish to maintain contact, and your father honored that. Master Thomas meant to tell you when you were older, but it became a secret that died with him.” Until today, that is. It was inevitable that one day Master Thomas’ dirty laundry would be aired, but it was not Alfred’s job to protect his posthumous image. He was always more partial to Martha, anyhow.

Bruce coughed and rumbled to clear his throat, but his voice came out choked nonetheless. “Did you try to speak with him? After they died?” Did you deny me a sister, is what he did not ask. Alfred heard the words regardless.

“I contacted Mr. Jackson a month after their funeral, and he maintained his stance. I respected his wishes afterwards.” Alfred spoke as gently as he could, yet the words still landed like a blow from Bane. He stood and moved swiftly to the fridge, retrieving the store-bought swill that both Bruce and Jason favor. A bottle for his charge, and another for Alfred to suffer through. It’s not his preferred poison, but a certain camaraderie can be found in sharing cheap beer.

Alfred slid a bottle to the other side of the bistro table, where it met Bruce’s hand. He cleared half of it in two pulls and held his head in his hands, curling inwards until his posture vaguely resembled that of a shrimp. Alfred drank and grimaced all the while.

“I could’ve lived my whole life without knowing about her,” Bruce said, interrupting the loudest silence Alfred ever heard. “I wouldn’t have known if Barbara and Tim hadn’t developed the tracker that scans hospital databases for our DNA.” He barked out a harsh laugh that sounded like it scraped the edges of his throat. “It’s a failsafe to ensure we can always find each other if we get injured. Instead, it found my illegitimate sister. I have a sister, Alfred.”

“That you do. Master Bruce. What do you intend to do about it?”

“I don’t know. What should I do?” Bruce didn’t groan, but it was a near thing. His bottle was one swallow away from being empty.

“You do know,” Alfred reminded. “You determined your path long before you came to me.” Bruce didn’t speak after that, and neither did he. They finished their beers in the quiet.

“Sally was admitted because she went into labor,” Bruce stated abruptly. His voice was mechanical, but his eyes betrayed the mania within. “I’m an Uncle, Alfred. I have a niece now, and I never would have known. I have to change that.”

“Very well then.” Alfred took a single second to go over all of the possibilities, all the ways this messy situation could end. Then, he steeled himself and continued. “I trust Mistress Sally is well?”

“She was discharged a day after the birth. Unusually early, but there were no complications. She and Estelle got a clean bill of health. They’ve been home for three days now.”

“I trust you have her address, then?”

“Of course.” Bruce looked at Alfred as if he were asking him if the sky was blue. “I was going to leave shortly.”

“I see,” Alfred said, dry as the desert. “While that idea has merit, Master Bruce, I do wonder how a woman with a newborn not yet a week old will react to a billionaire at her doorstep claiming to be her brother.”

“Oh,” Bruce realized. “Hm.”

“Hm, indeed. You will wait a month, and then establish contact. Settling in with a baby is no easy task.”

“That’s a good idea,” Bruce conceded begrudgingly. It did not change the fact that he wanted to meet her now.

“Yes,” Alfred agreed. “Now, come help me with dinner. Master Damian will be home within the hour.”

Bruce’s eyes were round once more, but for an entirely different reason. Alfred knew better than to take his eyes off of him in a mood like this one. The boy may be helpless in the kitchen, but today, he will be Alfred’s sous chef.

Soon enough, life will change. But for this day, and the few weeks after it, Sally Jackson will have her peace. Alfred will make sure of it.

Chapter Text

Here is the truth: For nearly a decade, Bruce Wayne’s parents were his favorite people in the world.

Bruce loved them; he remembers that clearly. He cherished his father’s rumbling laughs and his mother’s unrestrained giggles. He adored the way his father would catch his mother’s arm as she walked by, just to lay a kiss on the back of her hand. He would watch them hold to each other with gentle care and sway to Clair de Lune, and think: One day I’ll get married and be just like them.

Here is the truth: Bruce Wayne did not get a chance to know his parents.

Bruce was scarcely eight years old before Thomas and Martha Wayne left him forever. His memories of them now are closer to smoke than something solid, weathered away by time and trauma both. Bruce can’t remember the smell of his father’s cologne, but he does recall how the metallic scent of Thomas Wayne’s blood sat in the back of his throat. Bruce cannot remember Martha Wayne’s favored jewelry piece, but he knows he’ll never forget how her necklace popped and rained down in a pearlescent barrage of hail. Bruce guards the precious few memories he has of them with the zealousness of a dragon, and if those memories are all positive? It’s because he was never allowed to see the bad.

Thomas and Martha Wayne were held suspended in the rose-tinted cast of martyrdom. Forever loved, forever mourned, and the driving force behind the fight that Bruce has sworn his life to. They were beyond reproach.

Bruce doesn’t know how to reconcile that Thomas Wayne was undeserving of such a status.

Here is the truth: Thomas Wayne was not a good husband. He might not have been a good father, either.

Thomas Wayne broke his vows to have an affair that ultimately ended the life of a woman he never should’ve known. He invited strife and chaos into his home, he hurt Bruce’s mother, just because of his own selfishness. Thomas Wayne held Bruce in his arms, knowing there was a little girl out there who deserved love from him all the same.

Dead men tell no tales, but Bruce would drive the shovel into his father’s grave himself if only the man would tell him why.

Bruce reread the same line on R&D’s newest quarterly report once, then twice, then three times before he sighed and raised his head, only to meet eyes with the portrait of his parents across his office. He looked so much like his father, he knew, but the shape of his lips and the slant of his chin came from Martha Kane. Is it the same for Sally? Does she look like Thomas, too? Or does she take after the dead woman who used her last moments to give her a name? Bruce wants to know, he needs to know, with an intensity that burns him from the inside out.

He wrote off the workday as a lost cause before striding to the elevator with a focus that Brucie Wayne usually lacks. No one stopped him, and he wouldn’t allow anyone to do so. His mind was made up, preparations were to be finalized. Bruce has waited long enough.

Tomorrow, he goes to Manhattan.

___

Sally quietly breathed out a sigh of relief as she sank into the couch. Estelle was changed, burped, well-fed, and taking a nap. She was a finicky little thing who preferred to be held at all times, and would let her rage be known to the entirety of New York if she had her way. Thankfully, Sally has done nothing to earn her ire, so she can take a well-earned rest in her favorite spot while Victor and Jack argue about some business deal as background noise.

Paul dropping a kiss on her head brought Sally out of her musings, and they smiled at each other in a way that would make Percy say “aaawww!” in that earnest-and-sarcastic tone of his. They may look like lovesick fools, but that’s okay, because Sally is one. Her son is starting his first year of university, she’s married to the love of her life, and her daughter is healthy and so wonderfully vibrant.

After living with the all but guaranteed knowledge that her child would die young, after Gabe, after the Olympians and all of their messes, Sally didn’t know if it was possible for her to be this happy. Now, in this present, she feels so much joy that she wouldn’t be shocked if it spilled out.

“The Beast is down,” Paul whispered theatrically. “Now’s your chance to get at least 45 minutes. Quick, before she senses weakness.”

“Where’s the blanket?” Sally hissed, scanning the family room for the gigantic throw.

“Caught in the line of fire,” Paul intoned sadly. “It sustained wounds from three barf attacks.”

“Damn,” Sally sighed. “Come here then. I need to steal your body warmth.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Paul assumed form to complete an enthusiastic swan dive over the back of the couch, but was interrupted by a crisp four-beat knock. Instantly, they silenced themselves and exchanged weary glances.

They were expecting no company: no demigods should be visiting in the middle of exam week, Paul’s family isn’t in town, and Sally’s friends from the book club just dropped off a casserole two days ago. The options of who it could be were minimal, and Sally is in no mood to entertain either deity or solicitor.

The knock echoed through their apartment again. Paul hesitantly walked to answer it, urged forward by his Midwest sensibilities and curiosity. Sally moved from her warm, comfortable spot to stand behind the wall just beyond the hallway, leaning in carefully to listen.

“May I help you?” Paul inquired, with his Teacher Voice powered to 75%.

“Yes, um,” The voice that responded was a deep baritone. It did not sound fit for hesitancy. “You must be Paul. Is Sally home?”

“Why are you asking?” A hard edge was creeping into Paul’s tone, and Sally could see his body language shift into something more grounded. “What is your business here?”

“I…” The unnamed man trailed, before clearing his throat. “My apologies, I’ve gotten ahead of myself. My name is Bruce, and I have reason to believe Sally Jackson and I are siblings.”

She was standing still, but Sally could hear her heartbeat in her ears.

She’s considered so many possibilities for her life, evaluated every path and choice like it were the difference between life and death. For over a decade, it was. But a… a brother, is something Sally never accounted for. Something she never thought she’d have to account for.

“Sally?” Paul called, alarmed. “Do you wanna take this over?”

Sally allowed herself five seconds more of panicking before she forced calm into her adrenaline-ridden brain. “Yeah.” She stepped around the corner into the hallway, no longer under the sanctuary of the wall. “Come in, Bruce. It seems as if we have some talking to do.”

Paul removed himself from his guard post and let the mystery man through the door. Bruce walked in with his head down and carefully toed his loafers off at the rack. Sally examined the way the tailored lines of his suit draped over his tall body. The watch on his wrist could be worth nothing less than ten thousand dollars, and the easy way he glides without a care speaks of a lifetime with money.

Sally’s weariness increases.

Bruce looked up, scanning the apartment with open curiosity. Finally, his eyes met Sally’s.

They both gasped like the air was ripped from their lungs.

Two times now, Sally has seen her own eyes reflected back at her; first, when Estelle was placed in her waiting arms a month ago. The second, when Bruce came and delivered life-changing news on her doorstep.

Sally never thought of herself as a sister, but it seems like now is the time to start.

Chapter Text

Sally and Bruce didn’t look similar at first glance.

Bruce could’ve been one of his students’ beloved Cullens for how pale he was, while Sally was a warmed bronze that reminded Paul of shared mugs of coffee passed back and forth in a sleepy haze as the morning report drones in the background. Bruce’s hair was black and pin straight, the opposite of Sally’s brown spiral shaped curls. He was tall where Sally was not, and as biased as Paul may be, Bruce was not nearly as pretty as his wife.

And yet- after a minute of deeper observation, Paul can see some commonalities.

Their ears had the same elfin peak (“Elf ears!” Percy and Paul chortled while a decidedly unamused Sally gave them the stink eye-) and their noses were mirror images of one another. Their eyes, though, that’s what made Paul believe this man without so much as a blood test or notarized document. Bruce’s eyes were the same grey tinged blue Paul had only seen in Sally, set in the same shape. It was near uncanny, but not as jarring as it could be. Paul could work with this.

“Would you care for something to drink?” Paul asked pleasantly. “Water, juice, tea maybe? Don’t be afraid to ask.”

Bruce cleared his throat before answering. “No thank you.” He didn’t seem like a man of many words, that one.

Paul nodded and gestured to the kitchen nook. “Let’s sit,” he suggested. Sally squeezed his hand in thanks, and Paul gladly returned it. After years of Greek (and then Roman! Paul still had questions.) mishaps that made the myths seem tame, Paul was an expert at rolling with the punches. Mess this may be, it was a mortal one.

Paul could do mortal.

—

Bruce has been in Sally’s home for a scant five minutes, but he’s managed to change everything in the time that he was under her roof. Her older brother explained in a carefully neutral voice that he found her after he explored his (their?) father’s documents. He spilled the tale that his butler-father told him, that Tío Danny rebuffed the Waynes two times before. He would keep Sally with him, he said, until the day he was dead and gone.

That day was here, evidently. He wasn’t alive to refuse the Waynes a third time. Daniel Jackson died alone, stubbornly mad that Sally would not get rid of Percy. His last words to her were sorrowful and bitter, “You’re just like your mother.” His last act of love was to leave her a little cabin on the shores of Montauk. Sally will always love him for that.

The papers to relinquish parental rights were grasped carefully in Sally’s hands, proof in dark ink that a dead man named Thomas Wayne had been given her up. Bruce had given her a picture of him too. Thomas Wayne looked like a stern man in his time, chips of ice where his eyes should be and a frowning mouth turned downwards. He didn’t look like he was capable of raising Sally with the love she had known. Sally was viciously glad that both she and her new brother took very little features from him.

Sally looked back up at Bruce, examining him once more. He didn’t seem like a man who outwardly emotes too much, but something about him felt apprehensive. He was describing his job at the company he inherited, Wayne Enterprises. The Waynes have nurtured it for over a century to turn it into the multi-billion dollar cooperation it is now. Bruce barely has to do anything except let the entity his father gifted him run itself.

Thomas Wayne, the business man. Thomas Wayne, husband to a woman who was not Sally’s mother and father to Bruce. Thomas Wayne, Sally’s father who was shot and killed in an alley. Thomas Wayne, who had the audacity to die from his wounds before Sally could call him a bastard to his face.

She processed her anger and put it away for when Bruce wasn’t sitting there rambling about his life in Gotham, waiting for Sally to say something to him.

“The sky is constantly grey and it never stops raining,” he says wryly, “but it’s home. I’ve lived in a few different places, but I’ll always be a Gothamite.”

Paul hummed in understanding and nearly began extolling the virtues of his beloved Green Bay before Sally broke her silence.

“It sounds like you’re happy there,” she said honestly.

“I am.” Bruce was staring at Sally imploringly again, as if he wanted to read her mind. “I would love to show your family around. She should’ve been home to you too.”

Sally shared a glance with Paul. A thousand words were fit into a few seconds, decisions contemplated and discussed.

“It’s okay. I made one here.” Sally reached out and put her hand on Bruce’s arm, feeling his tenseness. He reminded her of a coiled spring. “But we’d love to visit someday. It’s nice to meet you, Bruce.”

His resulting smile was slight but true. Bruce’s hand came up to rest on top of Sally’s, the weight of it reminded Sally that this was real and not a scene from a budget cable movie. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

Estelle chose that moment to wail, her heart aching cries going right to Sally’s chest. Paul, bless his heart, excused himself to soothe their daughter and (hopefully) lull her back to sleep. It was just Sally and her new brother now, but that wasn’t so bad.

“She wasn’t supposed to wake up for at least another 20 minutes,” Sally confided in a faux whisper. “She must’ve sensed something was different.”

Bruce huffed and glanced to the side as if he was reminiscing. “I never got any of mine that young.”

“Oh,” she gasped delightedly. “How many do you have?” Sally’s life has shifted once again. She’s a sister and an aunt in one day.

“Five.” Talking about his children is the most pleased Sally has heard him. Here they have common ground. “Dick, Jason, Cassandra, Tim, and Damian. They’re…” Bruce trailed, “Everything.”

“Tell me about them,” Sally urged.

“Dick is the kindest person I know,” Bruce started immediately. “He’s one of the most talented acrobats in the world, and he gets so passionate about the causes he cares about that he’d argue with a statue if it disagreed with him. Jason was-” Bruce swallowed, and instantly Sally could detect the pain of someone with a child lost to them. She would know. “Jason’s a special kind of resilient, like a flower growing through pavement. He loves classic literature and cooking, he’s the only one of mine that never gave me trouble about going to school.”

“Cass,” Bruce continued “is the quietest of my children, but she cares so much about everyone, Sally. If you saw her dance it would make you cry. Her and Tim are thick as thieves, they’re always doing some shenanigan. He’s too intelligent for his own good, that one, I think he could build a laser gun with nothing but a paper clip and a mirror. Damian is my youngest but I’ve never seen someone so sure of themself. He donated money right from my account to animal activist groups without asking and told me “it needed to be done.”

The picture he pulled up on his phone while he was talking showed a brood of dark-haired teenagers and young adults, smiling and scowling and grimacing in Christmas pajamas. Sally laughed and imagined her brother’s children running circles around him.

“You have a beautiful family,” Sally said warmly. “I can’t wait to meet them.”

“Thank you.” Bruce’s posture was less tense than before. He wasn’t the image of relaxation, but it seemed like talking about his children had done him a world of good. “What about yours? Estelle sounds ready to rule the world already.”

Sally’s smile got impossibly wider. “It wouldn’t shock me if she grew up to do it, she’s the most demanding baby I’ve had. Percy was so calm, I think he knew I wanted to cry too.”

“Percy?” Bruce asked with a raised brow.

“My son,” Sally stated proudly. “He’s off to university, but he’ll be back home soon since the semester is ending. He's upset he’s missing Estelle’s baby days, I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to know he has new cousins!” That aren’t trying to kill him, Sally doesn’t say.

“I don’t know why, but I thought it was just Estelle,” Bruce mused.

Sally shook her head. “It was just him and I for the longest, but we made it work. He’s-” Sally’s phone rang, and she beamed at the listed contact. “Calling right now, actually. One second, Bruce.”

Sally stepped in the hallway as she swiped green to answer, and held the phone to her ear right as Percy greeted her. “Hey, mom.”

“Hi baby,” Sally took a deep breath and nearly rocked on her toes. “I’m gonna have to call you back. You won’t believe what happened today.”

(God, her brother was from Jersey. That’s even worse than Paul being from Wisconsin.)

—

Under the table, Bruce tapped a quick message to Tim. He has a gap in his knowledge, and it appears it needed to be corrected.

Chapter Text

Tim was four hours and one red bull deep in a case study when he realized it happened again.

The Bruce specific notification chime broke his focus from the newest breakthroughs in biotechnology, vibrating obnoxiously loud three times in a row. It came from the Average Civilian Tim Drake phone, but anything from Bruce warranted checking regardless. God knows he didn’t want to be bat-glared the next time he was in the cave.

Did you check in on your cousin like I asked?

The energy drink waged war against Tim’s stomach lining as he read the text over again. It was worded harmlessly enough that an onlooker wouldn’t suspect anything, but he knew Bruce wasn’t referring to Kate. No, he meant Perseus Jackson, son of his newly-discovered-as-of-three-weeks ago sister. The same Perseus Jackson who kept slipping Tim’s mind like he’s a half remembered dream as opposed to a person who matters to the future of the family.

He’s still susceptible to error, one instance of forgetting would be feasible. Two times could be chalked up to coincidence, even, but anything over three is a pattern. This marks the eighth time Tim was distracted by something that just happened to catch his attention after he sat down with explicit intent to look into Perseus. Pride isn’t a virtue, Tim knows, but his mind is the sharpest weapon he has. Tim does not forget a task, especially a Bruce appointed one. Something is wrong.

He’s been around magic and its users enough to recognize when it’s involved. The question is, though, what passive (or active) force could be powerful enough to redirect thought around a single person? What is it about Perseus Jackson that so desperately needs to be not noticed?

By all means, he should’ve lived an average life like any other teenager. Troubled, sure, but that’s nearly everyone these days. The spell seemed to divert thought from him alone; Sally, Paul, and Estelle were unaffected. Tim could do comprehensive deep dives on them with no issue: he knew their first grade teachers and that they were both at the top of their class at their respective high schools, he knew that Paul has never had a single cavity to his name, and that Sally’s life could be ripped from a novel popular with women aged anywhere between 35 and 55. New as she was, Tim could even note Estelle’s blood type from the top of his head (o negative.)

Perseus, though, was a different matter. Even now, thinking about him was a hassle. He really shouldn’t be an issue, Tim was certain anything he did could be overlooked. And really, there were so many other things he could be doing; the Maronis were increasingly active in the Narrows, the new report from R&D needed to be examined, Cass was-

Tim stopped. Nine times now.

Tim reached for a stray notepad and pen, clicking the tip in and out as he weighed it in his hand. He fought against himself to write what he knew; Perseus’ name, his age, his parents- his parents? A sudden urge to teach Damian to skateboard cropped up, but Tim pushed past it. He had to be getting closer. Narrow eyes stared at Sally and Paul’s names are scrawled in near intelligible script, but here’s the thing: Paul is his step parent. Meaning, the father is unknown.

Tim’s left eye twitched as a vicious migraine brewed at his temples, due in small part to hunger, and mostly to whatever force was ravaging his brain. Whoever was responsible for the spell really didn’t want Tim thinking about Perseus’ biological dad. When holding the notepad got too difficult, he traded it in favor of his phone. Bruce’s message was still there, demanding a response. Tim didn’t have it yet, but he would soon enough. It was time to outsource.

working on it, he tapped. The next step was easy. Everyone loves Wayne drama; if Tim couldn’t uncover the mystery of Perseus Jackson himself, someone else would. One anonymous email with attached proof sent off to the bloodhounds eager for the next hot scoop later, Tim didn’t fight the redirection this time. Patrol was in a few hours, and he was tired. A short nap wouldn’t hurt.

One Week Later

As a rule of thumb, Percy’s apartment was noisy.

New Rome isn’t a quiet community by any stretch of the imagination, but Percy was born and raised in the city. New York’s cacophony flows through his blood in equal measure with the saltwater; raised voices and blaring horns is his standard. Quiet for Percy is the dazed shuffling of the neighbor three doors down, sticking his key in the wrong door before moving on to the next. Quiet is the purposefully off-pitch songs his mom sings while she’s attempting to salvage a pair of jeans that have seen better, griffin free days. Quiet is the noise pollution of a traffic jam, and many other things that New Rome doesn’t and will never have.

Once it hits 9, everything slows to a stop. An hour later, the only people outside are the street cleaners. A schedule as strict as New Rome’s makes sense for such militaristically inclined people, but damn if it doesn’t make it hard when he’s hungry at midnight and nowhere is open. No Taco Bell, no corner store, no snack guy selling Famous Amos and Lay’s out the back of his car. New Rome’s quiet is absolute, and it grates on Percy to no end.

Curfew was a thing at Camp, but there, he at least had the comfort of being surrounded by Greeks who knew and understood the inherent chaos that came with their birth. The orderliness here was stifling, it threatened to suffocate Percy at times.

He compensated for the loss in a way that would put him on his neighbors shit list, if he had any. Being a former praetor had perks, stand alone housing was one of them. Percy took extra care to be as loud as he pleased; showers complete with musical numbers, long phone calls and Iris messages, TV on never ending reruns, the works. He discovered studying was far more effective if he read aloud, so Percy employed the tactic on a daily basis. His grades thanked him for it, and his notoriously unimpressed Sports Nutrition professor looked increasingly more disgruntled every time he couldn’t find a flaw in his papers about aerobic respiration or whatever bodily function. Still, it was hard. Percy missed his family. He missed his city.

Days like this, though, made it easier.

Frank was in charge of the radio, so Lauren Hill and D’Angelo sang about love at maximum volume. The potato peeler glided with surety in his hand as he bobbed his head to the beat. Hazel wielded the chef’s knife with wicked precision against her foes: three bell peppers, two red and one green. The thud of her blade against the cutting board synced in time with the bass of the song. Percy was making quick work of his onion while keeping a watchful eye on the timer above the oven. He had twenty dollars riding on a perfectly unburnt roast, and he was going to succeed, thank you very much.

“I mean,” Frank continued as he gestured with his peeler, “The Curse of Achilles isn’t infallible. Insta-kill spot aside, you don’t need to be stabbed to die.”

“I’m pretty sure appendicitis could do the job,” Percy added. He jabbed his knife firmly in the cutting board and stood, stretching his aching bones. He took the plates of diced vegetables and potatoes to dump in a casserole dish, stirring them in olive oil and salt. “I used to be terrified of it, I thought my organs were a ticking time bomb.”

“How would you even go about fixing that?” Hazel wandered. Half of her hair was twisted, the other half was still freely coiled and waiting to meet the same fate. The three of them would finish it after dinner. “It’s not like normal surgical intervention would work. Could they take it out your mouth?”

“Who knows.” Percy was the most recent bearer of the Curse, but that was one issue he was glad to avoid. “Tiber washed it away before I could find out. What else?”

“Oxygen deprivation,” Frank suggested sagely. “Breathing is important. Being crushed causes that and starvation.”

Percy shook his head. “Too normal. Give me something crazy.”

“Easy.” Hazel’s eyes gleamed as she envisioned what Percy was sure to be a scenario of inevitable doom. “If our hypothetical enemy had the Curse of Achilles, we draw and quarter them. Nothing can beat being drawn and quartered.” Clearly, he was right.

“Well,” Percy considered. “That’ll do it.”

Frank’s dopey smile was at direct odds at what Hazel said, but Percy understood the feeling. “You know so much about ancient execution techniques,” he admired. “You’re so cool.”

“The coolest,” Percy agreed fondly.

Hazel’s shy smile was worth more than an elephant’s weight in gold, but she was interrupted before she could reply. A man appeared before them decked out in a black tracksuit. His brown hair curled at his ears, rustling a little in the wind that wasn’t there. He looked like he was up to no good; and Percy confirmed as much when the god winked at him.

“Hermes?” Percy’s voice sounded incredulous to his own ears. “Not that it’s not good to see you, man, but what’s up? I’m not due back in New York for like, another week.”

“Ah, not a social call, I’m afraid.” Hermes’ passively impish grin seemed to be even more mischievous than usual, and Percy had a sudden inclination to check his pockets. “I’m here on business! One express delivery for Percy Jackson. Sign here,” He gestured to a summoned clipboard, “And I’ll be on my way.”

“Hm.” Percy couldn’t have sounded more skeptical if he tried. “Sure. I haven’t done anything to offend you recently, right?” Plucking an actual pen from the counter, Percy scribbled what could generously be called his initials and tried to feel as if he wasn’t signing his life away. He was no Obi-Wan, but he had a bad feeling about this.

Nah,” Hermes fluttered his free hand outward as if to banish the thought away. “No more than your usual. Come on Perce, is it a crime to ensure Olympus Postal Service is running smoothly?”

A muffled sneeze drew their attention to a kneeling Frank and Hazel, heads bowed and eyes firmly on the linoleum. Percy would tell them to get up, but engineering a situation for his god friend to smite his best-Roman-friends seemed like a terrible idea. “Bless you,” Percy said to Frank, staring imploringly at Hermes all the while. You’re scaring them, he thought-prayed. Do something.

“At ease, praetors.” Hermes stated, his tone the slightest bit harder as Mercury influenced his words. “You’re fine to proceed as usual.” As they shuffled into their stools, Hazel shot Percy her patented Be Careful™ look. Nodding in ascent, Percy turned his gaze back to Hermes.

His eyes narrowed further as he stared at the grocery store bag hanging from the god’s palm. It didn’t look like it would turn his skin green or cause Percy to hang from the ceiling by his ankles, but one can never be too cautious. Conner and Travis had to get their behavior from someone, after all.

”Hurry up!” George urged. I” have a couple hundred drachma riding on your reaction.”

”Hey,” Martha said chidingly. Don’t rile him up. No cheating!

“Shush,” Hermes, for lack of a better word, hissed at his snakes. “Go on, Percy. Open it.”

Assured with the fact that Pandora’s Pithos was safe in Hestia’s Hearth, Percy reached and grabbed what felt like a magazine. The furrow of his brow was entrenched deep enough in his forehead to become permanent as he threw the pages down on his dinner table hurriedly. There, under the hanging light he needed to change, the cover revealed itself.

Emblazoned across the front page in bolded white capital letters were the words “NEW WAYNES ON THE BLOCK?”

For all that Percy’s standing on stable ground, it feels like he’s hurled himself off a cliff for the hundredth time in his life. No matter how many times he read it, the headline stayed the same. A picture of himself, his at the time heavily pregnant mom, and Paul served as the backdrop. Percy knew it well, he currently has it hanging in his living room. It was one shot out of many of the family photos they’d taken earlier that year, and somehow, People magazine had gotten a hold of them.

Percy can’t deny that he’s been expecting something, but that’s par for the course. Percy’s instincts are honed after an uncountable number of near death experiences, his weariness is earned a thousand times over. It’s just, he figured it would be Ye Olde Ancient Enemy #29 coming back for revenge, King Thunder Dick finally giving into that unscratchable urge to smite Percy off the face of the Earth, or even the Mist giving up under the weight of godly stupidity. None of it would shock him anymore.

But this– some rich guy named Bruce coming out of the woodwork to introduce himself as his Mom’s brother and successfully getting them exposed, takes the cake. This is new territory, all of Percy’s family drama firmly stays on his Dad’s side of the fence. Paul’s people would rather die than intentionally be rude, and his Mom’s were supposed to be gone.

Percy tried not to freak out, but he was fighting a losing battle. “What.”

His ear rang as he stared at the words covering the page. “Everything You Need to Know About Sally, the Newest Artist of the Family!” was across from “DILF Alert: Who is Paul Blofis?” which of course, was above “Pretty Boy Percy: Former Classmates Tell All.” Breathe. In and out. Inhale, exhale. “What.”

“Woah.” Frank’s voice jarred Percy from his spiraling thoughts, his eyes wider than saucers. “Dude, you’re in a magazine.”

“Who are the Waynes?” Hazel asked, heart achingly concerned. The sheer bewilderment on her face would usually be enough to make Percy crack a smile, but now really wasn’t the time.

“Hey,” Hermes called, more cautious than before. Distantly, Percy took note of the tremors under his feet. “How you feeling, buddy?”

Angry. Really, really angry. The beep of the timer signaled it was time to check his roast, but Percy couldn't care less if it hardened into a brick. His ears popped as his rage crescendoed. “Motherf-”

Percy’s ringtone cut him off, his mom’s face flashing on the screen. His hand moved on autopilot to answer.

“Hey, baby,” She said breathlessly. The floor stopped trembling. “Something happened. I need you to-”

“Stay in New Rome?” He finished. “Not a chance. I’ll see you soon.”

It was time he went home.

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?”