Chapter Text
1.5 Hours before touchdown in New Jersey….
Bruce loads the Batmobile into the cargo bay of the T-plane. He also makes a note to find out which league member gave his kid access to a plane. Given the jet’s astounding similarities to the Batplane, the idea that perhaps the kids had made it themselves under Dick’s direction is becoming extremely plausible.
However it came about, it’s nonetheless helpful now. They load the criminals into the cells of the jet- with the size of some of these crooks, it’s a tight fit, which Bruce can only think serves them right.
He sets the jet on autopilot to the Rockaway Meta Holding Facility- an old oil rig 70 miles off the coast of Far Rockaway which had been decommissioned half a century ago. Bruce didn’t find it particularly flattering, but records had been clean since the start of the operation so the JLA had no basis on which to veto the place.
Bruce spends every few seconds there looking over his shoulder to check Dick is alright in the medbay. The boy takes his fussing with a surprising amount of scowling for someone who just got kidnapped. Right after his brother. What was Bruce going to do with these kids?
They arrive in what feels like ages to Bruce, who is already stretched to his last nerve hypothesizing on the leads provided by the facial recognition hits on his youngest. He wants to drop everything and run, but leaving a few dozen unidentified, superpowered criminals in a precinct ill-equipped to deal with them would be indubitably stupid. So he sucks it up and slams the throttle to unhealthy speeds to satiate his impatience.
When they dismount, they’re greeted by a unit of the NY Meta-Specialist Task Force. Bruce notices a few of them look green at the sight of the rogues, whilst others are bouncing on their feet in excitement.
A lady pushes to the front, dark hair pulled up in a rugged pony tail, plain black dress, Greek complexion, cutting green eyes and a beautiful face.
Her name badge reads:
H. CATE
The man beside her, curly hair close shaved to his head and wearing a thin, pencil mustache, steps up to shake his hand.
“Batman,” he greets. “I’m officer Matthew. This is the NYPD’s MSU. We’re usually led by Sgt. Shyam but she had an emergency come up. Ms Cate is an MSU specialist from Washington who’ll be overseeing this case on the sarge’s behalf.”
Ms Cate shakes his hand with a smile, eyes twinkling with something like mischief. “Batman. I’ve heard loads,” she welcomes, voice in a rolling timbre.
If he were Brucie, he might say something like, ‘only good things, I hope’ and kiss her on the hand.
As it is, Bruce just nods and turns to help the officers unload the criminals with the Titans. After admonishing Dick to stay put where he was. Superficial wounds though they were, they weren’t going to heal if the boy kept lugging around criminals the size of miniature elephants.
And wasn’t that weird. Everything about these guys just screamed oddity. If he wasn’t preoccupied, this case would be first priority.
Bruce yanks his last convict up and shoves him into the containment cell- and perhaps he’s a little rough with it but he’d very much rather be with Barry, who’s scouting the area where Percy’s facial recognition had turned up. Clark had been called to an earthquake in Indonesia at the most inopportune moment and Martian Manhunter was following leads on the rest of the kids with NH. Things were mostly going to plan. But they were going at a snail’s pace.
“What will be happening to them?” he asks Cate, as she comes up beside him in the corridor.
“We’ll be moving them to Iron Heights Penitentiary. At least until ARGUS decides where they’ll be staying permanently,” she tells him.
He can feel her staring at him so he turns to meet the gaze. There’s something about it that makes him stop in place.
“You’re very smart aren’t you, for a human?” she drawls, her voice silky smooth.
Bruce narrows his eyes.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he grumbles.
“Oh, nothing,” Cate says, waving a dismissive hand as she keeps walking. Strutting was a more fitting term. She walks with the strange confidence of someone who never feels out of place, the skirt of her dress flicking into the air with every step, enlarging her presence.
“I was just stating facts. You’ve seen a lot in your life compared to the average man, huh Hero?”
Bruce doesn’t answer. It’s rare someone tries him when he’s in the suit but not unprecedented. Except, the crease of Cate’s eye is less coy and more predatory. It makes Bruce speed up minusculely, despite himself.
“I have to say, it’s hard to keep things from you. You’re doing well.”
The words make no coherent sense- a series of non sequiturs that make him tense.
“Is that a threat?” he growls, the pair coming to a stop at the doors.
Cate laughs, eyes mirthful.
“It’s appreciation. I rarely see humans who love so strongly they can break reality,” she says, once again- nonsensically.
Then she snaps her fingers. The sound echoes through the corridor, reverberating off steel walls like a physical thing. Bruce feels something shift in the air. His hand reaches for his belt, waiting, listening, preparing to strike.
Nothing happens.
Cate only smiles, closed lip and pushes out through the doors. He hears her murmur, “What an interesting family,” on her way out.
Bruce shakes his head, wondering, but no pieces come together in his mind. Perhaps she was just an overzealous fan.
Unbeknownst to himself, reality reshapes itself in his mind.
____
“Really? Where?” Dick asks, rushing up to the computer attached the side of the passenger pit and pulling up the file on Percy’s case. He bites his lip as it loads up, fingers tapping erratically on the console.
“That’s what we’re finding out. I sent the Flash immediately. He’s to update me on any urgent information.”
Dick reads the context for what it is. No call. So no urgent leads.
He tries not to make it obvious as he slumps in the chair, but Bruce can see the line of his shoulders fall.
He walks over, the exhaustion of the last few days weighing on his shoulders. With it though, is relief, soothing the ache. He had one son with him. He’d find the other.
He opens up his communicator on the computer, letting it play on speaker. “Batman to Flash. Any updates?”
“Jesus, Bats,” says Barry, which immediately makes everyone on the plane tense.
“What?” growls Bruce.
“Have you seen the news?”
Dick immediately pulls it up on one of the screens, the latest headlines carving themselves into Bruce’s retinas.
“The police have not confirmed whether the attack is related to terrorist activity but social media accounts claim the boy at the scene was the earlier presumed-dead Perseus Jackson Wayne-” rattles off the news reporter.
“Flash, what’s going on? What are you seeing?” Bruce asks, tuning out the woman. He needs a clear picture before he can focus on the rambling report of speculation.
Dick minimizes the news reports, bringing up the series of facial recognition hits that the Batcomputer back in Gotham had compiled.
Two are grainy CCTV footage- one near a diner, the other in a Long Island bus depot. Both show vague figures which match Percy’s stature, snapshots of what might be his face, but leave them unable to discern much else.
The last picture is an Instagram post by @haileysorezzi18, a teenage girl’s account, who had posted a blurry yet quality enough picture of Percy with a caption: “New York is wild. Just saw a kid attack an octogenarian 😮.”
Then in the comments: “UPDATE!!!! He blew up the bus! Girlies its a miracle Im breathing rn…”
“What the hell man?” Wally says, watching Dick scroll down the post. “They think Percy did that?”
Bruce is just glad they finally have real proof- his son is alive. Even if engaging in inadvisable activity.
Percy’s face is frozen in a still image of determination and frustration. His outfit is ragged- and different from the one he was wearing. It’s an orange t-shirt and a pair of scuffed white-washed jeans. The way the boy is twisting away from the camera obscures most of the black graphics on the shirt.
His hair is sticking out wildly and he stands before the backdrop of a bus. Bruce snatches the mouse and zooms in on the picture.
“He’s injured.”
His hands were red, maybe blood- it was unclear.
“It’s chaos out here, Batman. The entire bus has exploded. It’s a smoking husk.”
Bruce’s heart skips a beat before he extrapolates that this happened after the picture was taken. According to the newly submitted reports on the NYPD database, there had been no casualties on the bus.
“Turn on your cameras, Flash,” he commands.
There’s a beep on the receiver before the screen with the database shifts into a video feed, live from the speedster’s cowl.
The remaining Titans converge behind Bruce, trying to get a look at the footage. Barry was right. The only remains of the bus from the picture is a skeletal frame, charred and smoking.
“Bats…”
“What?”
“The witnesses are corroborating the girl’s report. That some kids attacked a group of old women and then did something to ignite the gas tank.”
“Percy wouldn’t do that,” scowls Dick.
“I know kid… but the media’s already been speculating about teenage rebellion. This is only making it worse.”
Dick makes a noise of indignation. “He did not kick Firefly’s butt every Arkham breakout to get accused of being a pyromaniac!”
“Flash,” Bruce interrupts, picking up on the speedster’s wording. “They ‘did something’ to ignite the gas tank? That’s not very specific.”
“As far as I can tell, no-one saw them do it. But they were the only ones on that side of the bus when the tank ignited.”
“Why would Percy work with random kids, even if he was indulging in pyromania? None of it makes sense,” comments Garth.
“Who are the other kids?” asks Donna.
Dick enlarges the CCTV footage again. One of the others is a blonde girl. The other is a brunette boy. Both are around Percy’s age.
“The CCTVs come with a few seconds of footage, before and after.”
“Play it.”
Dick clicks play on the video from near the diner. It’s not very enlightening. The kids are just walking along a stretch of road, seemingly bickering with each other. Bruce catches the indicative movement of Percy rolling his eyes, which he’d recognize anywhere.
“Uh. So, don’t hate me, but he doesn’t exactly seem worried to me?” Wally comments.
“He’s not. Annoyed. A little pissed. Tired. Not scared,” Dick confirms.
“Play the next one,” Bruce orders.
The second footage is more concerning than the last one, but also more along the lines of what Bruce was expecting. It doesn’t make it easier to watch.
The kids rush to the counter- Percy only slightly in frame. The brunette pulls something from his pocket. A wallet? And empties it on the table. He’s having a conversation with the lady there. From the way he bounces on his feet and leans onto the counter, Bruce can tell the conversation is hurried.
Percy keeps looking between the counter and the outside- which isn’t in frame either. He runs up in a minute, saying something else to the lady, his face a little panicked. The woman slides over, presumably, their tickets, and the speed at which the kids exits the depot leaves them a very clear picture of what’s going on.
“They’re being chased,” voices Donna.
They are. And if the woman had any civism, they’d have gotten this lead ages go. They might have been able to catch up. Bruce sits heavily in the chair by the console.
“The hits occurred one hour and 12 minutes ago. Where could he have gone in 1 and a quarter hours?”
He pulls up a map, using one of the JLA’s tracking softwares to calculate the locus Percy could have travelled in that timeframe, by foot.
The JLA communicator flashes red abruptly, beeping.
“Canary and Hawkgirl to JLA, we need more members on scene in Indonesia. Relief efforts have been restricted by road collapse. Reserve team members, please attend.”
Everyone pauses on the plane. Bruce feels Dick’s eyes on him as his fingers stutter on the computer keys.
That was an all-hands-on-deck call.
The weight of the Mission is suddenly stifling. He tries to take a deep breath but his chest moves like something mechanical, slow and heavy.
He opens his mouth, aware this single decision will seal his relationship with his son for the rest of his life.
“Batman-”
“Leave. Go to Indonesia.”
The disconnecting beep of the communicator is the only reply he gets. Dick turns to face the computer screen, which has faded to black. The hard line of his jaw is reflected in the translucent black.
“Are we going too?” he asks, tone carefully neutral.
“I’m not leaving my son to fend for himself,” Bruce replies, his words just as neutral. Guilty and unrepentant.
The tension breaks like the snapping of elastic, with multiple audible exhales of relief, Dick’s included.
Bruce doesn’t know why they’re so surprised.
Batman’s not a hero. He’s a vigilante. There was no point saving the world just to lose his.
“Set the Jet on a trajectory to the forest near Lincoln Tunnel.”
“Sir, yes sir,” Dick replies and Bruce can hear the smirk in his voice. Behind him the Titans are grinning in perceived victory. Bruce just shakes his head.
Children.
It’s only five minutes into transport when the communicator beeps again. The tension returns like it never left. Their duty to love being tested to its limits. And what would he do? Refuse the call a second time?
“Call to Batcave. Code 574- Bruce Wayne Emergency Line. Rerouting. Please wait,” requests the automated voice of the communicator.
“That’s not the JLA-” interrupts Dick, brow furrowing.
The line opens with a click. There’s silence on either side. Theirs is expectant. The caller’s is made of heavy breathing and no words.
After a beat, “Hello?”
Bruce freezes. That’s… not even in the ballpark of what he expected. Perhaps a ransom. A threat. Even a really old acquaintance he’d forgotten about asking for help. This was not that. This was a child. Bruce is pretty sure he’s seen more children this day than a teacher sees in a week.
“Hello,” he replies, cautious but composed. “This is Bruce Wayne speaking.”
“Mr Wayne?” sniffles the child.
“Is it crying?” Dick asks, eyes wide and hands flailing apprehensively. You’d think someone just ask him to raise the kid on his own.
“Dick?” asks the child, voice teetering further on the edge of a sob. Dick grabs the phone immediately against Bruce’s warning.
“Who is this?”
There’s the wet snorting sound of a little kid pulling himself together and then with marginally more composure, the child explains:
“Dick, Mr Wayne? My name is Tim Drake. I’m Jack and Janet’s son. Your neighbor.”
“Wait Timmy? What-”
“You remember me,” he says, all quiet.
“Dick you need to send someone quick please,” the child pleads, composure breaking immediately.
“Tim what-”
Wally launches onto the rolling chair, immediately trying to trace the call.
“I’m w-w-with P-P-Percy,” he says, breath stuttering with sobs.
All their faces go sub-zero at the same time. The communicator creaks in Dick’s hand. Bruce’s own fists are white knuckled by his side.
New Jersey, Wally mouths, as the computer gives a ping of general location in the meantime of loading up precise data.
Bruce pulls the phone back.
“Timothy. Son. Can you take a deep breath for me?”
“Mr Wayne, she’s gonna do something to him-”
“Tim, I promise you, I’m on my way,” he says, as the computer pings with Weehawken.
“But you need to breathe son. Can you count with me?”
The boy takes a stuttering inhale. “O-okay.”
“Good boy. In for four okay. One. Two. Three. Four.”
The sound on the other side quiets as Tim inhales. “Hold for seven,” Bruce says, counting the numbers. “And out for eight.”
“One more time, bud. You’re doing great.”
Whilst Tim repeats the breathing exercise, the computer finally pulls through with coordinates.
The breathing on the other side is less erratic now. Less sobs and just a shaky silence.
Bruce slides up to the console and re-inputs the trajectory, taking charge. “Tim, can you confirm being in Weehawken, New Jersey?”
“Maybe. We were close to Lincoln Tunnel,” the boy says, and it’s remarkable how much composure he’s gained suddenly.
“Percy’s in a warehouse called Aunty Em’s Garden Gnome Emporium.”
“Can you repeat that Tim? Did you say Percy?” Dick asks, leaning into the comm.
“Yeah. I found him.”
Dick blinks. “You found him?”
“Weehawken was in the suspected radius,” reminds Donna.
Regardless, everything about the situation was bizarre. Now was not the time to question reality though. He had a job to do.
“Can you tell me what happened, Tim?”
“I met Percy when he got off the bus. He said he was finding a way back to Gotham, and he told me to come with him.”
And why was Tim in New York? A question to ask later.
“But we didn’t have any cash and we were hungry, so we walked to this- it’s not a restaurant- it’s a warehouse. A Garden Emporium.”
Aunty Em’s Garden Gnome Emporium. Opened in the 70s. Sporadic reviews. One from an account called Owllover_1729 said: “That lady’s a snake! Such a stony reception and slow service- had to wait long enough for clay to dry. Waste of money.”
“Alright Tim. Help will be there in half an hour. What happened after?”
“The warehouse felt weird. Creepy. We were just sitting there and talking to the woman who ran the shop. And th-then, P-Percy told me to run. And- and the lady was so s-scary.”
“Okay,” says Bruce, trying to compute that Percy had been fine- but was in danger again. “And where are you Tim?”
“I ran away, outside. Down the road. I’m hiding in the forest. I only left him because he told me to Mr Wayne-”
“You did the right thing, Tim,” Bruce assures. “Can you tell me more about the woman? What was she wearing?”
“She was completely covered. And wearing a veil. And really tall. And creepy,” the boy shivers.
“She’s evil Mr Wayne,” he whispers, and Bruce think he can hear his heart breaking in real time. Such a tiny voice should never sound so terrified.
“Okay, Tim. You’re really brave, son. Help will be there as quickly as it can be. Can you tell me your favorite color Tim?”
“Red, Yellow and Blue.”
Dick gives a quiet laugh. “That’s just all the primary colors, kiddo.”
“So they must be the best ones.”
“Okay Timmy. If you think so, it must be true.”
Nervously, he gets a question back.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Oh, blue for sure.”
“Blue is a good color. A Kingfisher color.”
“Yeah,” says Dick, softly. “It is.”
Bruce feels something settle in his chest as he listens to the conversation. Everything was going to be okay. It had been with Dick. It would be with Percy. But how he wanted his baby boy in his hands. And to figure out what was going on with this other baby boy who’d apparently ‘found’? his.
Even more nervously, the kid asks:
“What’s Mr Wayne’s favorite color?”
“It’s black, Tim. Pretty all-occasion. Useful isn’t it?”
Dick snorts. “Don’t listen to him Tim. He’s a liar. His favorite color is pink.”
Tim giggles gently. “Pink is a good color.”
“I own nothing pink,” Bruce deadpans.
“Really?” asks Donna. “I’m pretty sure my sister said you had a pink dress in your closet.”
Bruce turns to the girl and narrows his eyes. “You’re sister was lying.”
Wally gasps. “I need to see this! Don’t you need to see this, Garth?”
Garth gives a small smile. “I think it would suit you, Mr Wayne.”
Bruce sighs and focuses back on the console.
“I agree!” chirps the voice on call. “I think Mr Wayne can pull anything off.”
“Thank you, Tim,” he says whilst the others are holding back snickers in the background. Because the Titans were making fun but Bruce was pretty sure Tim was being 100% genuine. How he wishes he’d raised angels too.
The atmosphere is lighter now. Still brimming with anticipation but less about dread and more about action.
“Mr Wayne?”
“Yes, Tim.”
“I’m worried. About Percy.”
“He’ll be okay, Tim,” Bruce lies through his teeth. Because he has nothing to go on but what is he supposed to say?
“I’m gonna check on him.”
“Tim. No.”
“Okay,” replies the boy.
And in that single word, Bruce takes back anything he’s every said about angels. Because that sounds exactly like a liar would sound.
“Tim. Stay where you are. You did good.”
“Okay. I will.”
A beat.
“Bye.”
The line goes flat.
Wally is looking at the phone like he just received enlightenment. “Did he just hang up on the Batman?”
His answer is a series of snickers and half-aborted cackles. Bruce purses his lips.
Children.
Why did he ever agree to have some?
____
Once, when Bruce was seven years old, Gotham Academy had taken his class on a camping trip. Bruce doesn’t know whose idea it was- but they clearly hadn’t thought it through very well. He distinctly remembers never seeing at least one of the supervising teachers on campus ever again.
Bruce had pleaded with his parents to let him go- and they had allowed it, fussing and reluctant, but with the knowing smiles of parents who were well acquainted with their kid’s adamance.
He had hated the trip. All three days he’d gone to sleep in the cramped 4 person tent, counting down the seconds to when he’d be reunited with his parents. The experience of yearning was something novel back then. The day he’d returned home had been one of the happiest in his life till date- the feeling of seeing someone integral click back into the fabric of your life and smooth it out.
When the jet doors creak open, and he spills onto the tarmac, he feels that same emotion. The colors of that memory print themselves upon the scene, meshing the present with the past.
Percy stands there as he had two Saturday’s ago, the same slouched posture, the same unruly hair, the same slant of his eyes that promised mischief and eliciting in Bruce the same unconditional love.
Yet undeniably, there is something different about his son. Not so much in appearance, than in the taut line of his shoulders and the ready stance of his feet. Bruce had taught him to fight, to be alert, always watching.
Except never, not once before, have those shoulders remained tense in his presence.
Despite everything, standing there, breathing and alive, is his son. Batman vanishes into smoke, taking all his paranoia and vigilance with him. Bruce Wayne can see nothing but the boy he had thought he’d lost.
“Hey, Uncle B,” Percy greets quietly, like he’d just returned from an outing that had taken longer than expected, rather than a cross-state kidnapping.
Bruce steps forward, booted feet against broken tar in a much more ideal parallel of sweaty feet against night-time road. There are no flashing lights and sirens. No upturned car.
Percy is still as he approaches. He lets Bruce lay a hand across his right cheek. The other one is red with blood. He brings up his other hand and wipes at it gently. The boy lets out an aborted hiss, the smallest furrow growing above his brow.
“Who did this?” Bruce asks, voice deadly calm.
Percy stares at him, sea-green eyes searching his face for something indefinite. Bruce looks at them equally intense, retracting the lenses of his cowl to drink in his son’s face.
“She’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“She left. Ran, I suppose. When she realised I could-” he makes a gesture up and down himself, that usually refers to caped business.
“Okay,” Bruce says.
He pulls the boy to his chest, one gloved hand reaching to cradle his head, the other wrapping around his back. “She’s gone,” Bruce repeats. An apology and promise all at once. That she was gone. That she’d never hurt him again. That he would stand between his son and the danger.
Percy hands come up to cling to his back, and for all the boy is the picture of composure, his grip is tighter than it’s ever been. He hugs Bruce back like he’s trying to merge into the shadows of his suit and hideaway. Bruce holds him as he melts, pretending parts of Bruce weren’t falling apart with him.
“I wanna go home,” the boy says, all muffled, face buried in the Bat-symbol. And Bruce lifts the boy like he is seven and has just watched his first horror movie; like he is nine and has just fallen off his bike; like he is eleven and just returned from a gravesite; like he is twelve and in Bruce’s sight and he will never let go again.
“Let’s go home, then.”
“Put him down!”
Percy turns his face away from Bruce’s shoulder and looks down. Where Dick is standing with his hands on his hips and bloodshot eyes and staring at him intensely.
Bruce puts him down.
“Hey, Robin,” he says, shuffling on his feet, one hand wrapped in Bruce’s cape like he’s a five year old meeting a stranger rather than a pre-teen reuniting with his brother.
It’s fair enough. Dick looks pretty menacing.
“HEY?!” he shrieks, stalking forward and jabbing the boy in the chest. “You go missing for a week and HEY is your only comment?!”
“Um. How are you?”
Dick smashes into the other boy, sending them both crashing to the ground.
“Woah,” someones says.
Bruce just pinches the bridge of his nose. “Robin,” he sighs.
Dick is wrapped around Percy’s arms and torso like human shackles, leaving the other boy immobilized on the ground.
“Robin,” Percy laughs chidingly- though the sound is notably stilted. “Get off.”
“Shut up, Knightlite. I’m locking you up,” replies Dick.
There’s a gasp from behind them, and the sound of something kissing the ground. The three of them pause mid intense family reunion and look over.
The child from the phone, Timothy Drake, is standing in front of a spilt milkshake, the cup lid with a useless straw sticking out of it. He’s looking at the three of them like they just told him Skittles were a type of vegetable.
“Tim?” Percy asks, lifting his head slightly off the ground in an attempt to look over.
“I’ve connected the dots,” declares Tim.
Everyone buffers for a minute. Then, inexplicably, Percy starts cackling. Dick leans up off him, squinting at his brother in concern.
“Did they give you a concussion?”
Percy gasps, a hand wrapping around his stomach like he’s laughing so hard it hurts. Once he catches his breath and wipes an imaginary tear, he finally opts to share with the class.
“B. I think you gotta give up your title.”
Bruce’s brow furrows in confusion.
“What?”
Percy hauls himself off the ground and staggers over to Tim, leaning his hands on the boy’s shoulders.
“Meet Timothy Drake,” he says with the widest grin. “The World’s Greatest Detective. He found me exactly 3 hours before Gotham’s Finest Heroes, Batman and Robin.”
Tim blazes red immediately under the praise, and he folds his hands behind his back shyly.
Bruce smiles at the boy. “Thank you, Tim. I owe you a great debt.”
“Oh no, Mr Batman sir. I just like helping people,” he says.
There’s a whistling sound from behind him, like someone not getting enough oxygen. “He’s so cute!!!” wheezes Wally West.
Aqualad and Wondergirl stand beside him, a little ways off to respect their space. Donna Troy gives the pair of gothamites a look. “You didn’t even stabilize the landing before you opened the doors, boys.”
Percy tuts. “Really, boys? I thought you were better than this.”
Dick laughs, notably wetly and punches him in the arm. “I thought you were better than getting kidnapped.”
Donna snorts loudly and Percy turns to her, raising a brow.
“Oh boy, do I have stories for you, Percy Wayne.”
Percy narrows his eyes between Dick’s vehement head shaking and Donna’s growing smirk.
“Free Tea? Sign me up."
Bruce, for his blood pressure, ignores them for a second and looks at the last person there, who is trying to blend into the shade of the store pillars.
“And who might you be?” he asks, softly.
Percy looks over. “That’s Tyler. He won’t be coming after your title anytime soon, don’t worry.”
The boy, Tyler apparently, rolls his eyes at his son before turning back to Bruce. “Tyler Kahale.”
Bruce nods. “I’ll notify the Weehawken Police. You can wait with us.”
Tyler purses his lips and sends a look at Percy. There’s a second of non-verbal conversation, everyone else an observer, before Percy turns to him.
“Can Tyler come to Gotham?”
Bruce looks between the two of them. “Percy. It would be more efficient to identify where Tyler’s home is before taking him anywhere. Least of all Gotham.”
Tyler crosses his arms, folding into himself.
“I don’t have a home,” he admits, in quiet, stilted words.
“They took him from the streets, Batman. What if they come back, huh? The best way to assure his safety is to take him with you,” Percy pipes up.
Bruce looks to Dick who spends a second watching Percy and his new friend (co-kidnappee?) before nodding.
“Sounds about right, Batman,” he reports.
Well, of course. When did he ever think he’d get Dick on his side with Percy in the equation?
“Okay,” he relents, seeing the brunette deflate with relief ever so subtly. “You can come with us. Everyone get inside. First we go to Gotham. Then we’ll sort out the rest.”
Everyone there agrees exuberantly, concern cleaving from their shoulders to leave bone deep exhaustion. In Bruce, it creates a strange dichotomy of extreme fatigue and the restless joyful energy of success.
He has both his sons with him. The rest could wait.
Although, as he steps onto the plane, he can’t help but replay staring into Percy’s eyes. His son always wore his heart on his sleeve, his face an open book. Yet in those few seconds, the endless sea-glass depths of those eyes had been completely inscrutable.
Bruce can only think, what happened whilst I wasn't there?