Chapter Text
"Mother, you don't have to lift a finger," Bruce says, with relaxed shoulders and a reassuring smile. "I'll find the children, you needn't worry."
Martha Wayne returns his smile. But she doesn't beam at him, and that's enough to cause sweat to gather on the back of Bruce's neck.
"I know you'll find them," she says, matter-of-fact. Knitting needles glinting sharply in the light. "But well, once you become a parent you'll understand that if you see your child taking a long time to complete a task, it's very hard not to step in. And you and Thomas are always so careful. You take so long to do anything!"
The sweat dances down Bruce's spine. "Mother, I assure you. While I will take necessary precautions to avoid, ah, getting myself killed, I'm not going to leave these children waiting when I'm already 5-20 years late. I'll find them. I will do nothing but look for them until they've all been found."
Martha's smile is indulgent. Her eyes unyielding. "Of course you will! I have the utmost faith in you, Bruce."
But faith is not the same thing as patience. And Martha Wayne has never had much of the latter. Particularly when she believes her family is in danger, or in the company of intolerable assassins, or both. Her feelings towards her soon-to-be grandchildren are doubtlessly no different.
And so it’s an utter relief when it only takes Bruce two weeks to locate one of them.
“Do you know how badly I don’t want Bruce Wayne’s dead body on my doorstep,” drawls J– Redjay. “So badly. I would in fact vastly prefer it if you made your apocalyptic lack of common sense anyone else's problem.”
"Sorry," Bruce apologizes. Which he sort of is, and sort of isn't. "I mean, I did come in disguise?"
"Sure! And then you said, 'Hi, Bruce Wayne here to talk to Redjay'. You know, like a moron.”
Well you see, I saw who you were in another dimension, and it made me trust who you are in this one. Completely understandable, right?
Bruce smiles uneasily. "I was under the impression you had the safest, ah, 'territory' in Gotham?"
"For kids and workers of the night, not clueless billionaire dumbasses." Redjay's eyes narrow. "Seriously, what the fuck are you doing here?"
The gang leader lounges on a throne of crates and repurposed piping. Wearing a frayed hoodie and body armour, with any weapons sheathed and hidden. That, together with the casual sprawl of his body, suggests that Redjay doesn’t consider Bruce a threat. Probably wouldn’t even if Bruce didn’t currently have a thug twisting his arms behind his back. But while Redjay’s mouth is quirked in amusement, his eyes are anything but.
"Newsflash, if you want to dip your fancy fingers into illicit business, you send a proxy." Redjay continues, growling more than drawling now. "You don't stroll your rich ass straight to a crime lord's doorstep. Are you new at this?"
Ah. He's rattled that I knew the exact location of his primary base. Bruce hides the deduction behind a nervous laugh. "Ah. Well. I'm not really–,"
"I guess that fits your reputation though, right? The good old Gotham Waynes." The flash of Redjay's teeth is less a smile than a threat display.
"Sure, you've got an old money fortune built on a century's worth of cut-throat business, but since Thomas Wayne was a doctor it all gets swept under the rug. Never mind how many lives are ruined by for-profit healthcare. This generation of Waynes keeps their noses clean. This generation of Waynes truly care For Gotham. And now here comes Bruce Wayne, strolling in to Park Row asking to speak with me so he can help."
Redjay leans forward. One hand produces a knife from...somewhere, and begins idly flipping it, blade dancing between gloved fingers. "And what's that help gonna cost, huh? Who do you want sabotaged, blackmailed, or dead? What substance or weapon do you want to start moving? Why the fuck are you here?"
For you.
"To help, as I told you from the start,” Bruce says, managing to resummon his smile. “Now, I'm well aware of how often philanthropists commit egregious blunders by trying to help without knowing how to help. So I was hoping for a...community consultation of sorts? Advice on the best ways one could funnel money into this area and ensure it was used appropriately to meet the people’s specific needs.”
”Not true.”
A hiss of air, a sudden presence at Bruce's side. A blade appearing to press against his throat.
"Not why you are here." A feminine voice. Low and lethal and accusing and familiar. “Not a lie; you are hoping for…advice. But it is not why you’re here.”
Redjay's smirking now. Flips the knife one last time, then catches it on one fingertip, balances it there. "You're better off not trying to hide anything from Shrike. She can always tell when you're lying. Tell the truth Richie Rich, before we carve it out of you."
Shrike. Bruce tries very, very hard to paint a picture of fear and contrition and not recognition and excitement. Redjay he’d been certain of, but Shrike had only been a hunch and a hope. And now her identity is confirmed! Oh, this is wonderful.
Well, not the knife. Or the arm-twisting thug. Or the way the concrete floor is murdering Bruce's knees. Or the fact that they’re demanding the truth when the truth is completely and utterly unbelievable. None of that is wonderful. Is quite the problem, actually.
Shrike moves around to the front of Bruce, weapon still held to his throat. Her face is also familiar, a face Bruce saw in another world two weeks ago. But no, no. Bruce cannot smile at her. He doesn’t actually know this young woman, and she certainly doesn’t know him. Don't smile. Don't do it! Don't! Control your face, Bruce!
"Not...scared of us," Shrike says, sounding annoyed. "Thinks he knows us. Why do you think you know us?"
Uh-oh. “Ah...that is...”
Lie-detection hadn’t been included in the information Bruce had found on the other world’s internet about Shrike’s counterpart. Oh heck, he’s not going to be able to wiggle with his words, is he? But he certainly can’t tell the truth, because the truth is impossible and unbelievable and–
Wait a second.
"You can tell, absolutely, when I'm telling the truth?" Bruce asks, perking up.
"She sure can. Regular old mind-reader." Redjay's flipping the knife again. A sign his patience is showing holes. "So start. Fucking. Talking."
"Right." Bruce straightens up as much as his restrained arms and blade-necklace allow. "You know how the Justice League is always getting involved in...dimensional scenarios? Alternate universes and what-have-you. Well, it turns out there's an alternate universe where I'm an orphan and filled the void in my life by funding the Justice League and adopting several children. The other me got involved in some dimensional shenanigans which resulted in us being switched, briefly. I was over in that alternate universe for a week and...met his children. Including versions of the two of you, Jason, Cassandra.”
The crime lord and his wrathful weapon both flinch.
The other universe had a lot of information on the second son of Bruce Wayne. But in this world, with no billionaire adoption to shine a spotlight, there's very little record of Jason Todd.
Redjay is another matter.
A new player in Park Row, first emerging about five years ago. A cunning opportunist taking advantage of the string of misfortunes and sabotages that decimated Two-Face and the Penguin, swiping a sizable chunk of their operations and business. Allegedly taking on Black Mask directly, with unconfirmed claims that Redjay was the reason Black Mask had straight up vanished from Gotham. Surviving the mini-gang war that had erupted as the balance of power shook and shifted, and emerging better off than most of the old guard of the Gotham gangs. Redjay.
Now, Redjay more or less controls Park Row. The standard protection racket, drugs and weapons smuggling, assistance with tax evasion, and so on and so forth. But with free protection services for kids and night workers of all genders, absolutely vicious punishment doled out to anyone who deals drugs to minors, and straight up executions for anyone who commits assault.
Very involved in community betterment projects, the other, alive Timothy had said of his Jason. He lends his support to a lot of struggling families in Park Row and the Narrows.
A sweetheart, Bruce's mother had reported after speaking with the other Jason for 5 minutes. The size of a mountain with a heart to match.
A boogeyman, the other world's internet had said about Red Hood. The avenging angel of Crime Alley. The reminder that the Bat could always be worse.
Technically, Bruce never confirmed that the other Jason was the vigilante known as Red Hood. But Redjay's playbook matches what Bruce read about Red Hood's rise to power fairly closely. It feels a reasonable assumption to make.
Just like it feels reasonable to assume that Shrike is Cassandra Wayne.
A shadow made manifest; some kind of inhuman wraith. Capable of moving without sound, weaving through bullets, taking down crowds of men singlehandedly. Named Shrike for leaving victims a mess of inside-out flesh and broken limbs, rather than just shooting them. Shrike does not kill, allegedly, but breaks bones and rearranges organs and cripples and maims. She does not kill, but instead reminds that death can be a mercy and its denial another form of torture.
Shrike, the rumours say, is the true muscle behind Redjay's rise and reign. He doesn't employ a horde of goons. He has informants and smugglers and low-level enforcers, but not the kind of army that his predecessors had. And yet, has held his territory. And yet, remains a crime lord not to be crossed. And that, the rumours say, is all due to Shrike.
The whispers about Shrike are very, very similar to the way the other world's internet talked about one of the Batgirls, who was sometimes known as Black Bat. More brutal, more violent, but with that same unbelievable, almost supernatural speed, stealth, and striking power. But Bruce hadn't known for sure that Cassandra Wayne was Batgirl/Black Bat – it had just been a hunch, based on every other Batgirl at some point having their hair exposed and visible.
But now they're both confirmed. Maskless and in front of him. Jason and Cassandra. Two of the children Bruce never had.
Neither of whom look particularly happy with him.
"Shrike," Redjay says tightly. A flat statement that's clearly a question.
Shrike's hand and knife have not moved from Bruce's throat, and her eyes have not left his face or blinked. As if hoping that if she doesn't move Bruce will flinch first, will reveal a lie.
But there is no lie.
"What the fuck," she finally whispers. "True."
Oh, thank god. Bruce positively beams, a brilliant smile that would do his mother proud.
"Quite so!" he says brightly. "I am sorry for startling and inconveniencing you, but you can understand why I was eager to get in contact–,"
"You are not our father," snarls Shrike. The blade bites in, blood trickling down Bruce's throat. "Stop looking at us like you know us!"
"Sorry, sorry! You're quite right, of course. I don't know you. In this world or the other one. I only got the chance to meet the other Jason and Cassandra once. And in our universe, I've never been your father–,"
"But you want it."
Shrike's voice is accusatory, dagger-sharp. "You look and want to know us. You see us and want to be what you're not. But we do not want your want!"
"You're not fucking serious." Shrike is leaning in so close that Bruce can no longer see Redjay, but hears his disbelieving, baffled tone. "You fucking– you strolled in here to try and adopt us?!"
"No!" Bruce protests immediately. Tries to swallow in a way that doesn't worsen the Sweeney Todd shave job. "No, of course not. You're both adults. In...in the other world, I adopted you when you were young. You and your siblings. I never did that here. I never helped you when you needed it the most. And there's nothing I can do to change that. And there's nothing I expect from you. But just because I didn't help you then doesn't mean I can't help you now."
"We don't need your help." Redjay's tone is positively acidic. "Shrike and I are doing just dandy without Daddy Warbucks giving us the Orphan Annie treatment."
"Yes, absolutely. You've taken care of yourselves. Taken care of each other. But that's why I came here asking how I can help your community. The people you protect. Your territory."
"Our territory doesn't need a Bristol powderpuff sniffing around either!"
"Money that comes with strings is worse than none," Shrike hisses. "Your eyes of want will turn into hands of want. Demanding. Taking. We are not yours and we will not be yours. Cannot be bought."
The cold hatred in Shrike's eyes is far scarier than her knife. But Bruce doesn't look away. Meets her gaze head-on, refusing to falter or hide.
"I don't want to take, or buy, or demand. And I don't intend to ask for anything from you," he insists.
"Do you know what I'm getting out of this? Hating myself a little less. You can see the truth– can you see the guilt? How heavy it weighs on me, knowing that there's a universe where I was shattered by grief and still found it within myself to love and assist others. While in this world where I had everything, I never extended a hand to children who desperately needed help."
Jason, who was never adopted at 12 and presumably spent his adolescence on the streets, until he seized power as Redjay and made it his business to protect Gotham kids the way no one protected him. Cassandra, whose history before being a Wayne was a black hole of mystery in the other universe, but who has clearly grown into someone colder and harder without adoption.
And Bruce hasn't approached Duke yet, but he knows the young man is struggling. The mounting bills of his dad's ongoing care, his mother's difficulty finding well-paying work after her long stint in a coma. All the troubles that were smoothed over in the other universe, when Duke was considered part of Bruce Wayne's family.
But Bruce has failed no one worse than he's failed Tim, Damian, and Dick.
Because in this world, there hasn't been a single trace of Richard Grayson in almost two decades. A boy who vanished a few months after his parents' death, never to be seen again. And Talia isn't picking up, but the dates of their last meeting don't match with the other!Damian's age regardless; Bruce isn't convinced that Damian was born in this universe at all.
And Timothy Drake is still dead.
Tim, who was right next door for years. Tim, whose need for adoption was highly publicized. Tim, who was fed to the sharks in both Bristol and Gotham proper, until he finally– until he–
Until there was nothing left of him but a pile of belongings on a dock, and a damning suicide note: Hell is empty, and all the Demons are here.
Bruce failed the Tim of this world, and he'll never be able to fix it. He's starting to feel like it's too late for Dick too. That he'll be lucky to find, god, a coroner's report. And Bruce might have failed Damian by...not allowing him to exist. By never conceiving him in the first place.
Three children who needed him. Three children who never had him. Three children he doomed through his ignorance and inaction.
"Can you see it?" Bruce asks Shrike again, nearly in a whisper. "The regret pressing down on me? The utter self-loathing?"
She can. Bruce can tell by the lighter touch of the blade. By the wide-eyed stare and upset twist to her mouth.
"Getting to help you alleviates the guilt. Lessens the self-loathing, just a little," Bruce continues levelly, refusing to balk as blood stains his shirt collar. "There are no strings. There is no catch. And you can set the terms. You get to decide where the help goes, and how any money is used."
There's a moment of silence. Of nothing but Shrike's heavy, uneven breathing.
She's badly shaken by this. Her truth-seeing a curse in this moment. She doesn't want to believe his words, but there is no falsehood within them. And after a long stretch of seconds, she finally rasps out. "True."
"What in the goddamn fuck," Redjay mutters. And then, in a gruffer, more intimidating tone. "And if we say no? If we reject your gift-wrapped saviour complex? You'll just walk away?"
Bruce has to take a breath. Has to settle himself, set aside his own desires and expectations and hopes of having that dinner his mother so badly wants. Has to breathe through all of that, to make sure his next words are truthful.
"I will," he answers, after making sure he means it. "But are you really going to reject a billionaire's no-strings attached handout because you're afraid that I might look at you and see children I never got to know? Or because you're too proud to accept a Bristol powderpuff's help? Is your fear and pride really worth more than your people?"
And then Bruce is flat on his back, pinned down with Shrike's fist above his face. The thug who was holding him scampers off, almost certainly relieved to be able to escape the utterly bizarre family reunion his bosses are embroiled in. Redjay looms over Bruce instead, face thunderous.
"You can beat me up all you want. It doesn't change the question," Bruce says, ignoring the ache in his back and shoulders, the throbbing across his throat. "I'll ask again: Is your fear and pride worth more than the people you protect? Can you really look me in the eye and truthfully say that there's nothing I can do to help?"
“I’m sorry, did I mishear, or did you just ask me to be the sole oversight for an unsanctioned orphanage run by a gang?"
But the sharp slant to Dr. Thompkin's brows makes it clear she knows she heard correctly.
Bruce avoids her gaze. Resists the urge to pick at the Sephora-covered bandage under his chin. Keeps his eyes on the lovely patterned wallpaper of her CPS office.
“I…can’t think of anyone better suited for the role?” he says weakly.
Dr. Leslie Thompkins is an old friend of his parents, practically Bruce's aunt, and has always been someone that could be relied on in a pinch. While she's no longer a practising physician, she remains the only other doctor Thomas Wayne will listen to without judgmental interruptions. And she is the only friend that, as his mother puts it, they don't have to bring out the good silverware for. Basically family. Bruce doesn't see Leslie as much as he did when he was younger, but still trusts her immensely.
And he's not the only one who trusts Dr. Thompkins. Because in addition to spending her 'retirement' working as a social worker, Leslie runs an after-hours, off-the-books medical clinic just outside of Park Row. On multiple fronts, she is a well-known, respected, trusted person to those below the poverty line in Gotham.
She is also looking at Bruce with narrowed, unimpressed eyes. "Bruce–,"
"Redjay's reputation is...good. As good as a crime lord's reputation can be," Bruce says quickly. "And his reasoning for the orphanage is sound. There are a lot of orphans or runaways in Park Row, and most would rather stick to the streets than take their chances with Gotham’s foster system."
And with good reason. The trafficking network embedded in Gotham's orphanages and foster homes had been uncovered a few years ago, with colluders revealed within the police force, child protective services, and the courts. That the corruption had eventually been discovered and rooted out didn't change the fact that it had existed for years. And the removal of every complicit government worker and orphanage staff had left Gotham's child protective services even more horrifically understaffed. Bruce can't blame the children of Park Row for preferring to take their chances on the streets.
Redjay and Shrike already provide safe houses for dozens of kids across Park Row. But they aren't monitored 24/7, can't provide 3 hot meals, and can't always guarantee the kids will be safe from each other. The buildings aren't up to code and get horrifically drafty in the winter. And there's no surefire way to know when a kid stops showing up because they've moved on or found someplace better, and when they stop showing up because something has happened to them.
So, an orphanage. Or a children's home, rather. That had been Redjay and Shrike's request for Bruce. A single, large building with a robust security system, heating, and rooms with doors the kids could lock. Living areas where they could play games or watch movies. Enough money to stock games and books and toys that could be replaced if they were stolen and pawned. Funds and resources to pay credible staff members, to have a consistent supply of food, and to make the place safe, solid, and legitimate-looking to anyone who squinted at it.
Redjay claimed he would handle forgeries of certifications and inspections so the home would 'pass the sniff test' and make people think it was an actual, institutionally-affiliated organization. Bruce didn't have to be involved in any of the fakery– he just needed to cough up the money to make the children's home possible.
And Bruce wanted to. Really badly. He wanted nothing more than to trust Redjay and Shrike unconditionally and to just give them what they'd asked for. But doing that truly would be thoughtless and selfish. Potentially putting children at risk because he looked at this world's crime lord and saw another world's son.
"I understand why Redjay wants to build this children's home," Bruce continues, a little quieter. "An unsanctioned, non-governmental orphanage run by one of their own is the only thing kids of Park Row might trust. But I can't fund it on trust alone. I want to help Redjay with this, but I can't without some kind of oversight. And to his credit, Redjay agreed with me!"
Redjay had grimaced about it. Groaned, then muttered: “I want to yell at you for offering us whatever we wanted and then attaching strings, but fuck, wanting some kind of check and balance is actually a better response than just saying yes."
"And you think that I, single-handedly, can be that oversight?" Leslie demands. "That I can vet every single person Redjay hires? That I can make sure no kids are slipped out a door and overseas? Bruce, I don't think you understand how easy it is for corruption to sneak in, for things to be missed. Asking one person to manage all of it isn't flattering, it's foolish."
Bruce winces. "I do understand, but–,"
"I can't do it if it all falls to me. There has to be another oversight in place."
Leslie pinches the bridge of her nose. "If...if you can find someone or something else to assist with keeping this children's home safe, then I will consider helping. But if it's just me?"
She shakes her head. Regretful, but adamant. "I'm sorry, but no."
"–and then she said, 'I'm sorry, but no'," Bruce recounts miserably. "She also sends her regards, and hopes you're doing well."
”Hn,” Bruce's father grunts in acknowledgement. Freshly awoken from a nap in his favourite armchair and listening stoically as Bruce unloads his woes upon him.
"So that's the situation as it stands. And, ah, for the time being, I'd like to keep this between us. I know I've found Jason and Cassandra, and that's fantastic news, but I need to figure out the orphanage before we inform Mother."
"..."
"Father, please don't tell Mother. It was clear to anyone with eyes that other-Jason was her favourite, and I don’t want to know what she’ll do if she learns I’ve found him and immediately let him down. I need to figure out how to make this orphanage work, and then I'll tell her immediately, I assure you!"
"..."
"Right now, there's zero chance of Jason and Cassandra ever coming to dinner. And that might remain true regardless of what I do. But at least if I can fulfill their request, there's a slight possibility, a potential, of them changing their minds in the future. But I have to make the orphanage work for that to even be on the table. So let's hold off on telling Mother until then, please."
"...hn," Thomas finally agrees, reluctantly. "In any case, Leslie knows what she’s talking about most of the time. More than the average fools they’re handing out medical degrees to these days. If she says the orphanage needs more oversight to work, then that’s what you need to secure.”
”But what credible oversight would also be trusted by the people of Park Row?” Bruce runs a stressed hand through his hair. “At this point, I’m wondering if Black Canary or Harley Quinn would be an option. But having psychiatry degrees doesn’t necessarily mean they’re qualified to oversee an orphanage.”
“You’re spending too much energy on a problem without considering the simplest solution.” Thomas's eyebrows slant in blatant judgment. “Perhaps the best person to keep an eye out for trafficking rings is the person who’s already proven capable of uncovering them.”
Bruce pauses.
It's true that the trafficking networks embedded into Gotham's foster system and orphanages hadn't actually been uncovered by the GCPD, or any licensed body. An external party, a hacker, had uncovered and disseminated all the evidence needed to destroy the network. They'd never come forward or been identified, but considering how many cops, social workers, and lawyers they'd revealed as complicit, it felt reasonable to assume they were not institutionally affiliated in any way.
"I think you're on to something." Bruce rests his chin in hand, wincing as his knuckles brush the concealed bandage. "If I can somehow track down that hacker–,"
”It’s Barbara Gordon.”
Ignoring Bruce's startled spluttering, Thomas sits up straighter in the armchair, levelling his son with a stern look. "Gordon will be quite cross with me if he hears we've had this conversation. So I trust you'll use this information with subtlety, understanding someone's safety is on the line. But yes. Gordon was always fairly certain the hacker was Barbara. No hard evidence, but enough clues to support a father's intuition."
Barbara loved library work, but according to Gordon, it would have driven her crazy if it was the only thing she was doing. Barbara was brilliant, stubborn, ambitious, and driven to agitate for change. Gordon expected her to spend her time outside of the library volunteering, or political lobbying, or joining activist causes. When she never did any of that, while at the same time a gifted hacker began making waves by exposing corruption among Gotham elite...well.
"Apparently, Barbara's been frightfully good with technology since she was attacked. But it wasn't just that." A grimace downturns the corner of Thomas's mouth, discomfort creeping into his features.
"After the trafficking rings were exposed, the whole city was either wincing in shame or rejoicing. But to Gordon’s eye, Barbara seemed like she was grieving. And angry. And when he pressed her about it, she said that the person who'd exposed the rings should have done it sooner, faster, better. That so many children weren't saved. That so many children were let down by everyone around them. To Gordon, it felt not only personal, but self-flagellating, like Barbara thought she hadn't saved someone. And that, paired with the suspicion he’d always had…it solidified her as the hacker in his mind.”
Thomas clears his throat. "Nevertheless, there is no proof to this theory. Just a worried father's hunch shared over too much whisky and not enough rocks. Your discretion is expected and appreciated."
"Of course, Father," Bruce replies immediately. Even as every interaction he's ever had with Barbara Gordon shifts in his memory, recontextualized.
Truthfully, Bruce doesn't know Barbara that well. Not well enough to know for certain if the hacker shoe fits. But he does know that she was in the secret family portrait in the other world. The family portrait that Bruce hypothesized was not of the 'Wayne family', but of the 'Gotham Bats'. Barbara was the only person pictured, aside from Alfred, that Bruce couldn't connect to one of the known vigilantes in that dimension. But if she was working behind the scenes, if she was providing tech support…
"Once more, I rather think you're on to something." Bruce offers his father a genuine smile. "Of course, nothing is confirmed as of yet. But goodness, it's relieving to at least have a thread to follow! Could you tell I was close to panicking earlier? Thank you, Father. You've helped a lot."
“The more I can help, the less your mother will feel she needs to,” Thomas mutters. "Expediency might still be prudent. If you don’t tell her you’ve found some of the children by the end of the week, I worry we might, ah, see unexpected withdrawals in the household budget.”
Bruce's smile falls away immediately. "H-has she said something? Does it seem like she's going to–,"
"Your mother has been pointedly quiet. In the manner that always indicates plans are being made."
Oh Christ. "Right. Thanks for the warning. I'm going to talk to Barbara immediately. Like, now."
Thomas Wayne and Commissioner Gordon are good friends, but Bruce has never had the same kind of relationship with Barbara. She's over a decade younger than him, and they rarely run in the same circles. There's no reason for her to trust or believe him.
So when Bruce approaches Barbara at her library's service desk, he immediately slides his phone towards her. Specifically, the phone he had on him in the other world.
“Funny story! I got transported to another dimension for a week.” Bruce laughs. Gives a crooked smile. “All the proof’s on the phone. Photos and screenshots of internet websites. You should be able to check the metadata on the pictures to confirm they’re legitimate, right?”
“That’s a bit out of scope for the public library,” Barbara says, quirking an eyebrow. She's smiling, but not with her eyes.
“Oh, of course! But I’m not asking the public library. I'm asking you.”
Barbara's unsmiling eyes narrow.
"Barbara." Bruce's false levity falls away. Voice lowering as he leans in over the desk. "I need your help with keeping kids safe. And if I tried to explain why, you'd never believe me. The pictures on my phone will prove I'm telling the truth. But pictures can be faked. Only someone extremely good with technology would be able to know for certain that they're real. So I'm asking you to check the photos, so that you believe me when I explain why I'm asking you for help."
Barbara doesn't look happy. And she doesn't look like she buys what Bruce is saying.
But she takes the phone.
Bruce believes in multi-tasking. Is good at it, even!
But now that Father's confirmed Mother is...planning, multi-tasking is less of a best practice and more of an absolute necessity. The household budget is presently still intact, but who knows how long that will last? And considering what happened the last few times Mother made unexpected withdrawals– the property damage– the traumatized party guests– the literal portal to hell–
Time is of the essence. So the moment Bruce leaves Barbara's library, he makes plans to connect with Duke Thomas.
There is no Joker in this world, thank god. But just as Barbara was still targeted and paralyzed, Duke's parents still got caught up in a rogue attack. Mad Hatter, leaving them both in untreatable comas. With no Bruce Wayne with a penchant for adoption waiting in the wings, Duke spent an extra 6 months running away from foster homes and half-living on the streets before his cousin was able to gain custody. His mother recovered a few months after that. His father never has.
From what Bruce can find, Duke isn’t too much the worse for wear for those extra months on his own. The lack of Wayne interference means he’s had to repeat a grade, but his marks are good. Not what they were before losing his parents, but that's understandable. Duke's working a part-time job, helping his struggling mother to make ends meet and to keep up with his father's care. Volunteering at community outreach events when he can.
And spending most of his nights leading an unsanctioned vigilante group.
The official news channels are quick to label the Beacons as a gang of unruly youth. But the unofficial word on the street is that the Beacons are seen as protectors, moreso than Black Canary, who isn’t always in Gotham. Or even the reformed Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy, whose heroics are best described as ‘sometime-ish’. The Beacons seem young, untrained, and rough, but if something's going down in the Narrows they always show up. Not always fighting, sometimes to just help civilians get clear of rogue attack. Their apparent leader, Nightlight, is the only one who throws himself into every battle. Understandable, since he's a powerful meta.
A meta with the same powers as the other dimension's Signal.
If three's a pattern, what's four? Jason, Cassandra, Barbara, and Duke. All still involved in some form of illegal justice-seeking behaviour. All still fighting to protect the people of Gotham in any way that they can.
The outlier so far, continues to be Bruce.
He doesn't dwell on it. Places all the inner revulsion at his own uselessness in a box and shuts the lid with a cheeky tap. Heads to a different public library that evening. Shuffles into a small gathering space, leans against the back wall in casual wear and glasses. Disguised enough to remain more or less invisible until the amateur poetry night is finished. Until everyone has filed out except for Duke, who'd been hosting the event, and two library staff members. All of whom give Bruce weird looks as they start to clean up the chairs.
"Sorry! I didn't want to draw attention until everyone else was gone." Bruce takes off his glasses and hat.
One of the librarians squeaks. The other freezes in place. Duke immediately decides to mind his own business, and looks the other way entirely. Until Bruce asks to speak with him alone. At which point Duke's attention snaps back towards the billionaire, body braced and defensive.
“Sorry to ambush you like this! I figured I’d draw even more attention if I tried to talk to you at school,” Bruce laughs, after the library staff have filed out and left him and Duke alone. “Duke Thomas, right? You won a young engineer award in middle school. I was hoping you’d join one of the high school programs sponsored by WE, but you never did.”
“I had stuff going on when I got to high school,” Duke says tightly. “Not a lot of time for useless sidegigs.”
There’s a bite to his tone that’s not exactly promising. That reminds Bruce of Redjay's acidic contempt and Shrike's disgusted fury.
But he keeps his face bright and open. Continues gamely on. “Yes, I’ve heard. Or read about it, rather. I'm so sorry about your father, Duke. It's terrible how many lives get disrupted by all of the criminal elements in this city."
Though it could be much worse. The death tolls and sheer scale of the rogue-caused disasters in the other dimension had been more than sobering, it had been horrifying. Duke's Beacons do good work here, but they would have been eaten alive in the other Gotham. Not that saying any of that would be a comfort, even if Duke believed it.
"I'm...hoping to do something about it. About all the promising young minds whose trajectory is derailed by tragedy," Bruce says, words soft but serious.
"A program of sorts. Aimed at youths who were on track for high academic achievement, until circumstances out of their control knocked them off course. It's nothing formal yet. An idea and a hope, more than anything. But if you're willing to help me test it out, I'm happy to provide you with the opportunity to apply for a paid internship at Wayne Enterprises. No personal statement or resume or Sisyphean tower of online forms. Just an onsite interview within the Research & Development department. How does that sound?"
It's a two-part solution. Something to give Duke extra money to assist his mother, and a way for Bruce to spend time with Duke directly. To provide him mentorship, and guidance, and a space to maybe form a relationship where it wouldn't be weird for Bruce to, sometime in the future, offer to pay for his father's care entirely. Offer to write him letters of recommendation for any post-secondary education he's interested in. To perhaps even pass on a few gadgets from R&D that might assist a young man engaged in vigilantism. And eventually to maybe, hopefully, secure the seat of at least one grandchild at Martha Wayne's dinner table.
Duke doesn't reply immediately though. Is very, very still. Until he finally takes a measured, controlled breath.
“That’s kind of you Mr. Wayne,” Duke says, in a tone of voice that suggests he thinks precisely the opposite. “But I’m not interested.”
Fuck. Why! Bruce manages not to throw up his hands and wail in despair. Barely. "Ah, really? It's great experience, and will give you a big leg up–,"
“I don’t care about having a leg up,” Duke snaps. “I don’t want to go up. I want to help the people down here, not look down on them with a bunch of shiny degrees and Bristol bosses.”
“It doesn’t have to be Research and Development." If Bruce sounds desperate, well. It's because he is. "There are many Wayne initiatives, community projects and charities–,”
"Oh my god. I’m not interested in playing Hardball with you, Keanu. Okay? I’m not interested in being the newest Freedom Writer.”
“…what?”
”Your charity case, Hilary Swank-Wayne.”
Duke looks upwards, seeking patience within the heavens. Takes another deep breath, probably swallows another pop culture-flavoured retort Bruce doesn’t understand.
"Look. For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re offering this for brownie points,” Duke says, a little lighter on the exasperation. “I think you mean it. But while I appreciate your clear enthusiasm for assisting off-track youths, getting involved with billionaire charities, fancy donor balls and making the ‘right’ connections isn't what I want. It's not the type of 'community help' I want to be involved in. So thanks for the offer, Mr. Wayne. But I’ll pass.”
Bruce isn't an idiot.
He's privileged, out-of-touch, and perhaps a little spoiled. But he's not stupid.
It only takes slowing down for a second, sparing a moment to self-reflect, to realize he's been selfish.
The insistence on face-to-face meetings– selfish. The insistence on the help coming directly from himself– selfish. He can claim it's for his mother, for the dinner she so badly wants, but Bruce is the one walking up to young adults who don't know him and demanding they let him into their lives. Because if the help he's offering is really for them, it shouldn't matter where it comes from. It shouldn't be something used to convince them to trust him. To...to like him. To want to know him.
He's never going to be the Bruce Wayne of that other world. He's never going to rewind time and find Jason before he's a teenager, find Cass before she's an adult, find Duke before he loses a year to the streets. He's never going to be the person who saw them when no one else did, who worked hard to prove himself worthy as a protector, as a parent.
He's not the Bruce Wayne of the other world. He's not Batman, and he's not a father. He's just a rich, out-of-touch middle aged man, trying to make connections that he hasn't earned.
And it's time to stop being selfish.
The next day is spent at the Wayne Enterprises building, meeting with Lucius to discuss the creation and implementation of a fund to cover care costs for all victims of Mad Hatter. Top quality, ongoing care, completely paid for by a new Wayne fund.
Bruce also asks, as casually as he can, if Lucius's son Luke would be interested in opening up a mixed-martial arts studio in the Narrows. Offering free classes to anyone under the age of 18. Lucius, eyebrow arched but not opposed, takes the two proposals as separate, unrelated ideas for community assistance. But Bruce is still thinking about Duke.
In that other world, the vigilante Signal was clearly well-trained. The only Bat regularly seen during the day, his fights were often recorded. And it was obvious he was highly skilled in both physical fighting and the use of his meta abilities. But in this world, Nightlight relies solely on his powers, no martial training to supplement them. The other Beacons are the same; street brawlers. At most, some of them show signs of boxing or Muay Thai experience. But nothing on the level of the Gotham Bats in that other dimension.
The Beacons and Nightlight have done perfectly fine as they are, in this universe where Gotham is a rough city but not a hellpit. But still. A little extra training, a little extra something to keep them safe...it can't hurt.
And Bruce knows that Luke is a master of mixed-martial arts. Heck, had sparred with him a few times. Bruce also knows that Luke spent what Lucius deems his 'stupid and rebellious phase' fighting in cage matches. Luke, more than a standard martial arts instructor, would be able to teach a pack of underaged vigilantes how to fight on streets without rules.
There's no guarantee that Duke and any other Beacons will take the classes even if Luke agrees to run the studio. But it's something. It's an open door, that doesn't come with Bruce Wayne's over-eager smile. With his eyes of want.
By the time the sun starts to set, Bruce has two draft proposals and several meetings lined up for the coming days. Preliminary plans established as he returns to his private office.
Where Barbara Gordon is waiting patiently.
She has an WE staff card hanging from a lanyard around her neck. Not a visitor card, a staff card, with the gold line that indicates high level clearance. But Barbara Gordon does not work at Wayne Enterprises. And even if she did, literally the only people with swipe access to Bruce's office are Bruce, his father, and Lucius. Not even the cleaners have access– they're only allowed in when Bruce or Lucius are there to supervise.
Bruce's eyes flick to the camera in the upper right corner of the ceiling. Currently completely black, with no blue pinprick of light.
Barbara gaining access to his office, and a 24/7 security camera switched off. A confirmation of who she is, what she can do. And a threat.
Still, Bruce shuts the door behind him before he can overthink the risk of doing so.
"Do you believe me?" he asks, with too much weariness and not enough wariness. "About spending a week in another dimension?"
Barbara's face is a mask of stone. "Tell me what happened."
So he does.
Bruce explains the trip to the other universe. A disappearance that hadn't been noticed because the other Bruce had been sent to this world in his place. Had kept up appearances, while secretly working with this world's Justice League to reverse the switch. In the meantime, Bruce and his parents had spent a week in a parallel universe, meeting the other!Bruce's children. Proved by the photos and screenshots in the phone's camera roll.
From there, Bruce explains returning home to this universe and immediately trying to find the counterparts of those children. Locating Redjay and Shrike, getting them to agree to let him help them. Their orphanage request, Leslie Thompkins's conditional oversight, and Bruce's suspicion that Barbara might be able to assist.
"I, of course, don't have any confirmation that you were responsible for busting those trafficking rings," Bruce says, which is mostly true. "But apparently you have a reputation for being the most tech-savvy librarian in Gotham. Which isn't proof of anything on its own. However, in that other world, the other!Bruce and his family were all, ah, well. Vigilantes. And so far, all of their counterparts in this world have been involved in...extra-legal justice-seeking activities. And since you were in that portrait...I thought perhaps the same might be true of you."
He pauses. "Of course, I realize there's no way for you to tell if the portrait itself was a doctored image, since the photo in my phone is a picture of a printed photograph. So I understand if you don't believe me about your inclusion in that family–,"
"I believe you," Barbara says. Curt. But not flat, not emotionless. "I...believe you."
She swallows. Hard. "All of the other photos are real. Including...including the ones of Timothy Drake."
The wince rattles through Bruce without permission.
It still hurts to think about Tim. In the other dimension, he'd been a clever, closed-off but charming young man of twenty. In this dimension, he's a child five years dead; a boy who took his own life at fifteen. It's not a surprise that Barbara knows who Tim is; his struggles had been devastatingly public.
Except...Barbara's reaction isn't that of someone remembering a sad news story they’d read years prior. Her head is bowed. Body tightening as if she's weathering a physical blow. A sound like she's trying to steady her breathing and failing.
"…Barbara?"
“S-sorry.” She swipes the heel of her palm over one cheek. “Sorry. I just– the trafficking rings. It wasn't...it wasn't just me."
Barbara meets Bruce’s confused gaze with red-rimmed eyes. “I couldn’t have stopped them without Tim.”
Six years ago, Timothy Drake was a ward of the state in and out of orphanages and foster homes. Chronically unsupervised, he'd become something of an amateur detective. Sneaking out at night to photograph and track criminal activities. Sending the evidence directly to the police electronically, so that dirty cops couldn't make it disappear. He covered his digital tracks well, but not well enough to evade Barbara's notice. She'd reached out to him anonymously, warned him that if she could trace the source of the emails, so could the more technologically literate Gotham gangs.
And that led to a mentorship of sorts. They never met in person, but over secure channels, Barbara taught Tim how to be a digital ghost. Trained him to be a better hacker. Chastising him for continuing to put himself in danger by tracking gangs, but giving him the tools to do it more safely.
At the time, Barbara was mostly concerning herself with white collar crime. Uncovering embezzlement, bribes, and high-level corruption among wealthy families, corporate shareholders, and politicians. Operating on the belief that the best way to fix Gotham was to fix the conditions that created criminals. All of the rot within the city's leadership that prevented the infrastructure and economy from improving.
"And as much as Tim was focused on crime at the ground level, he understood where I was coming from," Barbara explains. "Why I thought focusing on the rich at the top was the best way to make a difference."
Her face darkens. "Until he learned about the trafficking rings."
Even unwanted, even as a penniless target of ridicule, Timothy was too high-profile to disappear into the night. But he watched as other kids did. As other children in the foster homes he was shuffling between vanished between placements. And he begged Barbara, Oracle, to start looking into the police, the childcare agencies, the family court lawyers. To investigate how and why so many kids could be going missing without anyone other than Park Row residents seeming to know about it.
But the bribery and corruption at the civil servant level was usually physical. Money changing hands in envelopes and dropsites. Meetings held in back alleys and backrooms without cameras. The type of criminal conspiracy that required on the ground, in-person surveillance to catch. And Barbara wasn't incapable of navigating even the most pot-hole riddled street, but she was noticeable. She could wear a disguise to blend in to Park Row, but she couldn't tuck herself into a shadow, or crouch on a fire escape, or stay low beneath the lip of a roof and duck behind an air conditioner if spotted. And she couldn't move silently. She had a high-tech wheelchair, but even it would rattle like hell over the unmaintained roads of lower Gotham.
"There are places where someone in a wheelchair is as good as invisible," Barbara notes dryly. "You won't believe the amount of evidence I gather just by accompanying Dad to galas. So many people avoid looking at me because I make them uncomfortable. But that doesn't work in places like Park Row, where everyone's making note of perceived weakness. Or where everyone's keeping an eye out for someone suspicious, who doesn't quite seem like they belong."
She exhales air like it's a curse, grip tightening on the arms of her chair. "But I couldn't tell Tim that. He knew me only as Oracle, a disembodied digital presence. He had no idea my identity. And it's not that I didn't trust him specifically, it's that I didn't trust anyone with a secret that could get me and my family killed. But from his perspective, I was refusing to investigate the trafficking network out of either cowardice or complicity. And eventually, he ran out of patience. Or got desperate. Both.”
Tim had investigated on his own. But he knew the network was too large, too embedded, for evidence gathered by a teenager to be enough to dismantle it. So he'd taken matters into his own hands.
Barbara still isn't sure exactly how Tim did it. How he triggered a gang war between Two-Face and the Penguin. How he arranged a series of devastating sabotages and stings and lay enough false trails for each crime boss to blame the other. But she knows that Tim was behind it.
Because it was the gangs doing most of the bribing of the police, the social workers, the lawyers. The gangs threatening or murdering potential whistleblowers. Taking the main gangs out would stop the money flow, stop the silencing. Crumble the foundation the trafficking network was built on. And Tim had done it by using the gangs against each other. The conflict between Two-Face and the Penguin absolutely destroyed the powerbase of both syndicates.
But Tim was still a kid, barely fifteen. A boy with a big heart and more bravery than sense.
And he'd been caught.
"I told myself he was just keeping his head down," Barbara says. Takes her glasses off. Rubs a sleeve over her eyes. "But our channels were secure. He should have still felt safe contacting me. But he didn't. And at the same time, Two-Face and the Penguin suddenly stopped fighting. Like they'd both realized they'd been attacking the wrong person. And I– I just– I just knew."
Tim's hideout was an old prohibition cellar. The original building had been torn down, and the new building in its place had no access to the cellar– it was sealed beneath floorboards and concrete. But Tim had found one of the old rum-running tunnels, and the cellar it connected to. Had set himself up there with monitors and computers built out of scraps and ingenuity.
All if it had been destroyed when Barbara sent a drone over to look for him. Nothing left but bullet-shattered monitors and dried blood on the floor.
"Wait," Bruce says. Mouth dry as graveyard dust. Horror stuck in his throat like a bone. "Are you...are you saying that Tim didn't...it wasn't a suicide?"
"Of course not!" Barbara snaps. But then her shoulders slump.
"You never knew him here," she whispers. "If you’d known him, you’d know there was never any chance he killed himself. He was miserable and angry and alone and hurting and willing to risk his life bringing criminals to justice, but he wasn't leaving this mortal coil without a fight. God, if you'd met him Bruce. The poster child for ‘I’ll sleep when I’m dead’. No, Tim didn't kill himself. He was caught by either the Penguin or Two-Face, and they killed him."
Bruce swallows bile, the hollow hole in his stomach widening into a grotesque yawn. "The note by the harbour? Staged?"
Barbara nods. "There'd be an absolute media storm if Timothy Drake suddenly vanished. Or...or if his murdered body turned up. And neither the Penguin or Two-Face could afford the extra trouble. So a staged suicide in the harbour, with a body implied to have washed out to sea. No one to look for, nothing to investigate."
"But...you're certain they killed him? If...if there was no body..."
"Bruce. He destroyed their operations. Played them for fools. There's no chance they'd let him live."
Barbara squeezes her eyes shut. "I want to believe it was quick. I want to believe they lost their tempers and shot him on sight. But I know it wasn't. I know he did too much damage for them to have made his death quick."
Bruce has to shut his own eyes then. Almost knocked off his feet by the wave of nausea, of grief, of fury. Of resurging self-loathing. I could have saved him.
"But Two-Face and the Penguin never recovered from what they'd done to each other," Barbara continues, wiping her face again. "The money flow greasing the wheels of the trafficking stopped. And I...I could track that. Which cops, and orphanage staff, and registered foster parents, and case workers, and dockhands had suddenly lost thousands of dollars in income each month. And from there, I could start finding digital trails, monitoring their emails, realizing the coded language in play, finding others in the network. And not only that, but finding material in their digital footprint to blackmail them into identifying who else was involved."
She swallows again. Then laughs. Short and bitter. "Or maybe that’s just what I tell myself. That I wouldn’t have been able to stop the trafficking network if Tim hadn't decimated Two-Face and Penguin. Maybe I just want to believe I couldn’t have done it earlier. Maybe I don't want to accept that I could have acted sooner and kept him alive."
“Barbara–,”
“Or if I’d just taken him in. If I hadn't been so protective of my identity. I could have gotten Tim out of those foster homes, could have asked Dad to take him in. I could have–,"
“And I could have adopted him right when he was first orphaned,” Bruce interrupts, hoarse and haunted. “I didn’t either.”
They sit in the silence of that. The twinned, shared grief and guilt. What wasn't done, what can never be undone. The memories of the Tim from the other dimension are practically accusatory. The young man who'd reached age twenty. The boy who'd been saved. The Timothy Drake who was alive, because he lived in a universe where Bruce Wayne was a hero.
“I can make sure Redjay's orphanage doesn’t hire anyone who was implicated in the old rings,” Barbara says, breaking the silence, "and have a security system installed that I monitor. And keep an eye out for any signs of unusual funding being funnelled towards oversight agencies. I also...since Tim, I've tapped into a network of city cameras that helps me keep an eye on things at the ground level, so I can also watch for suspicious movement in Park Row and at the docks. And you are going to start bringing flowers to Tim's empty grave, because the graveyard the Drakes are buried in isn't fucking wheelchair accessible."
A task handed out like penance in a confessional booth. But Bruce knows neither he nor Barbara will find absolution from the past. All they can do is move forward into the future.
Do better, for the future.
"The fund for Mad Hatter victims has been approved, and Luke has agreed to open up the martial-arts studio in the Narrows," Bruce reports brightly.
"And with both Leslie and Barbara's involvement secured, the orphanage plan is a-go! Both are refusing payment, but as Leslie will be preoccupied with the orphanage her volunteer assistant at the clinic will be taking on more duties, so she asked if I could provide the funds to make it a paid position. And, wouldn't you know it, her assistant is that young blonde girl from the portrait! I never did figure out who she was– there were no articles about her on the other world's internet that I could find. But now I know her name is Stephanie Brown!"
Bruce begins counting off fingers. "So that's Jason, Cassandra, Duke, and Stephanie. As well as Luke and Barbara technically, though of course we understand they weren't necessarily grandchildren. And there's no need to bother with Cousin Kate; the Kanes can handle themselves, as always. I'm still looking for Dick and Damian of course, but it's a fairly good output for three weeks of work, wouldn't you say, Mother?"
Martha Wayne is quiet.
She is quiet, and not in a plotting or planning way. Something more subdued, sitting with hands that are still and head angled downwards, staring into her lap. Bruce's mother is nearly always gregarious, a bubbling well of sunshine at all times. Making up for how viciously the Kanes had tried to stamp out her light during her youth. It is rare for Martha to dim herself willingly. To tuck herself inwards, somber and silent.
Immediately, Bruce feels utterly wretched.
"Mother, I'm sorry I botched all of the meetings with the children," he apologizes. "I came on to strong, and as a result–,"
"Oh my dear, no." Martha lifts her head to give Bruce a small, conciliatory smile. "Not at all! As you said, they have families that they've built or found. They've taken care of themselves while also taking care of each other. You didn't scare them off. They simply...don't want to come over for dinner."
"...Luke and Barbara, I think we could convince. Perhaps Stephanie as well, as I haven't met her in person yet and still have a chance to make a good impression."
"Darling boy, you know the dinner isn't what's important in the end. Do you remember what Tim and the other world's Justice League said when they were trying to dissuade us from looking for the children?"
Martha's smile turns rueful. "That it was unimaginably dangerous. That the children were either in the company of extremely dangerous criminals, or...or it was too late to save them. But you've found four children who've saved themselves! That they are alive and well is the most important thing. That they've agreed to let us make their lives a little easier is a gift. We shall be content with that."
Not all of the children saved themselves. Not all of them are alive. And that's hard enough to swallow, hard enough to sit with without reeling beneath the sense of grief and failure. But there's a profound sense of loss even with the children that have been found.
Bruce well and truly hadn't realized how much hope he was putting into this, these kids who are not his. The possibility of expanding their family in an unexpected and marvellously serendipitous way. Bruce had never been child-free as a personal stance. He just...hadn't found the right person. And adoption had never really been on the table, because if the news broke that the Gotham Waynes were looking to adopt, every orphanage and foster home would turn into a battle royale. The other Bruce surely got away with it because all of his adoptions were spontaneous. He'd never toured orphanages or foster homes searching. A child would appear, and he would adopt them.
Or maybe, Bruce is just making excuses for himself.
In any case, Martha had long accepted there would be no grandchildren, no small feet pitter-pattering through the nursery. And Thomas had accepted there would be no heirs, and the Wayne line would end quietly with them. And while children would be nice, Bruce had never been unduly bothered by the fact that he likely would never have any.
But then that other world. That glimpse of what could have been. Sections of the Manor transformed by the interests of a new generation. Wayne Enterprises blossoming under the leadership of a bright successor. A dinner table full of laughter and teasing and a kaleidoscope of personalities, all united in their love for each other.
And his mother, basking in the warmth of that table. Beaming and joyous, enraptured by each child, captivated by their peculiarities. Desperate to find them again. Knowing they couldn't recreate that world's Wayne family, the one built on the death of her and her husband. But hoping they could build something regardless. Something uniquely their own, but shared with those faces met across the universe.
It is hard for Bruce to accept that no version of that will ever exist here, in his own world. But he knows it must be devastating for his mother. And he hates that she's trying to hide it. Hates, more than anything, that she feels the need to mask in front of him.
"Bruce, you have done your best," Martha says, softer. Still concealing her own disappointment, but seeing Bruce's clear as day. "And I'm proud of you. The children don't want to come over, and that's fine. You just focus on making sure that orphanage and all your new programs and funds are up and running. Focus on fulfilling the promises you've made. Focus on the children you've found. Our dinner table will endure."
"Mother, I–,"
Bruce stops. Pauses.
His mother, generally speaking, is an open-book. She says what she means, and if she's obfuscating or being sneaky, it is usually in a way that's paradoxically blatant.
Just focus on the children you've found.
"Mother," Bruce says, voice strained. "I haven't given up on Damian and Dick. I'm still looking for them. I am. Me. Just me."
Martha's smile is like a lit match held above a gas leak. "Of course, dear."
"Mother, I'm serious! I can manage on my own."
"Oh, I don't doubt it!" Her smile does not waver.
Sweat starts to gather beneath Bruce's clothes. Father said she'd had plans. But he'd also implied the plans would go away once Mother knew at least some of the children had been found. But Bruce's mother has that look about her. The look that warns of imminent undisclosed withdrawals from the household budget.
The household budget is a hefty sum of several hundred million, free for Mother to use for whatever she deems is necessary for stewarding the household. It covers maintenance, paying the staff, any renovations, any charity galas or events that Mother organizes, and retention of the informants she has throughout Gotham and embedded in other Bristol households. Those are the disclosed withdrawals. The regular costs expected to come out of the household-managing fund.
And then there are the sudden, unexpected withdrawals.
Like the time the charity ball Bruce was attending was held hostage and a full 24 hours passed with the GCPD unable to break the siege– a chunk of the household budget had been withdrawn, and Deathstroke the Terminator had shown up 4 hours later and liberated Bruce and the other captured attendees. Not a single hostage-taker survived, and Father had been upset with Mother for a week. Wobbly-lipped, she had promised that in the event she hired a mercenary again, she would impress that they were to only use lethal force if absolutely necessary.
There was also the time the Pearlmans had somehow gotten their hands on a cursed artefact, and used it to mind-control people into attending all of their parties and events– a chunk of the household budget had been withdrawn, and at the Pearlman's next party some strange trenchcoat-wearing Brit had appeared, removed the artefact from the Pearlman's possession, and opened a portal to hell in their ballroom.
I don't know why you're so bothered. No one fell in! I specified no casualties in the contract, Martha had huffed. I just told him to give them a little scare, so they know to keep their noses clean in the future.
And then, there were the times a chunk of the household budget was withdrawn because Martha wanted to prove a point to someone who'd pissed her off. She'd donate to or outright buy some location her victim was associated with – A hotel they were staying in, a museum they patronized, a bridge they drove over every day – and plaster her name and face all over it in the most obnoxious way possible. Plaques, portraits, and in at least four instances, a live band singing of her accomplishments. Talia had certainly gotten the worst of that side of Bruce's mother; there might very well still be a blimp with Martha Wayne's face on it floating around Egypt somewhere.
Bruce loves his mother dearly. She is a wonderful, brilliant woman who usually understands proportionate responses and the concept of law and order. However, her understanding of both those things and adjacent moral values go out the window when she believes her family is in danger. And also sometimes when she's just really annoyed with someone. But usually it's a matter of securing the safety of her loved ones.
Including, apparently, potential grandchildren.
"Mother, please." Bruce insists, scrounging up a smile that almost certainly looks crazed in its desperation. "There's no need for you to assist! I can look for Dick and Damian unaided. Truly! In fact, I would actually find it very helpful if you could help oversee all the new programs and funds–,"
"Oh, I'm afraid I can't help with the programs," Martha says with a regretful sigh. "It's been awhile since I've done the social circuit I'm afraid, so I'll be quite busy attending and planning a few gatherings the next few weeks. Or months."
Bruce squints. That doesn't sound suspicious. "...so you'll leave Dick and Damian to me? You won't...go after Talia, or anything like that?"
"Well, who knows what the future will bring. But at this time, I have no plans to hunt down Miss al Ghul. Of that, I can assure you."
Finally, Bruce's shoulders relax. His mother rarely outright lies to him. Deceive, yes. Lie to his face? Basically never. If she says she's not going after Talia, Bruce believes her. While certainly, the phrase "at this time" is what the youth would call load-bearing, it simply underscores that Martha is being truthful. For now, she won't go after Talia. Which means Bruce's deadline to produce results has been extended.
"Thank you, Mother," Bruce says, blatant in his relief. "And I mean it when I say that I haven't given up on Damian and Dick. I won't stop until I find...find something." If not them, then proof that they’re…that they’re well and truly out of reach in this world.
"Oh, I don't doubt it," Martha says brightly. "You are my son, after all. And we never quit on family."
Three months later, half of the household budget is withdrawn at once.
And a boy claiming to be Bruce's shows up at Redjay's orphanage.