Archive of Our Own

Once upon a time, there was a girl who knew exactly what she was supposed to be when she grew up.

A wife to a respectable man of high society.

Her father told her as much. Many times. At great length and volume. Told her who and what she was meant to be and punished her when she behaved in ways that ran counter to it. But as the girl became a woman, it became clear that she lacked the ability to be anything but herself. And herself – Martha Kane – was not the type of woman who would make a good wife to anyone.

And yet, she married. To a respectable man of high society, no less. 

Once married, Martha was determined to– if not be a good wife, to act like one. To make wifehood a thing that was done instead of a thing to be. To take all the comments and criticisms and cutting remarks she'd accumulated from her father and brothers and translate them into actionable duties and tasks.

Her new husband liked making lists. A month into their marriage, Martha Wayne made one of her own.

A good wife obeys her husband and ensures his health and happiness.

A good wife manages the household.

A good wife raises exceptional heirs.

A good wife social climbs and maintains congenial relations with peers.

“Hm.” Martha squinted at the page. “I suppose three out of four is a good start.”

After 45 years of marriage, Martha is still grateful to Thomas for introducing her to the power of a good list.

Imposed order has always been a trouble spot for her. Categorization is inherently and forever insensible, because there are always exceptions. Things that look and sound like one thing but are actually another. But making your own list is an opportunity to order the world in a way that makes sense for you. Crafting understanding through itemization. Lists of dos and don'ts. Lists of safe conversation topics and lists of social faux pas. Lists of people to watch and people to please and people to pacify.

The first time she is alone in Wayne Manor after returning from what Bruce calls the “Batman” dimension, Martha retrieves one of those lists from a hidden compartment in the back of her closet. A notebook of words and names she needs to double-check. 

Barbatos. Martha’s finger rests on the word briefly, before turning to the next page.

Parliament, but not talking about Canada or England.

Sentencing, but not mentioning a crime. Usually mentioning someone who could be considered an enemy or hindrance.

Talon, but not as an animal body part. More akin to an identity, or a job title.

It is an unusually formatted list. There is one word or phrase at the top of each page. Below it, a list of who Martha overheard saying that word or phrase, as well as where and when. A handy manual of who or what to avoid to keep her promise to her husband.

The promise to never, ever get involved with the Court of Owls.

Owl, but not seeming to be about the bird.

Court, but not mentioning judges or lawyers or period pieces.

The Gray Son, as something to be deployed, feared, avoided, or rented.

Martha’s finger lingers. Hovers over the ink, the name.

Grayson.

"Well now," she breathes out. "That's a problem, isn't it?"

Once upon a time, before she was a wife and before she knew about the magic of lists, a young woman fell through a wall.

She was running, admittedly. And laughing, somewhat hysterically. And was, therefore, not entirely watching where she was going. Nonetheless, there was no reason for her to expect that the wall she crashed into had a hidden panel. Which opened, deposited her into a pitch-black corridor, then promptly shut.

Any discontent the young woman felt at this turn of events was somewhat soothed by the sound of footsteps and angry shouts entering the hallway she had moments ago been in. The sounds approached, then passed, moving away from her hidden position, none the wiser.

It was dark, and dusty, and there were probably spiders. But all the same, she had to hold a hand to her mouth to hide the giggles.

The corridor was narrow and short, but so was she and didn’t find it overly uncomfortable as she walked. The darkness was a bit scary, but also soothing. The kind of dark and quiet that made her head go a little dark and quiet too. Dampening all the frantic angry buzzing that made her act in ways unbefitting her gender and station. She didn’t flap her hands, but did grab the corners of her dress to swish as she walked.

It did not take very long for her to lose her way back to the panel. To think, I could be lost in here forever, couldn’t I? In the darkness and the quiet where the anger couldn’t find her. This was not a particularly unpleasant thought. In fact, it sounded rather grand. 

And so of course, it was at that moment that she turned a corner and ran directly into a man.

Unlike the wall, his broad chest did not open into a hidden panel. And so the young woman was knocked clear off her feet by the impact. The man apologized immediately, helped her up, and then seemed to remember that young women were not native to secret wall corridors.

"You are not meant to be in here," he said sternly. "Who are you?"

“Martha Kane,” said the young woman, before remembering that it was very dark indeed, too dark to see faces, and she could have and should have lied. Oh, well. “And I did not mean to be in here. I fell through a wall quite unexpectedly.”

“...a servant must have left the portal unlocked,” said the man. “That shouldn't have happened, and I apologize, sincerely. Please allow me to lead you to an exit, Miss Kane.”

“Oh, there’s no need!” she replied, quick and only a little desperate. “It is probably for the best that I remain in here for a good while yet.”

“…I beg your pardon?”

“I am fleeing the scene of the crime,” she admitted, because she was absolutely atrocious at lying and her life was over anyways. “I have caused a great deal of commotion at this prestigious party, upset several esteemed guests, and flagrantly disobeyed my father. I would very much like to stay in here forever, but acknowledge that this is likely not possible. And so, I will simply stay in here for as long as it takes my father and brothers to find me. I would appreciate very much if you did not tell them where I am.”

“…”

“Or, at least, don’t tell them for another ten minutes? I understand you have a duty to bring me to justice.”

“...to justice? What in heaven’s name did you do?”

“Oh, were you not downstairs? It was quite marvellous, actually. Well, for me. You see, the hosts have slung canopies and netting above the ballroom dance floor to drop balloons and confetti and what have you once midnight strikes. I merely snuck onto the ballroom balcony, tossed a handful of balloons stuffed with fish detritus and rotten milk into the canopy directly above Mr. Vanderbilt and his disagreeable son, then cut the ropes and unleashed the canopy's holdings. And hit my target exactly! I also hit some other people, but really, they shouldn’t have been standing so close to such unpleasant men.”

“…”

“The vast majority of guests, however, were only hit with balloons and confetti! Suffering only disappointment at the celebration occurring so far from midnight. And well, the smell. But Wayne Manor is so large, I don’t doubt that the party will be able to continue elsewhere! For everyone other than the Vanderbilts and associates." 

"......I was not aware the Kanes took issue with the Vanderbilts. Such that you would see fit to turn the ballroom into a biohazard in the name of this feud. The opposite, in fact. There were talks of marriage, were there not?" 

“Oh, there were! Until the Vanderbilts met me.”

Martha’s hands twisted together, thumbs rubbing along one another. Nails digging into the skin on her knuckles, picking. “We got along quite poorly. I did not hold my tongue as I was ought to, and said things that were interpreted as insults. And then Young Mr. Vanderbilt hit me, which I didn’t like. Father said it is what a woman like me should expect, and if I didn’t want to get hit once married I should improve my behaviour. But when Young Mr. Vanderbilt hit me again I hit him back. Now we’re not getting married. But he makes very unkind remarks when we cross paths, and last time he said–,”

Here, at last, she regained control of her tongue. There was no point in saying something so unpleasant when it wouldn’t be believed. “Well, it doesn’t matter what he said. I’m in the wrong, I know that.”

“There is no instance where it is right for a man to hit a woman,” said the man in the corridor, sounding quite angry. “It is Nathaniel Vanderbilt who is decidedly in the wrong.”

“Hm, no. That’s not true." Martha tilted her head. Not baffled by the man's anger, which she expected, but baffled that it was not directed at her. “A man hits his wife to correct her behaviour. Just as a man hits his children to do the same.”

“No,” the man said, sounding even angrier. “Those are abhorrent opinions for any man of civilized society to hold. You are not to be blamed for your ignorance, but there is a great deal of research that discredits the purported benefits of physical punishment for children. And a man should treat his wife as an adult. Nor is it legal for a man to hit his wife.”

“Really? Perhaps you should tell Father that,” Martha said, then immediately grimaced. “But perhaps not when you give me back to him, please. It will just make him more upset with me. Perhaps…later. Much later. Perhaps you might wait until I’m gone and locked away?”

“You are not going to be– to be arrested for your activity today,” said the man. Less angry now, but certainly aggrieved. “No one is going to lock you away.”

“Oh, not to jail. I’ll be nineteen in less than two months, and then I’ll be locked away in Arkham,” Martha explained. “I was supposed to shape up and finally be a proper woman once I turned eighteen, but I haven’t been. So, well.”

You have 1 year, Father had said, to convince me not to lock you in Arkham for the rest of your life. 1 year to prove you can be a daughter, and not a liability.

A good woman of high society. Well-bred and proper. One with poise, and decorum, who didn’t blurt out the first thing on her mind. Who knew how to hold a conversation and didn’t ask tactless questions or provide honest answers to questions that were, apparently, meant to be answered with lies. Who didn’t flap hands or make strange sounds or, on occasion, have screaming tantrums. And so on.

Martha had failed within three months.

Father had stopped yelling, stopped correcting. Had said, only once, ‘You failed’. And left it at that.

But he was a man of his word. He would wait for the year to be up, for her to turn nineteen. And then it was Arkham. For the rest of her life.

“…Arkham is an asylum. For the mentally unwell,” the man said. Slowly, like he was carefully choosing each word.

“Yes,” Martha agreed. “Like me. I am–,”

–a wild, shameless, insane girl who needs a collar and not a ring–

“–untrainable,” she finished. “And also, um. Perhaps crazy? Crazy is the common consensus. Well, familial consensus rather than common, I suppose. Father has kept it well-hidden. But it’s getting harder to keep it hidden since I’m supposed to be in society now. Hence the preemptive Arkham internment before I can cause an incident. He’ll be quite cross that I caused one tonight. Though I don’t know that many people saw me do it. But some certainly did, as they were in pursuit of me before the wall offered refuge. Nevertheless, If I am going to be locked away regardless, now really seemed the only chance to ensure the Vanderbilts mind their tongues in the future. I don’t regret it!”

And then again, because she truly meant it. And again, because Martha's words had a habit of looping like a scratched record when she was overwhelmed. “I don’t regret it. I don’t regret it. I don’t I don’t I don’t I don’t–,”

“What did Nathaniel Vanderbilt do that you have not yet revealed?” asked the man, instead of grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her as he ought to. “What did he say to you that warranted such a vehement response?”

Martha had positively zero desire to revisit or repeat that particular conversation. And saw nothing good coming of divulging what had been said to another man.

But.

So far, this man had not behaved at all like Martha expected him to. So far, he had done a remarkable amount of listening and very little talking. And even less scolding and absolutely no insulting. Peculiar. 

Also, she really well and truly didn’t have anything left to lose. Except for perhaps the last opportunity for someone to hear her story from her own mouth.

“Well,” Martha said quietly. “He said– I suppose he learned that Father was sending me to Arkham. And he said that, that, that, perhaps he would visit me there, and I, I, I, I didn’t like his implications, though I understand I could have misinterpreted, but he did say that if I was too drugged up to move or make sound he could see to it that I finally do my duty as a woman–,”

“Monstrous!” thundered the man, making her jump. “That– that– how dare he?! To say such a thing– To imply such a horrendous– I will have the man thrown out immediately–,”

“Oh, don’t bother!” Martha said, begged. “Young Mr. Vanderbilt will say I was lying and Father will back him up. No one will believe me and will certainly look at you funny if you do. And it’s not– it isn’t– it wouldn’t change anything, anyways. It wouldn't change where I'm going. It wouldn't change a thing but make them all angry. Angrier.”

The man went quiet again. Said nothing, for a long time. Long enough that the quiet became silence. Stretching and absolute. The dark becoming a little uncomfortable, only because thinking about Vanderbilt’s words reminded Martha that she was alone in the dark with a man.

But he did not step closer to her. And eventually said, “Miss Kane, you sound very afraid.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But I came to this party like I was told to, I smiled at mostly the right times, and I hit Vanderbilt with stinky balloons even knowing that in less than two months I will be out of the eye of society and no one will care what happens to me. I think it’s alright to be very afraid, if you’re fearless about it.”

“…”

“I know, I know. One can't be two opposite things at the same time.” Martha laughed, breathy and a little sad. "To be both afraid and fearless– perhaps we can consider that a mark of insanity."

“No, Miss Kane,” said the man. “I believe we consider that courage."

The conversation ended then, mostly because the young woman had been rendered quite speechless. The man, apparently having no more questions, declared that he must return to the party, and could not leave the young woman alone in the corridors. Her eyes remain fixed on her feet as he led her out another hidden panel. Fixed on the carpet as she followed him to her incandescent Father.

“Mr. Wayne,” said Father, barely restraining a snarl, “I sincerely regret that your hospitality was fouled by this horrid, wretched excuse for a girl. The Kanes will of course compensate–,”

“I wish to take Martha Kane’s hand in marriage,” said the man.

And Martha looked up, shocked beyond measure, and met Thomas Wayne's eyes for the first time.

“Aunt Martha, if this is about business we really should be using proxies,” sighs Katherine Kane, as she always does when Martha invites her over for tea.

“But when else would I get to see you? You’re such a busy young woman,” Martha replies, tutting. “And in any case, the less people involved in this matter the better. I wish to discuss the Talons of the Court of Owls.”

Kate stiffens so abruptly it looks painful. Immediately, her eyes dart around.

They are taking tea in the garden. A table set up in a relatively open space. The sky is above them. There is music playing from some speakers. Soft, but surrounding.

“There are no staff on site today, and we will have full view of any drones overhead,” Martha reassures. “We have sightlines in every direction, so there is no chance of someone crouching somewhere and overhearing. At best, someone with very, very powerful binoculars could read our lips from a distance. Which is why we are wearing facemasks!”

“You said it was for the pollen,” Kate mutters. Her shoulders relax minutely, but the stiffness doesn’t leave her spine. “Aunt Martha, the Court of Owls is no joke. If you’ve ran afoul of them, I’ll help you in any way I can. But if this is proactive, if this is you moving against them first, I have to strongly, strongly advise you against pursuing this.”

“Not an option!” Martha says brightly. “They have my grandson.”

Kate’s eyes widen in shock. “Bruce has a–,”

“Adopted grandson. Richard Grayson.”

The name is recognized. That is clear, even with Kate’s facemask. “Gray– That’s not possible.”

“Oh?”

“The Gray Son has been with the Court for over a decade. Maybe close to two.”

Martha’s stomach twists. Something like grief, perhaps outrage as well. Close to two decades.

“Adopted grandson in an alternate universe,” Martha amends further, keeping her voice calm even though her heart is not. “In another dimension, Bruce adopted Richard right after his parents’ deaths. It is…it is quite upsetting to know what has befallen him without Bruce’s intervention. And I am quite eager to correct this error.”

Kate looks pained, but not disbelieving, which is a great sign. “Aunt Martha, whatever your reasons, the Court of Owls isn’t something you can–,”

“Oh, now you sound like Thomas. The Court of Owls requires the same thing as all other organizations; money. And they are going to find that many of their financial backers are unable to put forth the funds they once did.”

Kate's pained expression shifts to actual panic. "Wait, what did you do?" 

Martha smiles. “I simply made some social calls!”

It is genuinely quite funny to remember that she used to be utterly awful at all things social. Bad at small talk, bad at socialization, bad at tasteful, tactful gossip that didn’t ruffle the wrong feathers but also didn’t make her seem completely out of the loop and ill-informed.

That hadn’t changed after getting married. Thomas had in fact been quite relieved to have a wife that wouldn’t insist on an endless rotation of brunches and social hours and garden parties. In mutual agreement, they both only attended the bare minimum of events expected for people of their status or necessary for Wayne Enterprises networking.

But Thomas had understood, eventually, why that had to change. Knew why Martha threw herself into the social world of Gotham like a mountaineer to Everest. And in time, the social game had become something Martha was good at and enjoyed.

These days, Martha is an old hat at social schmoozing. Things that never came naturally to her were won through hard-fought experience. She can tell when people are double-talking, knows what gossip to share and what to keep close to her chest, and has enough insider knowledge to generally know when people are lying, even if it’s still hard for her to tell innately.

And of course, there is all the information she receives from informants, from servants embedded in households, from easily ignorable secretaries and staffers at board meetings, from the data brokers on the internet with a finger in everyone’s pie, from her own keen eyes and sensitive ears and predisposition towards breaking into locked rooms in other people’s homes.

Martha knows how to play the Gotham game. And how to play it well.

“Aunt Martha,” Kate says again, tone a little sharper than exasperation. And because this is Kate rather than Martha's son or husband who she tries not to worry, Martha relents.

“Really, that was what I was doing,” Martha explains. “Friendly visits through the Gotham social sphere to gossip and gab and gather information. To ensure my list of financially precarious families was up to date.”

Families whose wealth wasn't entirely secure. An investment portfolio with volatile assets. A company or business struggling to stay relevant in the face of technological innovation. Properties in areas increasingly bombarded by climate change. And other worrying but not-as-of-yet-ruinous matters.

Once the financially precarious list was up to date, Martha had cross-referenced it with her Court of Owls list and created a new list: financially precarious Owls.

“From there, I selected two who seemed like they’d cause the most trouble,” Martha continues. “And passed on some information to, ah, a little spider friend of mine.”

Lonny is always quite cross when ‘Mother Goose’ calls him. Always launches into a 5 minute rant about ‘the bloodsucking elite’ and his role as ‘champion of the oppressed’ before Martha can get a word in. But when she passes him names, accompanied by the passwords, passcodes, and biometric scans she and her people have been able to gather, he always makes good use of them.

“I gave him three names in total, added one non-Owl family to muddy the waters a bit,” Martha explains. “Don’t worry– that particular family has most of their money in offshore accounts anyways, they’ll recover. The Owls will not.”

Kate rubs her forehead, a motion that reminds Martha fondly of Bruce. “There are a lot of Owls. Financially ruining two–,”

"I said that I set Moneyspider on two of them. I didn't say I only targeted two of them."

Gotham was a tangled web of relation. Networks of allies and enemies and indebted and debtors. Everyone was connected, and leveraging those connections was necessary for both survival and success. So Martha had cross-referenced lists again. Had looked at her financially precarious Owls list and her people we have direct leverage over list and looked for connections.

And then, she’d made some more social calls.

"I had tea with Eleanor Malkovitch and gently reminded her of how much money she owes me,” Martha says benignly. “After which I encouraged her to spend more time with her bosom friend Lucille Limon, and relay to me which stocks in the Limon investment portfolio are failing.”

“The Limons are Owls,” Kate says, mouth in a thin line.

“Financially precarious Owls, in fact. Just like the Hurstons and the Marchands. I attended the same party as Gregory Peale, and reminded him of the photos of him and his mistresses in my possession, and suggested deletion could be arranged if he backs out of the deal with the Hurston Taxi company at the last possible moment. Ensured Bailey Fronds recalled her family's prized pottery collection has forged provenance and I have the Interpol cultural heritage theft app on my phone; she volunteered to have her cousins on the workplace healthy and safety board fail Marchand factories in upcoming inspections."

"That's not going to bankrupt them," Kate asks suspiciously. 

"No, but if they want to stay in the same tax bracket they'll have to tighten their purse strings. Which means the funds they send to the Court will slow to a trickle." 

"...I'm not going to pretend that's not impressive and you're not terrifying. But Aunt Martha, if five Owl-affiliated families–," 

"With more to come. I have plans for at least three others in the coming weeks."

Kate purses her lips. "If eight Owl-affiliated families all suddenly experience financial difficulties, the Court will be suspicious–," 

"I will continue to throw Non-Owl families into the mix to muddy the waters. And moreover, there will be a plausible enough reason for this string of misfortune," Martha says with another smile. 

“Moneyspider is a well-known e-terrorist who targets Gotham elite. His attack will not raise suspicions. And it stands to reason that three major Gotham families having their bank accounts wiped out will cause the market to balk. For Limon investments to fail, for nervous potential business partners to pull out of already struggling taxi companies, for factories to cut corners to save money and then get caught. A string of coincidences is suspicious. But a terrorist attack causing a ripple effect is much more explainable.”

“And then what?” Kate demands. “Dealing a heavy financial blow won’t destroy the Court. They’ll find new backers, new funds.”

“Yes, that’s what I’m counting on!” Martha says excitedly. “In the aftermath of so many prominent Gotham families experiencing hardship, Lady Wayne might just be in the market for a new shadowy organization to help her protect her assets." 

Kate looks less excited. "You don't think your sudden interest in Court membership right after a string of hardship might make the Owls slightly suspicious?" 

"Doubtful! After all, the Court approached me years ago. Don't look so shocked, dear; you know what I do to keep my boys safe. Of course the Court would take notice."

Martha laughs. "They've asked me twice to join, but I've never taken them up on their offer. And our interests have never clashed or led to conflict. They have no reason to suspect me because I've left them alone for years. And moreover, I wouldn't need to engineer hardship to create a vacancy if I wanted a spot. And so, to summarize," 

She leans forward, smiling shifting to something more sly. "The Court will experience a series of financial misfortunes. They will be looking for new wealthy inductees. They will likely approach me of their own volition in a few months to see if I’ve changed my mind. I, having also noticed the misfortune of several of my peers, will see the Court as an extra level of protection for my family and take them up on their offer. And once I am inner circle, I will proceed to phase 2 of my plan.

Finally, Martha's smile fades. "Unfortunately, this will take months. And...well...I've heard that the Gray Son will be deployed tonight. In Gotham." 

Kate stiffens again. "Tonight?" 

"Tonight. And, oh, I simply can’t abide the idea of not doing something about that. Leaving him with them for any longer when there’s an opportunity to save him now. I know that the Colony has captured Talons before. And so I ask...Kate, will you please help me rescue my grandson?”

Kate's brow furrows in what is probably a grimace. She pointedly does not look at Martha’s face, avoiding the persuasive power of her aunt's water works. “The Gray Son isn’t a regular Talon. The Court can make more of the rank and file. At great cost and labour, but it can be done. The Gray Son is…special. The Court will look for him. Endlessly. They won’t write him off as they do the other Talons we capture.”

“Which is why the Court must be destroyed. Why I originally intended to do that first,” Martha says, hands twisting in her lap. “I understand he’s not safe while the Court exists. But I need him out of there, Kate. I can’t let him keep suffering when there’s something we can do. And all going well, the Court will be a shell of itself in a few months. And if the Colony helps, we may be able to eradicate it for good.”

Kate still doesn’t look at her. Eyes narrowed in focus, thought. Then she swallows, visibly. 

"Aunt Martha." Kate's voice drops a level in volume. Goes a bit shaky. "If the Court even suspects you're behind this–," 

"–they will proceed with caution," Martha interrupts. "They will not act rashly, nor will they act quickly. They will exhaust every other option before coming after me."

Martha understands that the Court of Owls is powerful. That they do not tolerate threats. That they have enough influence to act with impunity. That there is a reason there are no Court names on her leverage list. But quite frankly, she also understands that she is Martha fucking Wayne. Even if they framed someone else for her murder, even if they staged a suicide, the spotlight on her death and subsequent investigation isn't something the Court would risk if they could avoid it.

This too, is only possible because of the work she’s done the past three decades. The Waynes are not just powerful. They are well-known, well-respected, and beloved. And in Gotham, it is reputation, allies, and networks of influence that decide who wins and who loses. 

Martha learned that lesson the hard way. And has never, ever, forgotten it.

"And really, isn't that just another reason for us to act quickly?" Martha points out. "If the Court does end up suspecting me, it would be best if we took them out before they can decide if taking me out is worth the risk."

Kate groans audibly. "If that's meant to be reassuring, it isn't." 

She heaves a sigh and runs a hand through her hair. But something has relaxed in her shoulders, relented. 

"I suppose it's been awhile since you've dragged me into something inadvisable and unhinged," Kate mutters dryly. "I'm well overdue for a new patch of gray hair." 

Martha knows a victory when she sees one, and positively beams. "Oh, how wonderful! Thank you, Kate. Sincerely. I just knew you'd want to help! Now, about tonight..."

Once upon a time, an upstanding young man and an odd young woman got married.

To each other, shockingly.

No long courtship, no known negotiations between their families– just an abrupt engagement, with a wedding following mere months later.

Unsurprisingly, most assumed the cause was an indiscrete pregnancy. Particularly those who attended the infamous New Year’s Party where Dr. Wayne had been missing for a protracted period of time, only to reappear with a quite dishevelled Martha Kane. But the bride was still flat in figure at the altar, and no child appeared within the year.

As such, the gossip revised itself into a new theory: Thomas Wayne was proper and upright almost to a fault. If he had found himself in a compromising position with a young woman, he would certainly marry her to save her reputation, regardless of whether pregnancy occurred. And it was not beyond the Kanes to manufacture a compromising situation to trap Dr. Wayne in a corner of his own morals. They were an ambitious family, and marriage to the Waynes would open a lot of doors in Gotham.

Regardless of exactly how the marriage came about, Dr. Wayne certainly didn’t seem overly bothered. While yes, Miss Kane had a reputation for being a bit strange and Mr. Kane a reputation for ruthless ambition, the Kane name was prestigious and well-respected.

Moreover, Dr. Wayne certainly needed a wife. He was nearly thirty, an only child, and an orphan. The Waynes were a powerhouse in Gotham, but a powerhouse resting entirely on a single pillar. A position made more precarious by how much of an unsociable shut-in Dr. Wayne had proven to be.

In fact, it was entirely possible that the 28-year-old bachelor had rung in the New Year, suddenly realized his age, and decided to propose to the first woman he lay eyes on. Martha Kane was simply in his sight path.

And still, the mystery surrounding the cause of the marriage was less of a shock than the marriage itself. Because against all odds, Thomas and Martha Wayne were happy.

No one was more surprised by this than Martha herself.

A good wife obeys her husband and ensures his health and happiness

Thomas was poised, refined, and quiet. Martha was raucous, reckless, and loud.

But Thomas liked her loudness because it allowed him to be quiet. And Martha liked his quiet because it allowed her to be loud. Both of them were happiest when she did 90% of the talking. 

If there was any friction, it came from mismatched expectation: Martha was used to being watched, managed, and ordered. Thomas had no patience for those who couldn't self-direct and take charge of themselves. She wanted him to tell her what she should and should not do to make him happy. He found the idea of standing over her shoulder and telling her what she was allowed to do reprehensible. 

In the end, lists were the compromise. Thomas liked to order his day with lists. Liked to break down everything into tasks. The first list he gave her was practically a cookbook. A list of the meals that Thomas liked (a very short list) complete with the exact portion sizes of each component and the exact brand of groceries to buy to make them. 

Martha was delighted. 

No unquantifiable ask of 'make a suitable dinner'. No grocery list that did nothing to address the range of different options at the store. Everything exact and specific and easy to follow. Cooking for Thomas was a genuine joy. 

And so, Martha began making lists for other things, with his input. A list for how he liked his laundry done, for how to sort his mail, for how to organize his closet. Thomas liked things done a very particular way. And he liked those things done that way every time. Meaning it was very, very easy to make a list of tasks to do to make him happy. To be a good wife.

Usually.

A good wife manages the household

Cleaning was a sore spot.

Martha didn’t enjoy it, which made it hard to even attempt. And Thomas’s lists were not always in alignment with his wants. He could tell her to ‘clean the living room’, and she could make a list of what ‘clean the living room’ entailed and complete it. But he could still then walk in and immediately frown, because something was wrong.

Martha had moved the lamp too far left while dusting. Or hadn’t pulled the curtains back at the correct angle. Or hadn’t straightened the carpet perfectly. Or something else that had absolutely not been on the list.

More often than not, she was red-faced and nearly in tears by the time she corrected the imperceptible error. Forced to give herself into a screaming fit the moment her husband left the room.

Everything improved when Alfred returned.

Alfred’s father had served under the former Lord Wayne in the war and they’d stayed in contact for the remainder of their lives. As a result, Alfred and Thomas had known each other as boys. When Thomas’s father had died, Alfred’s father sent him to Gotham to assist Thomas. Alfred had remained until Thomas married; the assumption being that the new Lady Wayne would want to bring or hire her own head servant or housekeeper.

No one had seem fit to inform Martha of this assumption. And when she finally learned of it, she was more upset at having inadvertently sent away Thomas's old friend more than anything.

Alfred's return was an absolute godsend for many reasons. For one, he already knew how Thomas Wayne liked the Manor to be cleaned and organized. For two, the man was endlessly patient and didn’t get frustrated or overwhelmed by the sometimes mercurial Martha.

For three, he brought the rest of the household staff to heel. Martha hadn't even known that the maids didn't like her. That they could have helped her with the cleaning, helped her learn how Thomas liked things, if they'd felt inclined to do so. She'd had no idea they thought she was a contemptible and ditzy child at best, and a loose-moralled pawn of her scheming father at worst. But once Alfred returned, the behaviour Martha hadn't realized was unacceptable stopped. 

And on top of all that, Alfred was a veritable wellspring of information on how to run the household. The needs of the grounds and gardens, the maintenance required for the sprawling manor, when the furnace needed to be serviced, when the gutters needed to be cleaned, which contractors did good work and which contractors were to never be hired again. Information that could easily be converted into a list. Information that could – and would – fill Martha's newly discovered love: spreadsheets.

A good wife raises exceptional heirs

Martha was excited to be a mother.

She knew it was the most important duty of a wife. And she believed, truly, that it was something she could be to great success.

She could be the warm, nurturing figure she saw on television and movies. She could be the laughing, rosy-cheeked face pushing a pram through the city centre. She could be someone whose sole purpose was to love, to support, to protect.

And she, more than anything, wanted a child with Thomas Wayne. The man who saved her. Wanted to make something of hers that was his, something of his that was hers. To start building their family.

Martha had never been happier than when the doctor confirmed she was pregnant.

But the pregnancy was hard.

Foods that had always been palatable in texture and taste suddenly unbearable. Every scent, however mild, overwhelming. Not a single fabric that didn’t make her want to claw off her skin and scream. Every electronic in the vicinity screeching at her.

Martha had gone a year married to Thomas Wayne keeping her worst habits mostly out of sight.

But she kept slipping up, when pregnant. Kept letting her husband see her.

He saw her scream. He saw her wail. He saw her flap her hands, rock back and forth, chew at her skin. Saw her so overwhelmed she slapped herself in the face, twice.

But he never hit her.

Thomas never hit her to try and knock her out of a tantrum. Never locked her in a room until she stopped screaming. He held her down sometimes, when she was thrashing in a way that might jostle the baby. But otherwise he just...tried to reason with her. Tried to Dr. Wayne her out of her fit. Had a different book every time. Reading out methods for her to try, looking more and more frazzled each time something wouldn’t work.

Eventually, Thomas learned that covering her ears with his hands was sometimes more effective than holding her down to stop her from hurting herself. Learned that a very specific blend of polyester and cotton could be bearable, and on very bad days, letting her stay undressed and wrapped in a blanket was the only solution. Hired a full panel of dietary experts and natal specialists to develop a bland diet that was safe for the baby and palatable to her.

Thomas also didn't leave Martha alone.

Martha had hated that, at the start. Terrified that if Thomas saw her tantrum eventually he would divorce her. Would have every reason in the world to. She preferred not to be locked in a room of course, but she wouldn’t have minded if he just shut the door and went elsewhere to wait for her to wear herself out. She knew how to pick locks anyways. And if not watching stopped him from divorcing her, she much, much preferred that Thomas left her alone during her fits.

He never did.

If Thomas saw his wife having a fit, that wiped his schedule clean for the rest of the day. He would not leave her. He would be at her side until she recovered. Trying all sorts of different methods from his books, trying to talk her back into rational thought, trying to logically explain to her why there was no need for this behaviour.

And when that inevitably failed, Thomas would just stay with her. Touch her hair, if she could bear it. And just stay close if she could not.

And then Bruce was born. Their beautiful, wonderful Bruce. Thomas Wayne's healthy, bright-eyed heir. 

Martha was certain she was headed to Arkham. 

Thomas had suffered through a nightmarish series of months, bore what no man of his station should ever have to be subjected to. Now he had a son, had what was needed, and no one would bat an eye if he sent his lawful wife to an asylum for her own good.

But he didn’t.

He kissed Martha's head, and rubbed her back, and looked at her and the babe in her arms like he was in pain in a good way. Like his chest was being split open and he welcomed it. Thomas didn't speak very much, in the days following Bruce's birth. But the way he'd keep meeting Martha's eyes, keep looking at her directly, like she was everything, like he wanted nothing more than to stare at her–

Theirs was a marriage of...convenience wasn't the right word. It was a marriage of...saving, and being saved. It was Dr. Thomas Wayne being a good man who saw no other way to rescue a young woman he thought deserved better. It was not founded on negotiations between families, on reputation, or even on a whirlwind romance.

And so, the idea that they might have fallen in love with each other was startling. But not unwelcome. Not unwelcome at all. 

A good wife social climbs and maintains congenial relations with peers

Thomas and Martha didn’t go out very much.

It was the one task on Martha's list that she never really attempted to accomplish, only because it seemed to conflict with the task of keeping her husband happy. Thomas Wayne did not care for social climbing or good relations with peers. He was happier at home. They both were. 

They had friends of course. A police officer that Thomas thought highly of. A young intern at WE who was close to Martha's age and who always let her talk his ear off if she popped by the building. A female surgeon from a different hospital that Thomas met at a conference who became a regular visitor at the manor.

And of course, there were events and galas the Waynes simply had to attend. Which were surprisingly bearable for Martha. Much easier to get through than they'd been before she was married. Not as much as a struggle to fake pleasantries and smile at the right moments and listen to what people were saying even if she didn't care. It was a marvellous thing to discover; that it wasn't as hard to hide her unseemly traits in public when she didn't also have to hide them at home.

And after Bruce, Martha no longer had to hide at home at all.

Thomas had never scolded Martha for repeating phrases or flapping her hands or rocking. But he had always tried to 'treat' it. To 'fix' it. After Bruce, he stopped. Stopped taking notes, stopped making suggestions, stopped trying to redirect or rationalize. Simply...let her be.

What Martha didn't know then, was that their dear friend Leslie had taken Thomas aside shortly after Bruce's birth and told him, harshly, that there was no 'curing' his wife. That anything Thomas attempted to ‘alleviate’ her symptoms should only be for those symptoms that caused her distress, and not for symptoms that others found inconvenient.

And Thomas Wayne, the medical prodigy who ruffled feathers because he always acted like he knew best and then did know best, listened. 

Wayne Manor became a home that often had a pleasant backdrop of humming. That had conversations where excited hands said as much as excited words. That had gentle mornings and quiet evenings with a wife smiling at nothing and swaying on the spot, swishing her dress back and forth. 

"I don't always notice when I start...fidgeting," Martha said one morning, horribly embarrassed after having caught herself mid-flap. "You haven't pointed it out in awhile. Please let me know if I'm doing it and it bothers you." 

Thomas looked at her over the top of his newspaper.

"It doesn't," he said. Then returned to reading.

It never had. 

And now he could see that it didn't bother Martha either. That the behaviours which would have her mocked, belittled, and derided did not cause her distress if she was left to complete them unbothered. The opposite. They made her quite happy. Any 'cure' would not be for her benefit, but for the society they were all forced to move through. 

It was a good thing then, that the Waynes didn't go out much.

And so, Martha Wayne continued to be a very odd woman. But a woman whose oddness was accepted. Her Bruce was a beautiful, bright baby who grew into a beautiful, bright boy. Thomas was terse and stubborn but never unfair and always clear with his adoration. The Waynes did not leave the house much, but they were unfailingly happy. 

But as Martha turned thirty herself, she could not help but worry about another uncompleted task. She had only given Thomas one heir. And she knew, from what he had told her of his childhood, that being an only child had put a great deal of pressure on him. The Wayne legacy had been a weight as heavy as any crown.

A wife was meant to give her husband multiple children. Thomas asked for so little from her. And Martha wanted another child. They had not tried for a second because of how hard the first pregnancy had been. But that had been ten years ago. Perhaps this time, pregnancy would go easier. 

A good wife raises exceptional heirs

The second pregnancy did not go easier. 

It went worse. 

The first time, Martha had still been policing her own behaviour. Only a year's distance between her life in the Kane estate. The second time, Martha had been herself, unrestricted, for ten years. The shoddy but present control she used to have had been thoroughly eroded. 

Overwhelmed was not a word that fully explained the way every sense betrayed her. The way simply existing seemed to send her into fits. She tried her best. She really, really tried, but her screaming fits were frequent. She frightened the staff. She frightened Bruce. 

And then she lost him. The second son they were expecting. Thirteen weeks into the pregnancy.

Or so she was told. 

Martha did not believe it. Could not believe it. Not from her doctor, from her husband, from their mutual friend. She had been a good wife, a good mother. She had. Despite being Martha Kane, despite being crazy, despite being wrong in a hundred ways. She had been a good wife. And a good wife bore her husband lots of children. Martha could not have lost Thomas’s son. She could not.

She screamed her voice raw at every doctor who tried to tell her differently. Including Thomas. She screamed at Alfred. At Leslie. At any staff who got too close.

At her Father. 

Martha...Martha didn't understand why her Father was here. It made so little sense it almost felt like a dream. Or a nightmare. She'd had a somewhat more cordial relationship with her maiden family these past years. Her brothers visited sometimes. But she did not understand why she was screaming in her bedroom, Thomas holding her, only to have the door swing open to reveal her father. 

Holding a sobbing Bruce.

“There, there. It is a frightening sight, I know," said Father. "But I have you now, young Bruce. Grandfather will take care of you. You will not have to endure this environment for much longer.”

And then Father walked away, with Martha’s sole and only son in his arms.

The Colony has captured many Talons.

The Court hasn’t managed to steal them back, but they are certainly aware that the Colony is to blame for their rate of attrition. It is sure to be the first place they look for The Gray Son.

Which means Martha wins the argument on taking Richard to a Wayne family cottage, far outside of Gotham.

Tragically, she doesn’t win every argument. For one, Kate won’t let Martha see him. First, because he’s been frozen via a Freeze-patented ray gun. And then, once unfrozen and ‘contained’ in a reconfigured panic room beneath the cottage, because Miss Harleen and Miss Dinah are adamant that their combined degrees and experience are insufficient for deprogramming a Talon 20-years deep in the weeds. 

"You need a telepath," Miss Dinah says flatly. "And even that might not be enough. Conditioning is different than mind control.”

Miss Dinah convinces her work colleague Mr. J’onn to lend a helping hand. He spends over a day alone with Richard, working to undo the binding chains in his mind. And it is only when Mr. J'onn declares it ‘as safe as it can be’ that Martha can meet her eldest grandson.

Though eldest is apparently subjective.

“That he’s this old is…a good sign?” Kate says, like she’s trying to make herself believe it. “They stop aging once the Talonization process is complete. But it looks like for Richard, they wanted him in peak physical shape before they completed the process. It was almost certainly started when he was a child. But if his actual age is 28 the…undead aspect must have happened relatively recently. He’s at least in his early twenties, physically speaking.”

“Mentally however,” adds Mr. J’onn, “he has been subject to conditioning, programming, and to be frank, brainwashing since he was a young child. Memory, language– all of it will be affected. If all he was able to do was follow orders for twenty years, it is hard to say if he will be able to do anything else.”

Martha nods once to Kate. Once to Mr. J’onn. Tries not to vibrate out of her skin with impatience. “May I meet him now?”

The front wall of the panic room has been replaced with bulletproof, shatter-proof glass. Kate is adamant that Martha remain on one side of it and Richard on the other for the forseeable future. And so, Martha meets her grandson through a barrier. Meets him in a way that makes her feel small. And worse; helpless. 

Martha knows what a Talon is. She knows the evils of the Court. She is not shocked senseless by the lifeless grey of Richard’s skin, the gold of his eyes, the nails that are closer to claws and the limbs that don’t hang right at the joints.

It is the emptiness that undoes her. The absence of any spark of emotion, of awareness, of anything even approaching life. The memory of the vibrant, warm man she met in the other universe grinds like a misaligned gear against the sight of hollow shell in front of her.

Martha bursts into tears.

She withdraws immediately, though not out of shame. Her tears, her anger, her joy– none of it is something to be embarrassed by. None of it makes her lesser than or childish. Martha Wayne is ruled by her heart, and gladly so. And when she leaves the basement sobbing, with Kate holding her arm and rubbing her back, it is not to flee, but to act.

"I have always known the Court does a great deal of evil," Martha says thickly. "But so does the GCPD. So does every Gotham politician. It is the city we live in. I am not like you Kate, like your Colony. I am not trying to better the world. I am just trying to protect my family."

She hiccups. "But I regret never acting against the Court now. And I think– I think it does not matter, if we destroy the Court. The organization is a vehicle for the desires of its members, its leadership. I think, perhaps, it may do us well to look into destroying the people."

Kate does not stop rubbing her aunt's back. But the rest of her goes very still. Jaw clenched, every muscle taut with tension. 

"With something like the Owls," she finally says, "with an evil like that, there really is only one way to take them out for good. To really stop them from continuing to inflict harm upon the world. But I know that's not something...I know you don't do that." 

"Neither do you," Martha points out, still sniffling. "Or rather, the Colony tries to avoid it. Tries to stay as close to the law as they can manage. And while yes, I try my very best not to cause death out of respect for my husband, the children always, always come first. So all I ask is for your assistance identifying the key members of leadership. I will do the rest." 

"I'll see," Kate says sombrely. "The Owls are...a blight. The Colony might make an exception for an operation to take them out."

Martha hums in acknowledgement. Wipes her face. She is unfussed either way. While the extra help would be nice, Martha doesn't require it to do what needs to be done. 

Miss Sandra always picks up when she calls, after all.

Once upon a time, an unfit mother contemplated murder.

She contemplated it when the Kanes’ dossier was presented to the courts and to the press.

She contemplated it during the weeks that Bruce was gone, taken.

She contemplated it each time she had to march past flashing cameras and shouting voices without screaming.

She contemplated it when she stood in that horrid, hateful courtroom. 

She contemplated it as the household staff gave their testimonies, revealing that some of them had only hid their dislike of her the past 10 years. She contemplated it as the Kanes presented videos of her less palatable behaviour, secretly recorded during cordial 'visits'.

She contemplated it as paper after paper and magazine after magazine and news segment after news segment reported on the insane Wayne wife, who spent a decade locked in the manor, who Thomas had clearly been drugging to the gills to parade through just enough public appearances to stave off suspicion.

She contemplated it even as Bruce’s teachers unequivocally argued on behalf of his dedicated, involved, friendly mother. Who was at every parent-teacher conference and every school event. She contemplated it even as other parents joined in praising and defending her. She contemplated it even as the staff at Thomas’s hospital and Wayne Enterprises painted a picture of a dutiful wife who loved to schedule visits to come by with food and flowers and gift baskets and joy.

She contemplated it even as her dear, darling boy was put on the stand. As Bruce stared at the baying masses with burning eyes and told them that his Grandfather ordered him to lie.

She contemplated it even as the Wayne lawyers presented Thomas's will as evidence. A will written three years after Bruce was born. A will that clearly stated custody of Bruce was to go to Leslie Thompkins and Alfred Pennyworth in the event that something were to happen to Martha and Thomas. A will with accompanying documentation that included emails and messages clearly illustrating the shameless interest the Kanes had in Wayne Enterprises. 

A will that included interviews with Kane household staff from Martha's youth, long retired or moved on and willing to speak about the cruelty her family had always shown towards her. A will that included Thomas’s own notes on Martha’s ‘condition’, all the proof that she was never a danger to others and only twice a danger to herself. A will that was a dossier in and of itself, proving that the Kanes' actions were borne of business ambitions and an irrational hatred of the sole daughter.

A will that clearly stated that Bruce was never, ever to go into the care of the Kanes. Lest he be similarly mistreated, or lest he grow into the type of man who would mistreat a daughter.

The will, its contents, and the fact that it was made seven years prior, turned the tide of public opinion. Swayed the courtroom.

And still. Even after she and Thomas are cleared. Even after Bruce is returned. Even after they ‘win’.

Martha still contemplated murdering her father.

Her brothers too, maybe. Father hit publish, but the dossier was built by Philip and Jacob. They were the ones who had visited more. They were the ones who she’d been trying to build some kind of relationship with, these past few years. They were the ones with the hidden cameras. They were the ones who went on the stand and on the news and told years of lies.

But the lies only worked because so many people didn’t know better.

It only worked because Martha rarely went out. It only worked because the Waynes were shut-ins. It only worked because the only people who would speak for them were those connected through money; Alfred and the loyal housestaff, the school, Thomas’s work. If it hadn’t been for the will, the Kane lies would have become sacrosanct. Would have won.

As a girl, Martha had known no one would ever believe her over the Kanes.

But she was no longer a girl. And she was no longer alone. Her reputation was tied to others. To the most important people in her life. She could no longer afford to be unbelieved.

So.

Either she indulged in the official Gotham sport of hiring a hit, potentially three. Or she made sure no one would ever, ever take the word of the Kanes over hers again.

She was not confident in her ability to complete such a hiring anonymously, and would rather die than lose Bruce again so soon after getting him back. So being arrested for murder was not on the table, for the moment. 

Which meant Martha Wayne needed to make friends.

Or, at the very least, she needed to make people afraid to speak against her.

There was one person who had always helped her with social matters. A better tutor than dear Thomas, than even terse and unapologetic Leslie. Who understood social etiquette the way mathematicians understood formulas. 

“Alfred,” Martha said softly, finding him dusting the parlour, “you were a spy, yes?”

He had disclosed that on the stand. A storied history of pattern recognition, deduction, and building profiles of dangerous people. That secret he’d revealed to try and save them.

Alfred turned to face her, arms folded formally behind his back. Unreadable. “Yes, Lady Wayne.”

"You told me people in Gotham have spies too," Martha continued carefully. "A different kind of spy. Embedded in households. That's why you asked to stay in charge of hiring, so you could vet for moles." 

"It is a profound shame I did not also vet for loose-lipped, prejudiced gossipers," Alfred said flatly. 

"Oh Alfred, we have told you so many times that you are not to blame yourself for that. But I also recall that you have always found it...ill-advised, that Thomas didn’t employ informants in the households of others.”

Alfred’s expression did not change. “Master Wayne will do as he feels best, as is his right.”

“And is it my right to do what I feel best, to ensure my family is safe?”

His eyes narrowed a fraction. Not in judgment, but in observation. "Undoubtedly." 

Martha smiled. Muted, but not ungenuine. 

“You taught me how to make polite conversation," she said. "You taught me strategies for spotting ulterior motives. You taught me so many things. Will you teach me again? Will you help me protect my family, Alfred?”

"Lady Wayne," Alfred replied, face still professionally neutral. "Without question." 

After Mr. J'onn turns off Richard's metaphorical nuclear launch codes, Miss Harleen and Miss Dinah try and remind him that he's a person. 

It does not go poorly, in that he does not launch himself at the glass to try and kill them. But it does not go well either, as he doesn't do anything else either. Merely stands stock-still, blank-eyed. Reacts to neither sight nor sound. Not to food and drink offered through the slot in the wall. Not to calls of his name. Nothing.

The only reactions they get are, occasionally, to Martha. Using the word grandmother seems to get his attention, makes him look at her. Which is something, but not much. He looks, and nothing more. Seems to be listening intently but never moves or speaks, and eventually, his attention dissolves back into the heartbreaking blankness.

Until, over a week after Richard's rescue, Miss Harleen makes a breakthrough. 

She walks back in forth in front of the glass, grinning wildly. Richard's eyes track her movements; something he's never done before. Seemingly transfixed by the sight of Miss Harleen walking on her hands. And when she springs up and does a somersault, the pupils of his golden eyes go huge. 

And he copies her. 

His face remains blank and corpse-still. And he doesn't make a sound. But each time Miss Harleen performs some kind of acrobatic maneuver, Richard copies her.

The Flying Graysons, Martha thinks, watching with shining eyes. Of course. 

The only life Richard ever knew before he was taken. The only home he ever had. His parents are long passed, but he grew up in a circus. And perhaps...if he were to meet some of those people from his past life rather than a room of strangers...

Kate is quite helpful in providing information about the circus and identifying who would be a good bet to contact. The distance is no great issue to Martha, who hops on the next plane, takes a train, and knocks on the door of a quiet townhouse on the other side of the country. 

Two days later, she returns with a flustered, flabbergasted, and quite easily bullied man. Who follows her into the cottage basement with the same perplexed-but-resigned I-might-about-to-be-murdered-but-what-am-I-supposed-to-do-not-do-what-she-says? expression he’s worn since he answered the door.

But that expression falls away when Mr. Haly looks through the glass.

“Dick,” he whispers. “My god, Dickie. I...I…”

Richard – Or, Dick? That's right; he was referred to with the initial 'D' in the other universe, wasn't he? – stares back.

Then he squints.

“It’s…it’s me, Mr. Haly,” says the former circus owner, oblivious to the fact that squinting is the only facial expression Dick has made in two weeks. “I’m so…I…”

Dick steps closer. Presses both hands against the glass.

“I tried to stop it,” whispers Mr. Haly. “I tried to…to break away from them. And then they had Mary and John killed and took you anyway. But thank god, you’ve been saved.”

He turns to Martha, tearful. “Thank you. Thank you for saving–,”

"What?" Martha asks sharply. "What did you just say? What deal?"

She had been standing with her hands to her mouth in relief and wonder, so happy that showing Dick someone from his past was working. But now she stiffens entirely, narrows her eyes. Kate tenses as well. Miss Dinah was called away and isn't here, but Miss Harleen arches one eyebrow and moves to block the hallway to the stairs.

Mr. Haly blinks. Blinks again. Blinks furiously. Swallows.

"The deal between Haly’s Circus and the Court of Owls,” he whispers.

It was an inherited arrangement, he explains. A deal made by Haly's grandfather and continued by his father. Showcasing children with promising physical prowess in the circus, for the Court to take their pick from.

“But one day Mary Grayson took me aside, told me that both she and John had no family other than the circus," Mr. Haly continues in that same hoarse whisper. "Her family had disowned her for marrying an outsider, and John had always been alone in the biological sense. Mary asked me, no matter what, to look after her son if something happened to them. And that was when I tried to break the deal. I couldn’t imagine meeting her eyes ever again if I…if I was facilitating her son’s kidnapping.”

Mr. Haly swallows, looks to Dick again. “Your mother asked me to keep her little Robin safe, and I failed her utterly.”

Dick flinches like he's been hit. 

"I'm sorry," Mr. Haly says again, as if that means anything. As if that changes the fact Martha has brought a traitorous, wretched excuse of a man with ties to the Court into the space where they're trying to heal her grandson. "Dickie, I–," 

"Sentence you to die." 

Dick slams against the glass. Slams into it again. "Sentence you to die. Sentence you to die. Sentence you to die–,”

Mr. Haly stumbles so badly he falls onto his miserable little ass. “The glass– will it, it will hold won’t it–,”

“Dickie,” says Martha, ignoring the man completely, pushing past the desire to gush happily at hearing Dick's voice. “If I may call you that. Thank you so much for letting us hear your voice. I'm so, so happy to hear you! But I must clarify: are you asking?”

Dick does not look away from Mr. Haly. Voice hoarsely croaking, "Sentence you to die sentence you to die sentence you to die–,”

“Dickie. Could you please look at your grandmother for a moment? This is important.”

His eyes snap to her immediately, and he falls silent.

“Dick,” says Martha with a conciliatory smile. “Do you want Mr. Haly dead?”

Mr. Haly makes a choked sound. Looks up at her in disbelief. Martha does not notice, as she isn't looking at him at all. 

Dick stares back at her. Blinks once. "Grand...grandmaster. Orders?" 

“Grandmother,” Martha corrects. “And I do not have orders. I will never give you orders. I am asking what you want to do.”

He keeps staring.

“Do you want him dead?”

“Sentence you to die,” Dick whispers again.

"I want to help you, I want to give you what you need to heal and feel safe, but there must be no misunderstanding. If you want Mr. Haly dead, I need you to say it." 

Kate sucks in a breath. Miss Harleen whisper-giggles, "Hardcore. Di would have a cow." 

Dick pays them no mind. He stares at Martha for another long stretch of seconds, before looking at the terrified man frozen on the floor. "...Mr. Haly."

"Yes, Mr. Haly," Martha affirms. "Do you want him dead?" 

"...want?" 

“Yes, Dick. Or Dickie, if I may. Please tell me what you want.”

“…Mama,” he whispers. “Little Robin flies home.”

And well. There's no stopping the tears at that point. The important thing is to not let the tears stop her. Emotion to action, always.

“I want that for you too. I wish I could give it to you,” Martha says fervently, even as her vision blurs and her cheeks dampen. “I wish I could have met your mother. But I’m sure she’s proud of you. Of how hard you’re fighting to be you. Despite what those awful people did to you."

Dick blinks again. Then squints.

“Grandmaster,” he says, turning back to face her. “Why can Talon…think right now? Is Talon…does Talon need correcting?”

“You are not Talon,” Martha says immediately, sharply. “Your name is Richard Grayson. Or Dick. Or Dickie. Or…little Robin?”

He flinches again. Makes a low, keening sound.

“And you do not need correcting, you are beautiful and perfect,” Martha says, heart breaking. “You can think because you’re free. Also, I am not your grandmaster. I’m your grand–," 

She stops. Remembers then, how the word grandmother was the only thing he'd react to before Miss Harleen's acrobatics. And feels quite sick about it, suddenly. Grandmother is...is very, very close to grandmaster.

"...Nana," she amends. A term she has always disdained and never imagined being called by. But as always, the children come first. "I am your Nana." 

Dick squints again.

“If you want,” she amends further. “Adopted Nana. Willing and ready to indulge you in all things. Including removing those who have wronged you.”

“…Mr. Haly,” Dick says again. But this time, without looking at the man. Without looking away from Martha. “Sentence to…to…to…away. Never see again. Go.”

"Of course," Martha says. Smiles. "Miss Harleen?" 

Miss Harleen throws a cheeky salute and grabs the terrified man by the scruff, hauling him down the hall, up the stairs, and out of sight.

Kate remains in the basement, and Martha remains in front of the glass. Spends the rest of the day talking with her grandson. About what he can ask her for. About what she wants to give him. About things he might like at the Manor, or in Gotham, or anywhere in the world, once it’s safe for him to leave the cottage.

She tries not to talk about herself too much, because he doesn’t know her and has no reason to care, but she talks a little about the other children that Bruce has found. Jason and Cassandra and Duke. About the boundaries they’ve put around how the Waynes can help them. About the options available to Dick, once he’s better. That he doesn't have to be family if he doesn't want to be, but that Martha, and Bruce and Thomas, will be there for him regardless. 

Dick returns to that upsetting blankness for most of it. Saying Robin breaks him out of it, but Martha stops doing that after Dick looks her dead in the eyes and says "You are not Mama." With grandmother and Robin both off the table, there is nothing she can do to get his attention with a single word after that.

But the blankness, at least, doesn't last forever. Eventually, after Martha has been talking for minutes or hours, Dick will squint or blink, come back to some kind of awareness slowly. And look at her. And listen. And sometimes, reply. He always returns to the blankness, but he also always blinks out of it in time.

Martha doesn't remember falling asleep, but comes to being piggybacked up the stairs by Kate. Who, noticing her return to consciousness, lets her know that Miss Harleen is happy to keep an eye on Mr. Haly until the Court is no longer a concern, just to ensure the cottage remains safe. 

And then, Kate's voice goes quiet and soft and wonderstruck as she says: "You did it, Aunt Martha. You got through to him. And proved that the killing machine programming is gone at the same time. That Mr. Haly bluff was a really good call."

Martha lifts her head from Kate's shoulder. Tilts it. "What bluff?"

Once upon a time there was a city of corruption and cruelty and violence and vice.

It was merciless and ruthless and made no apologies for either, demanding cunning and strength and power to survive.

Martha knew it took work to gain power in Gotham. She hadn’t understood how much was required to maintain it. Had not known how much effort most of the upper class Gotham families put into defending social power. How pivotal relations, alliances, gossip and blackmail were to retaining one's place.

Martha Wayne had not known that her family, despite all their wealth and prestige, was weak.

But they would not be weak any longer. 

"Martha," Thomas said. And the fury in his voice nearly took her feet out from under her. "I know that you are aware of the history of the Wayne Family. I know that you are aware of how bloodstained a legacy I inherited. I know that you are aware that all the choices I have made – my profession, my business, my patronage – were done to ensure the Waynes ceased to be another Gotham crime family."

"Thomas," Martha said quietly. "We are not safe." 

“I have built my life around honesty and fair dealings," he continued, as if she hadn't spoken. "Refused to join the vicious, self-serving rabble that keep this city mired in corruption and crime. And now– now you dare stand there and– and–," 

"Gotham’s corruption and crime are a weapon and a shield for every family aside from us," Martha said, a little louder. "We are not safe, Thomas! And we will never be safe if we don’t–,” 

Thomas slammed his fist against the desk. “My family will not be another Gotham crime syndicate! Caring about nothing but power– Willing to hurt anyone and everyone to get another coin, another scrap of influence– Rats scrabbling to the top of the trash heap; animals, monsters–”

His heavy breathing filled the office. “I refuse. Martha, I refuse. We will not. We cannot. We cannot. We cannot.”

The fist made her jump. The anger made tears prick in her eyes. But Thomas was not lecturing Martha with her father’s fury, with her brother’s malice. He was…

Tantruming.

That was what the Kanes would call it when Martha would get overwhelmed and become insensible, screaming or ranting, agitated and frantic. A tantrum.

Years later, Leslie explained it was more commonly called a meltdown.

Perhaps the familiarity of it, of getting caught in a loop of your own words and your own sense of what should or should not be occurring, was what allowed Martha's fear to be present, but not prominent. Perhaps it was the familiarity which allowed her to approach an angry man. To take hold of the hand that had just been a fist, to rest her other hand on the face flushed red with fury.

“Thomas,” Martha said, in a whisper again. “I know you cannot change. I know you cannot deviate from what you believe is right. I am not asking you to. As your wife, our social standing is my responsibility. And as a wife in Gotham, defending that social standing requires me to step outside the bounds of the law."

He shuddered. Did not look at her. "No." 

"We are the only of the Gotham society families without informants, Thomas," Martha continued, undeterred. “That is not commendable, it is foolish. We know nothing about the inner workings of the other houses, and only know what is publicly available about their business dealings. You have done a fantastic job growing the Wayne legacy without dirtying your hands. But the Kanes will not be the last to try and take all that you’ve built through any means necessary. We are not safe, as we are. Bruce is not safe.”

"But we are right," Thomas said, almost desperately. "We are good. We are refusing to be pulled into the blood-soaked shadows of Gotham. Never falling into a nest of bribed politicians and crooked cops and collusion with gangsters to hide the misdeeds we've done and to facilitate new ones. I have kept us free of that. I have kept us from being criminals–,"

"Thomas," Martha interrupted, without raising her voice. "If you believed in the absolute authority of the law, we would not be married." 

He faltered. She lifted her chin. Would have met his eyes, if he had not been avoiding hers.

"You did not trust the law to keep me safe from Nathaniel Vanderbilt," Martha continued. "You knew that the law was not just, especially in Gotham. And beyond that…you helped me evade the law. Do you remember?"

She managed a small smile. "When people accused me of, ah, being responsible for the balloon incident, you told everyone I'd been speaking with you in another part of the house for quite some time, and would have had to walk through walls to get from the ballroom to your location. I could have been arrested for premeditated assault via projectile. But you protected me from the law. And married me because you didn’t think the law would protect me.”

"No," Thomas whispered. "That is not true."

Stubborn to a fault, her husband. Martha took a steadying breath. “Thomas–,”

"That is not true," he said, louder. “I didn’t just marry you to protect you. I married you because you constructed a complex trap without anyone noticing, executed it perfectly, got away without anyone proving definitively you were the culprit, and stood by your decisions honestly and unrepentant."

Martha blinked. "I– what?"

"I have always– you have always–,"

Thomas struggled. Floundered. Glanced at her, glanced away. "I know my actions then make me a hypocrite. Have always known that. But you have always been– it was not about how I felt about the law, it was how I felt about– That is why I have always looked the other way. Or, rather, not looked the other way, but not– not–,"

Finally, he looked at her. Did not look away. "Martha, I am aware that you have continued to break the law over the course of our marriage. Repeatedly."

"I." Martha blinked again. Balked. "What?" 

"I am...I am aware of your habits. Or rather, your habitual need to mete out your favoured form of justice." 

"I– um–," 

"I know that when Solsteins hosted the holiday gala, you saw one of the head maids being tyrannical and planted stolen silverware on her to get her fired. I know that at the Fourth of July garden party the sprinklers 'malfunctioned' in a way that caused  'sprinkler system oil' – which doesn't exist – to spray specifically in the area where Julius Etherton was sitting with his mistress."

"He's lucky it was just oil! A man who flaunts his affair in decent society should be tarred and feath– er, I mean–," 

"I don't know how you stole and rehomed the Wolsworths' entire kennel of mistreated dogs, but I know it was you. I also know that you–," 

"I understand! I quite get the measure of your knowledge, thank you," Martha spluttered. Now she was the one red-faced. "But you never– you never said anything? You never scolded me, or told me to stop–," 

"How could I?" Thomas said, sounding quite helpless. "All you were doing was being the woman I married. The woman I found scurrying within my walls after releasing a biological bomb in my ballroom. You have always been clever, and capable, and happy to use those attributes to correct a wrong that society sees fit to ignore. And I...I didn't want you to stop. You are always the purest version of yourself when you get the better of someone who deserves it. And I...I...I always enjoy seeing you succeed in that way. From the moment we met."

He swallowed heavily. Still did not look away. "I am well aware that it makes me a hypocrite. But at the very least, I have been a consistent one. I did not marry you just to save you. I married you because you are you. And I...I cannot bear it, if you become something different. If you take all that cleverness and capability and love for tricks and use them to become another Gotham mobster scrabbling for power."

Oh, Thomas. Oh, my love. Not as inflexible as feared, but still too rigid, too good, for a city like Gotham.

"Thank you for loving me, Thomas. For loving all of me," Martha said, softening. She could not even spend too many seconds dwelling on it, thinking on it, because she would certainly start crying, or start kissing him, and they needed to finish talking first. 

"I will not be a mobster," Martha continued. "I will not hurt anyone who is not hurting us or in a position to hurt us. I want the power to protect our family, to protect you and Bruce and our household. No more, and no less. I do not care how much money we have. I care only that people cannot cross us without bringing hell upon themselves. Yes, I will have to do worse things than the petty tricks I have been doing. And if you cannot forgive me for it, I understand. But nor will I apologize. We are not safe, Thomas. And that is unacceptable to me." 

Thomas sagged. Half-collapsing against his desk. “And so what, I am to let you engage in the Gotham game of blackmail and murder and villainy?”

" 'Let'?" Her eyes narrowed. "You told me to stop saying that: 'let' and 'allow'. You said you would never command me, or bid me to obey you. Do you retract those words now?”

"No, I do not," Thomas said hoarsely. "I do not order, instead I ask. Martha, please. If you must take this path...remain you. Only act to defend, to protect. Be clever but not cruel. And never line the road you walk with bodies. Life is sacred, Martha. People should never be seen as obstacles to mow down, or pawns to sacrifice. Please. Never become a murderer.”

Martha hesitated. “If there is a threat to Bruce, to you, and there is no other way–,”

Thomas squeezed his eyes shut. "It shouldn't– I can't– we cannot– life is sacred–," 

Oh, my dear Thomas. "I will do everything in my power to avoid getting someone killed," Martha decided, vowed, taking both his hands. "I will exhaust every other option. It will never be a decision made lightly. I can promise you that, Thomas. I need to protect you and Bruce from that which would hurt you, and I know staining my hands in that way would hurt you. I promise, it will always be my last choice." 

It was not a neat and tidy compromise. It did not fully soothe the part of Thomas's soul that had made murder his hard moral line in the sand. But he stopped shuddering, after a time. Looked at her again. Squeezed her hands back. 

"If...if you truly intend to involve yourself in Gotham's underbelly, you must make me another promise," Thomas whispered. "You must stay away from the worst of it. You must never, ever get involved with the Court of Owls." 

Martha blinked. Frowned.

"...the what?" 

As predicted, it takes months.

Months of Court members losing financial stability, or flat-out losing their entire fortune. Months of high-ranking Owls disappearing, courtesy of Miss Sandra. Months of the slow erosion of an organization previously believed to be untouchable. 

And finally, Martha is asked to join. And to bring her wallet with her.

It is the biggest purchase she's made in this whole endeavour. Requires clearing out half the household budget to 'demonstrate her commitment' to joining the Court.

But her plan unfolds as expected. She joins. Is brought, bag over her head, to their inner sanctum. And when the bag is removed, she is given a mask. 

Martha steps into an auditorium filled with other masks and smiles. 

The ceiling explodes. 

The Court has blockers, of course. But Miss Dinah was kind enough to lend Martha a Justice League-level tracker. Allowing her presence to reveal the location of the Court's base at long last. The Colony pours in through the room, along with the Birds of Prey and Miss Sandra, who never passes up on an opportunity for a good fight. 

And after the Court has been defeated, after the Owl leadership has been arrested or killed, Martha wants to return to the cottage, to her grandson. But she knows she cannot right away. 

First, she must speak to her husband about what she has done. 

Once upon a time a strange young woman married a stoic young man. 

Their marriage was a surprise and a shock, as they seemed to be as opposite as two people could be. But the young man liked that she was loud and open and honest, and the young woman liked that he was quiet and frank and truthful, and they both liked that neither was particularly inclined towards the social world of Gotham. 

Friction was inevitable of course. He could be demanding and uncompromising, and she could not always stop her emotions from exploding outwards in sounds and movements and petty vengeance. But she learned to make lists, and he learned to accept - and admire - clever tricks performed on unsuspecting peers.

Adversity challenged their bond, as was so often the case. Revealed previously unknown faultlines, differences of opinion forming fissures.

His governing law was to act as a man should and lead the family honourably; to never soil their name and reputation with dirty dealings, violence, and illegal practice.

Her governing law was to act as a woman should and prioritize her family's wellbeing; to guard her husband's health and happiness and to keep her son safe from all that would scar or steal him.

But marriage is about compromise.

And in time, he chose being a good husband and father over being a good man, standing by his wife as she slipped into the shadows, into work that would dirty her hands. And in time, she chose to preserve the cleanliness of her husband's hands, never letting her work directly benefit his business or hospital, keeping the power she accumulated away from his legacy, keeping his money honestly earned.

Marriage is also about love. 

He loved the woman who excelled when allowed to colour outside the lines. Who was always alot but never too much. Who was clever and sun-bright and ran circles around socialites with a laugh and a smile.

She loved the man who found comfort in rigidity but marvelled at spontaneity. Whose stubbornness was his best and worst attribute. Who was forthright and steady and a bulwark of goodness. Who, above all else, loved his family. Loved her. 

And so, decades later, when she told her husband that she had tangled with the Court for months and arranged for the deaths of several Owls to rescue a grandson, he was disappointed and upset, but trusted her judgment. Trusted her actions were not done in pursuit of power, but protection. Not performed out of callousness, but out of careful consideration of what was needed to keep the family safe. He knew the woman he married, and loved her. Loves her still, loves her always. 

As he should. Because a good Gotham wife, above all else, needs a good Gotham husband. A relationship founded not on obedience, but respect, compromise, and love.

Two and a half months after his rescue, they're all impressed by Dick's progress. 

By his developing language, his developing willpower, his developing personality. The small, stiff smiles. The judgmental squints. The exertion of choice. Wanting things and verbalizing those wants, even if only through picking between two articles of clothing or two plates of food held up to him through the glass. By the growing length and complexity of his responses, by the way he engages with Martha more and more each day, with each story she tells him. The way he likes the stories about her best of all. 

His speech is still stilted and stunted, but his slowly returning vocabulary is without a doubt beyond that of a nine-year-old. He is not the adult Dick Grayson of the other dimension, but nor is he a child stuck in the body of an adult. He is someone else entirely; purely himself. 

And Martha is so, so proud of him. 

She is practically vibrating as Kate unlocks the containment room, the glass door sliding away. Barely notices the presence of Miss Dinah and Miss Harleen and Mr. J'onn, all of them way too tense for just a joyous occasion.

They have all had the opportunity to interact with Dick free of glass. But only when Martha was back in Gotham, away from any potential...incidents. They tested physical contact, sparring, and freedom of movement among other variables, ensuring that none of it caused Dick to regress. There had been...lapses, apparently. But no full relapses. And nothing at all the past two weeks. 

And so finally, Martha is allowed to be present without a barrier. Finally, Dick is allowed to leave that room for good.

Martha's eyes are solely on her grandson, who stares at her through the open air. 

"Hello, my dear boy," she says, managing to keep her voice soft as she blinks through her tears. "What would you like to do, right now?" 

Dick does not break his stare. For a long, long moment. 

Then, slowly, he opens his arms. 

"Aunt Martha," Kate starts, words of warning. Which go unheeded, of course. Martha has spent too many weeks watching Dick through a glass, watching him wrap his own arms around himself, to hesitate for even a moment. Martha steps past her niece, into the containment room, and into the cold, stiff embrace of her grandson. 

His arms don't close around her, just stay hanging in the air. So she does the closing, wrapping arms around Dick's torso and hugging him. 

“You’re warm,” Dick whispers.

“Actually, I’m Nana,” replies Martha.

Dick laughs. Just once. A single syllable of sound. And he lets his arms drop to his side and doesn't bring them up around her, but he doesn't move away either. And after a moment, he rests his head against hers. 

The Court is destroyed. The Gray Son is Dick Grayson again. And Martha is ready to bring him home. 

So it is a bit of a damper when Miss Sandra calls while they're preparing to leave.

"The Court is cleared from Gotham," Miss Sandra confirms. "But another hornet's nest has been stirred. You might want to check in on that darling boy of yours." 

And then, because she's only grown more dramatic with age, Miss Sandra hangs up. Leaving Martha with ice in her chest and fingers fumbling to call Bruce. 

Who doesn't pick up. 

His tracker places him downtown, deep in Park Row. Check-ins with a few informants confirm that he'd been sighted heading into Redjay's territory, but none of Martha's contacts were willing, or obligated, to cross the threshold into the well-guarded territory. The location isn't alarming in and of itself. But paired with Bruce not answering and Miss Sandra's warning...

Oh, it really is incredibly inconvenient that the Justice Leaguers and Miss Harleen already left. 

"Nana?" 

It takes a few long seconds for Martha to lift her head, to look towards Dick. They're upstairs in one of the cottage bedrooms. Dick slowly looking through the bag of clothes they purchased for him, choosing what he'll wear to leave the cottage for the first time, to go home. But now he's just looking at her. Staring. 

"Ah." She hesitates. Then smiles. "Once we get back to Gotham, I'm afraid we might have to split up. Just for a little while! Would it be alright if you went back to Wayne Manor with Aunt Kate? I...I have to check on something downtown." 

Dick's head tilts. Or, well. Rotates. "Something?" 

Martha hesitates again. Then opts for honesty. Dick has been let down by too many people for her to risk even the small betrayal of a lie. 

"My son, Bruce," she explains. "He...may be in danger. Or fine! He might also be fine! But ah, well, I have to go and check. Immediately." 

"Oh," says Dick. "I want to come." 

"Oh Dickie, don't worry! I'd rather you didn't. I am...not sure what the situation will be, and I don't want you to be in a position where you may have to fight again. Don't worry, I'll take some capable people with me to offer protection in case anything happens." If Martha shows up with Selina, Bruce's most recent ex, it would serve him right for worrying her. 

Dick blinks. Then says slowly, enunciating, "I want to come. And to fight, if Nana needs protecting. I want to do that." 

Dick Grayson, former Talon, wants.

Dick Grayson, former Talon, is also holding the I Love my Nana ❤️ t-shirt Miss Harleen bought for him.

And, well. Martha can't say no to that, now can she?

It's a long drive back to Gotham. A long time for Martha to master her fear as a mother, to stay calm in the face of not knowing what Bruce is doing. Dick helps, sitting with her in the backseat as Kate drives. Head on her shoulder. Asking her to fill the silence with more stories. 

"Which stories?" Martha asks, a little breathless with her own worry but trying to hide it. "About Gotham? About Bruce?"

"About Nana," Dick says. Which is his answer eight times out of ten. "Nana stories about Nana. "

"Very well." Martha smiles, lets her hand rest on his head. "Once upon a time..."

A good Gotham wife manages the household and safeguards the family’s interests from threats, whether physical or social.

A good Gotham wife raises exceptional heirs, and protects them through any means necessary.

A good Gotham wife social climbs and maintains congenial relations with peers, and ensures that allies and debtors always outnumber enemies.

A good wife in any place and any time knows that the only husband worth having is one who she listens to because he listens to her, whose happiness she ensures because he ensures hers, who will be hers in sickness and in health, in this life and most likely the next, who loves her as she is, and who is loved beyond the measure of words.