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Everyone knows that if you want Don Bruce Wayne to hear you out, there are a few people you have to talk to first.
The first one is Damian Wayne, the Blood Son. He has a sharp tongue and a sharper blade hiding inside his suit jacket, and oftentimes there will be a glass of some expensive alcohol in front of him, despite his young age.
It's not like anyone is going to card him.
The first test is even finding him. Damian has a habit of choosing some shadowed table in some random bar and planting himself there for the evening, whether or not it's miles away from the bar/club his family actually owns. There's never a guard with him, and while some scoff at Wayne's hubris for thinking his son invincible, most know the truth—Don Wayne doesn't let his sons go without protection because he's cocky.
He lets his sons go without protection because they do not require protection.
If you know someone who's part of the crime family, they might give you a tip—when choosing his place for the night, Damian tends towards those that are close to the recent sites of brutal homicides. No one's ever clear whether or not Damian was involved in these murders, but it at least draws his attention.
Once in the right bar, it's not hard to find Damian. The world seems to bend around him, everyone's attention slightly skewed. Even if the other patrons don't know who the fifteen-year-old boy in the extremely expensive suit is, they can feel his power, and they can see the way the manager of the establishment caters nervously to the boy's every request.
He doesn't request much, simply a few drinks and a meal while he reads. But there's a smirk curving his lips, a smirk that says he knows exactly the affect he has on this place, and revels in the anxiety.
The second test is what you say.
With Damian Wayne, you don't need to explain the problem you want to bring to his father. He doesn't care about the specifics, only that he has access to something you want. You don't speak to Damian to plead your case—you speak to him to spark his interest.
No one can tell you what will catch Damian's attention on any given day. Sometimes, he'll let a person through after a particularly witty comment (other times, the same joke will have a person turned away). Sometimes, a calm conversation about the weather is enough for a cock of his head that means approval (other times, it'll make his lips curl and you'll be grateful to leave there alive).
There's no rhyme or reason to it, at least not in the eyes of those who go to him. His brothers always understand, of course. They're never confused by the things that drew their little brother in.
When Damian takes the knife out of his jacket and begins twirling it, that's when you've got him, how you know that he's interested.
How you react to this added danger is the third test, and it will seal your fate. If you meet the challenge too boldly, he won't want you anywhere near the rest of his family. Too meekly, and he won't think you worthy enough to get their help.
If you pass, he'll sneer at you, insult you. If you fail, he'll offer you a sharp but polite smile and dismiss you from his table with a promise to reach out again.
(He won't, of course, and only morons believe him.)
If you pass, that's the time to leave. You make your goodbyes, incline your head in respect, call him Mr. Wayne even if he's half, a third, a quarter of your age.
If you pass, this becomes the time to wait. You'll receive an invitation. Sometimes it's later that same night; a man will show up on your doorstep at three in the morning with a request for your presence. Other times, a few days pass, maybe even a few weeks.
Whenever a problem is time sensitive, they always seem to know, and they always act accordingly. No one knows how. Everyone stopped questioning it a long time ago.
Once you receive the invitation, you have to show up at their club at the time you're told. The Manor has a quiet sort of elegance about it, the kind that everyone can feel but couldn't quite identify if asked to describe. It certainly isn't an establishment that someone would automatically consider a place that mobsters work out of. The groups of oblivious patrons certainly prove that fact, if the guards carrying guns don't.
After Damian Wayne, the next people you have to face are Richard "Dick" Grayson and Jason Todd.
Richard is a pretty boy with a prettier smile, an expression that's always fixed to his lips. He's relaxing in a booth, arm thrown over the top of it, and listening idly to a man who's standing in front of him. He nods in all the right places and hums his understanding when the time comes, but if you're really looking you can tell that he's already dismissed whatever this nobody wants from him.
Grayson, the Golden Son, is a vicious boy who hides behind his pretty smile and poetic words that draw people in until they walk right to their deaths. People look at him and either see a sweet kid who got wrapped up in the wrong crowd or the brains of the operation. Either way, they underestimate him away from his family, thinking him the most defenseless or the easiest to sway. They're wrong, of course. It's usually the last mistake they make.
(The few times officers of the law attempted to go after the Wayne crime family before, they tried to go in through Dick. One of them was seduced, the second convinced to change sides, and the last was never seen again.)
Jason is a good partner for Richard, and they tend to stick together. Jason is leaning against the wall just a foot away from his brother, arms folded across his chest as he listens to what the man is saying; unlike Richard, he doesn't react at all, stone-faced. His eyes scan the crowd slowly every minute or so, and if he sees something worth noticing, the slightest shift of his body tells the guards throughout the bar to look alive.
Todd, the Prodigal Son, is cruel, vicious like his brother but far more openly violent. If a deadly brawl starts somewhere in the city, it's likely to have been started by Jason. He's a boy with a lack of caring towards anyone's lives other than those of his family. People tend to underestimate his mind, though a little bit of research would show that he was top of his class in school; they think him nothing but muscle, and oftentimes that's a fatal mistake.
One of the best decisions Don Bruce Wayne ever made was bringing these two boys together, and the world is far worse off for it.
When you step through the doors of the Manor, Jason will immediately zone in on you. He'll watch the way you move, the places your eyes go, the drink you request from the waiter that approaches you, the path you take to reach them.
He'll make a motion with his hand down by his side that Richard seems to understand, and with a charming smile the older boy will dismiss the man talking to them, who leaves looking like the problems of the world have been solved; that's the gift of pretty smiles and pretty words—it makes people losing everything think they're winning.
"Please, sit," Richard says when you reach them, gesturing for you to take the seat across from him. His smile is warm and welcoming, but if you look closely you can see the ice in his eyes, the poison thrumming just below the surface.
Jason doesn't hide his poison, he wears it on his sleeve, and the rise of his chin spells trouble if you misbehave. You can see how people would think Richard defenseless, think Jason brainless—they play into the roles and play them well, a seamless team. A dangerous combination.
"I'm Dick, and this is my brother Jason," Richard says kindly, as if they actually need any introduction.
You murmur a greeting in return, telling them your name. They don't even bat an eye—they probably know everything about you by this point, not just your name, and you try to squash the anxiety that brings.
"What did Damian say?" Richard asks you, and you flounder for a moment, because the young Wayne didn't say anything, not really. Not anything of importance or influence. They're expecting something, clearly, but all you can think of is the moment a fifteen-year-old boy took out a deadly blade and twirled it between his fingers like it was nothing.
So you describe that. The conversation you were having, Damian's comments, the insult he sneered out at the end. You can't tell whether or not you're saying the right thing; Richard's smile is impenetrable, as is Jason's blank look.
You don't know where to look, either; the instinct is to keep eye contact with the pretty boy smiling at you, but it feels wrong to take your eyes off the dangerous expression just over that boy's shoulder.
You finish speaking, and Richard makes an amicable, teasing comment. Jason shifts beside him, a raise of one shoulder. Richard's smile sharpens for a moment, so quick you could easily miss it, before smoothing back into charming. Some kind of exchange just happened in front of you, you know that, but you haven't the faintest idea what.
"Tell us what we can do for you," Richard says, and Jason smirks, a simple baring of his teeth. It almost makes you jolt. It definitely makes you nervous.
You do as you're told, explaining your issue. Your eyes flit around the club, unable to focus on the intense looks you're receiving from the two dangerous boys in front of you.
If they chose to kill you now, they would. They could. Anyone in this club they don't already own they can easily scare into silence, or pay off, and no one will ever mention the murder that happened in the middle of a thriving bar in the middle of Gotham.
Your life is in their hands, and it's a tossup of whether or not they feel like handling you gently, or just letting you fall.
(In some police commissioner's office somewhere, there are files on the Wayne boys, files that psychoanalyze every little thing about them. If someone read those files, it would make meeting with the boys even scarier—demons you know are not always preferable to demons you don't, especially when those demons are like Dick and Jason.)
You finish your story, and they don't say anything. They don't even look at each other, just stare at you. It sends a chill down your spine, and you can't imagine how people spend all day around these two, around Damian, around the one that comes next.
Richard turns his head and looks at his brother for the first time, Jason easily meeting his gaze. You can see them communicating and you wonder how it is they hold an entire conversation with just one look, barely a few moments, barely more than a twitch of an eyebrow.
The elder boy breaks out into a brilliant smile.
"Wally," Richard says, voice assured and firm. You don't even have time to be confused before a redheaded boy appears, looking at Richard with a raised eyebrow.
"You rang?" he prompts, a slight smile curving his lips, and Jason looks like he's resisting the urge the roll his eyes.
"Would you mind letting Tim know that there's someone here to see him?" Richard says, and though it's technically a question, they all know it isn't.
Your heart soars; if Grayson is asking for the last son to be alerted, that means you're still in the game, they're still willing to hear what you have to say. You're one step closer to Don Wayne.
The redhead nods and is gone as quickly as he came, heading through the crowd and towards a door that has two men standing in front of it, clearly guards.
Richard catches your eye and smiles. "Go after him," he says, and you immediately get to your feet.
You make your goodbyes, incline your head in respect, call them Mr. Grayson and Mr. Todd.
Then you take a breath and follow the path the redhead practically ran. You eye the two guards at the door anxiously as you approach, and they eye you right back. One simply looks amused, the other bored. Both of them, you have no doubt, are carrying weapons.
You stop in front of them and open your mouth, prepared to say that you've been given permission to go back there—wherever there is—but they step easily to the side, raising an eyebrow at you. You shouldn't be surprised; after all, the redhead probably said something. Or maybe they simply know their bosses well enough to know you were sent by them.
You walk down a short hallway and immediately into a large room, stepping to the side as the redhead Wally rushes back out, offering you a wink. There are couches, a poker table, a TV, a pool table, and two minifridges. There are three people in the room, two boys and a girl.
One of the boys has his feet on the pool table and is balancing on the back two legs on his chair, holding his position effortlessly. There's a pool cue in one of his hands that he's twirling, a furrow of concentration between his brows. He drops it in his lap, his lips twist in displeasure, and then he glares at the other two people in the room when they snicker.
The other boy sits at the poker table shuffling a deck of cards, but doesn't seem to have any actual interest in playing a game. The table is covered in snacks anyway, no poker chips in sight, and it makes you wonder whether or not any poker is actually played in this room. His straight-backed posture seems natural, the movements of his hands sure.
The girl is perched on the back of one of the couches, her blonde hair falling in waves around her face. She's looking at the boy at the table, a wicked smirk on her lips. A slow smile is growing on his in return, even though his eyes are on his moving hands, not her.
It's a sharp and dangerous expression, and you have no doubt that this is Timothy "Tim" Drake.
Timothy Drake, the Chosen Son, is the last step between you and Don Wayne, and it makes your anxiety so much higher. Drake has a reputation, one that says he follows very closely in his adoptive-father's footsteps, one that says though he's only twenty years old he is one of the most dangerous men in Gotham.
All of Bruce Wayne's sons are extremely, terrifyingly dangerous. But Tim's the kind of dangerous that runs the world, not just burns it down. He's the heir to the Wayne crime family, even though he has two older brothers, and the weird thing is that neither Dick nor Jason are rumored to actually care.
They don't want the job. You're curious why, but it doesn't much matter at the moment. Because Timothy Drake does, and he sure as hell has the stuff for it.
"Your newest groveler is here," the girl drawls, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she sizes you up. Timothy doesn't look up, doesn't even pause in his shuffling, but the boy with his feet on the pool table glances over and lowers himself until he's sitting straight, looking you over with a distrusting eye.
A minute passes, then two. You resist the urge to fidget, keeping your hands in your coat pockets, your feet planted firmly. The girl looks exasperated by Timothy's silence; the other boy simply seems amused.
You can tell that much like the way Damian Wayne enjoys the anxiety of the other patrons around him, much like the way Richard and Jason have cultivated (and played into) a dangerous partnership, Timothy takes pleasure from holding people on the knife's edge, making them wait for him to be ready. The confidence is born, not put-upon. He'll make a good heir to the empire, that's for sure.
"Conner, would you see Stephanie out?" Timothy says eventually. He still doesn't look up. His voice is calm as a summer breeze.
The other boy gets immediately to his feet.
"See me out," the girl mocks, but she stands up too. As she walks past the pool table, she leans into Timothy's personal space, her hand on his cheek, and kisses him.
He smiles against her mouth and kisses her back, waiting until she pulls away to say, "I'll see you in a few days. Good luck on your job."
The girl snorts and says, "Luck. Please, Tim, try not to condescend."
As she slides past you and out of the room, Timothy shakes his head, chuckling under his breath. The other boy heads for the door as well, and he runs a hand along Timothy's shoulders as he passes, a touch that Tim leans subtly into.
Now that you've heard the names, you know who those two other people are; Stephanie Brown—daughter of the imprisoned Arthur Brown and enforcer for the Wayne crime family, despite her sex and size. (Timothy was the one to bring her in.) Conner Kent—ran away from a Don back in Metropolis, only to end up loyal to another crime family in Gotham. (Or, more specifically, loyal to Timothy.)
Rumors run rampant about them, and no one seems able to make up their mind about which one Timothy is fucking, if not both of them. You wonder if it really matters, given how loyal they both are anyway.
With the other two gone, the room falls silent again. You don't move, unsure about what to do. Timothy's eyes are still on his moving hands, flipping the cards between them, flicking his fingers to make them almost dance.
"Do you play?" he asks after a little while.
You startle, ever so slightly, and confirm that you do, demure that you're not that good. A curve of Timothy's lips says he likes your answer, but you can't tell if it's because you've amused him or because he finds it endearing.
Finally, Timothy raises his gaze, looking you over. People have mentioned in the past that if life had gone another way, this boy might've made an excellent detective. You definitely think so, feeling that analytical gaze cut across your body, but on the other side you can't imagine it—people like Damian and Richard and Jason and Timothy have no place in the realm of the law. They belong in the shadows, and they thrive there.
Many have tried to change them. Many have ended up dead.
"Sit," Timothy says, tone polite, and nods towards the chair across the table from him. You can't help but compare this dance to the one you just did with Richard and Jason, can't help but notice all the little differences and all the similarities.
When you're seated, Timothy stops shuffling and playing with the cards, settling them into a neat stack. He folds his hands on the top of the table and smiles at you, just as quietly polite as his voice.
Your heart is pounding painfully in your chest. You're no stranger to dangerous people, but having sat across a table from four of the most terrifying people in Gotham in the last seven hours, you're feeling a little shaky. You don't know what you'll do if you go right from here to actually speaking with the Don. You wonder if they'll do it on purpose, just for this effect. They must know they cause it, after all.
"What did Dick say?" Timothy asks you, and once again you flounder. Richard said even less than Damian did! He didn't say anything except ask you questions. General questions, at that. Does Timothy really just want you to repeat them? What would be the point of that?
But there's something in the boy's eyes, something that shows he knows this is a losing game. He knows the right answer, but he knows that you don't. He doesn't expect you to give him what he wants, so this is probably just about the way you say it.
Except...
Richard and Jason did say things, you saw it. They communicated with each other; lifts of shoulders, twitches of eyebrows, flicks of fingers. They had whole conversations while you sat there, oblivious to their meanings.
So you say that. You tell Timothy about the way his brothers spoke, the way Richard said nothing at all to you but everything to his brother. The way Jason's mouth never even opened and yet they made a decision together.
There's a satisfied curl to Timothy's lips when you finish, an appraising tilt to his chin, and your heart pounds even faster.
"Interesting," Timothy says lightly, and then, "so what brings you to us?"
You tell him, the same way you told Richard and Jason, and Timothy listens attentively, eyes keen. His gaze is unnerving, sharp and intense and searching. He doesn't waver, and neither do you.
When you finish, he nods slowly, and says, "We'll be in touch."
It's a clear dismissal, and you take it readily. You make your goodbyes, incline your head in respect, call him Mr. Drake. Then you leave the club and go home, and you wait.
Anyone you talk to will tell you a different time table for this part; maybe it'll be a day later that you get the call, maybe a month. All you know is that at this point, you should thank your lucky stars to be as healthy and whole as you are.
You survived the Wayne boys—that's not something everyone can say. Even if you fail here, you got farther than many thought you would. Maybe even farther than you thought you would.
In fact, it's a week later that the knock on your door is a chauffeur, letting you know that a car is waiting to take you to the Wayne estate. He doesn't comment when you freeze, your momentary panic.
After a moment you collect yourself and nod, going to your bedroom to grab your coat and make sure that you're presentable. The chauffeur doesn't comment when you return in a different suit than the one you were wearing when you answered the door.
The drive is silent save your slamming pulse and your forcefully calm breaths. The driver doesn't even glance at you once, and when you arrive he opens the door for you, then gestures you towards the house.
And really, house feels like a bit of an under-exaggeration.
You almost stumble on the stone pathway, more nerves than actual clumsiness, but you hold your balance and knock on the door. A butler lets you in, escorts you to a study with a roaring fireplace.
The four boys are there. Jason sits in a large armchair, his legs slung over one side, a battered book open in his lap. Tim is lounging on one of the two couches, a furrow between his brows as he focuses on a stack of papers in his hands, flipping between the pages. Richard and Damian are on the other couch, the younger boy's legs resting in the elder's lap, talking about something in quiet tones. Damian is scowling, and Richard is grinning—it looks a thousand times more genuine than every smile you've ever seen Richard wear.
It's...odd, seeing them all in a more homely setting. They almost look like normal people like this, though not quite. They can't quite imitate normality, not all the way. There's something too sharp about them, too raw, to ever be normal.
And then, behind the large desk, is none other than Don Bruce Wayne.
At your entrance, there's a shift. No one moves save slight tilts of the head, but the difference is obvious. They close off, the hint of normalcy vanishing in an instant like it was never there. Sharpness becomes sharper, danger amps up a few notches, and you can so clearly see your death in front of you that for a moment you can barely breathe.
How the butler manages it day-in and day-out, you'll never know.
"Ah," Don Wayne says as he stands from his desk, "glad you could make it."
The smile on his face is the same performer's smile his first son inherited. The strong way he moves around the desk is something he passed on to his second son. His quick, analytical gaze is something his third son took to readily. The amusement at your anxiety that shines in his eyes is the same that his fourth son wears.
"It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Gordon," he says to you, and offers you a hand to shake. "My children have said good things."
You see Richard and Jason share a smirk. You wonder if that means you've been made.
"Please," you say, taking his hand, maybe sealing your fate, "call me Jim."