Archive of Our Own

July

“Take as long as you need to decide what you want,” Martha says. Beaming, as is her way. “These rooms are yours.”

Bruce watches, half-holding his breath, as Timothy scans the room from top to bottom, cataloguing each inch. A spacious suite in the family wing with high ceilings, tall windows, and an ensuite bathroom. This room and the room next to it are both unpainted and unfurnished, blank canvases ready for someone to bring them to life.

“And we can ask these contractors for anything,” Damian asks dubiously, flipping through the folder his Nana gave him.

Martha claps her hands together. “Yes! All the names listed are quite discrete. You can give them any specifications you want added to the rooms, and myself, Gramps, and Bruce never have to know about it. Hidey-holes, secret passages, connections between your room and Timothy’s– anything you’d like!”

She casts a quick glance around the space. “I will, however, require a colour scheme and general theme. As well as your selections from the furniture catalogues. If nothing suits your fancy we can of course have something commissioned.”

“I don’t know that this is necessary,” Damian says stiffly, closing the folder. “We won’t be staying long, only until Mother has full control of the League.”

Martha frowns. Bruce doesn’t quite wince, but does shift uncomfortably.

It's been a month since they defeated Ra's. Timothy and Damian have spent that time in Redjay’s territory, still braced for League attacks. A few days ago, Talia sent a message confirming that she’d taken control. But while the overt struggle was over, her leadership was not absolute. She needed time to fully consolidate her rule and solidify her position. And until then, she wanted Damian to remain in Gotham.

With no timeline for when Talia would send for him and further League incursion into Gotham unlikely, it was decided that it wasn’t reasonable for Timothy and Damian to remain with Redjay and Shrike. Instead, they would move into Wayne Manor.

A move that Bruce really, really wished could be permanent.

If Talia really wants to keep Damian safe, she should let him stay here. But Bruce holds his tongue. It is simply not his place, yet. He has no right to speak against his child’s mother when he has only been in Damian’s life for a month and a half. While of course, he has no intention of letting Damian – or Timothy for that matter – head into a situation that could kill them, it is not a parenting disagreement to bring up in front of already defensive boys right now.

“As this is a temporary arrangement,” Damian continues, putting considerable effort into seeming aloof, “the guest rooms are more than suitable.”

“Nonsense! The guest rooms are for guests. You’re only staying there until your rooms are ready,” Martha dismisses. Not unkindly, but with no room for argument. “Wherever you may go, whatever arrangement is worked out with your mother, you will always have a home here, and therefore a room here. I mean, goodness, you’re hardly the first child to have a place in two houses belonging to separated parents!”

“I hardly think my situation is comparable to a mundane divorce,” mutters Damian. But the line of tension has eased from his forehead, and his expression is more appraising, eager, as he looks around. “…I can paint it any colour I want?”

Damian and his ever-enthusiastic Nana start a thorough walk through of the room, catalogues in hand. Bruce remains in the hallway, resting his twinging side by leaning against the wall.

“I guess this means Damian’s picked this room for himself,” Bruce comments to Timothy, who has also remained in the hallway. “Little brother privileges, I suppose, hm?”

Timothy spares Bruce a brief but extremely judgemental glance.

“You’ll also always have a room here, of course,” Bruce continues, undeterred. And a home here. “But it is not your only option.”

The last sentence is a concession. An acknowledgement of the fact that Timothy does not want be at Wayne Manor. This, Bruce is quite certain of. After all, it had been Timothy’s decision to stay in Redjay’s territory, even though there was no longer a reason to hide Damian's location, and even though Dick could guard the boys as well as Shrike could. 

“Drake Manor is currently unoccupied,” Bruce continues carefully. Watches Timothy’s mouth flatten into a line. “It is owned by the bank and could be purchased relatively quickly.”

“No,” says Timothy. Without inflection. “That’s not necessary.”

“Okay,” Bruce replies.

“I don’t want it.”

“Okay.”

“And it would be a security risk. Grayson is here. We wouldn’t benefit from his presence at Drake Manor.”

“True.”

“Surprised he’s not here now. I thought he didn't leave Mrs. Wayne's side.”

“He’s on the roof. We encourage him to spend time apart from Mother to avoid the formation of separation anxiety. And he likes to be up high, so.”

Timothy actually turns and looks at Bruce, openly incredulous. “You’re serious.”

“Quite so, I’m afraid.”

Timothy exhales, a huff of laughter. Barely there, but enough to loosen something in Bruce’s chest.

Yes, Timothy hadn’t wanted to move to Wayne Manor. For reasons Bruce can only guess at. But he answers to Timothy now, not Wyvern. And speaks to that Dowd boy semi-regularly. Timothy Drake is still "dead", but at the very least, he’s no longer pretending to not exist.

“It’s…fine. The rooms are fine,” Timothy says after a moment. Forceful, as if speaking a positive affirmation he’s trying to make true.

“Okay,” Bruce says softly. And leaves it at that.

August

“And you’re definitely cleared?” Luke asks, for perhaps the twelfth time.

Bruce, mid-stretch, reminds himself that he’s in forties and restrains himself from rolling his eyes. “Yes Luke. I’m cleared to resume exercise. By the many, many doctors in our lives.”

There’s a twinge in his side that might never go away, courtesy of afore-mentioned forty-year old body, but the stab wound has healed otherwise. And while a year ago, going two months without any sort of sparring practice wouldn’t have been a huge deal, Bruce now has a much higher chance of running into assassin-related trouble. He can’t afford to grow rusty. Hence, the visit to Luke’s martial arts studio after hours.

No one looks particularly enthused that he’s here. Not Stephanie and Duke, watching from against the walls. And certainly not Luke, standing on the mats across from him. But Bruce is fairly certain it’s because they think he’s going to literally explode if Luke lands a single hit, and tries not to take it personally.

“Let’s start off easy,” Luke says, clearly still apprehensive as he shifts into a starting stance.

“Hm,” says Bruce. And mirrors the pose.

Stephanie calls for the match start. Luke stays defensive, unwilling to make the first move.

For his troubles, Luke is flipped onto the floor in three seconds.

They go again, Luke’s brow furrowed. Fists held a little tighter.

This time, he’s on the floor in five seconds.

“I’m cleared,” Bruce reminds him, over the sound of Stephanie and Duke’s half-disbelieving laughter. “You really don’t have to go easy on me.”

“Christ Almighty,” wheezes Luke, winded.

The next round lasts twelve seconds.

“We’ve sparred before,” Luke says, rubbing his back and glaring. “When you weren’t a few weeks out from losing a kidney. Were you going easy on me?”

Bruce shrugs, smiles. “I mean, I couldn’t very well tell you I had trained with assassins in the past, now could I?”

“Okay, sorry,” Duke interjects, pushing off the wall. “I just– I know I’m going to get my ass beat, but I kind of want the novelty of saying I sparred with secretly-a-badass Bruce Wayne. Can I tag in?”

This spar lasts a bit longer, because Bruce isn’t on the immediate offensive. He’s waiting, and listening, striking only when he senses Duke’s invisible presence. The teen doesn’t land a hit, but it takes Bruce nearly forty seconds to get Duke down on the floor.

Stephanie, of course, wants to take a turn of her own.

When Bruce goes to grapple her, she squeaks and presses an arm protectively over her chest. Blanching, apologizing, Bruce releases her immediately. At which point she kicks out one of his legs.

He barely recovers in time to block and redirect the blow coming for his face, twisting Stephanie’s arm behind her back and bringing her down.

“Aw man,” she laughs.

“Well done,” Bruce says, laughing as well. “Weaponizing propriety is a sound strategy.”

Luke taps back in then. Definitely with something to prove now. He doesn’t land a hit, but focuses more on reading Bruce’s movements to dodge and defend. In one round, he manages to stay on his feet for more than a minute.

After, when they’re all sweaty and sore and doing cooldown stretches, Luke says, “I know a lot of this is just experience and you can’t teach the passage of time. But there were some moves you pulled that I’m not familiar with at all. If you’ve still got juice, could you walk me through it?”

“And how you kept finding Duke,” Stephanie adds.

“And how you hid that you kept finding me,” Duke says. “I never realized you knew my location until it was too late.”

And then Bruce is getting stared down by three eager-beaver Beacons.

There is a novelty here, in any of the youth Bruce found over the past spring actually wanting to spend time with him. But Duke, while not interested in being Bruce’s son in any way, isn’t opposed to his presence. One-on-one with Duke can get awkward, yes. But the unspoken baggage from the other dimension is always dissipated by the presence of Luke and Stephanie, who were never Bruce’s children in the other world.

Right now, they’re just three young people eager to make a difference. Asking for lessons from the not-so-young man willing to teach them what he knows.

“Alright,” Bruce agrees. Smiles. “I suppose I can show you a thing or two.”

September

Bruce doesn’t make a habit of peeking into the boys’ rooms at night.

It usually wakes Damian, though he has started ignoring his father and pretending to still be asleep. And while Timothy is normally awake anyways, it annoys him on principle. Bruce tries very hard not to be overbearing. With the boy who is his son and the boy who isn’t. But sometimes, the weight of all that was almost lost, of all that Ra’s almost took, is too heavy for Bruce to power through with rationality and logic. And when that happens, all that soothes the memories is reassurance that the boys are here, and safe.

And so, Bruce’s soul straight up leaves his body when he peeks into Timothy’s room and finds it empty.

He knows, with the keen awareness as deeply ingrained as how to ride a bike, that Timothy isn’t in the bathroom, or the closet, or anywhere else. Knows that there is no physical presence in his room, whatsoever. Knows that Timothy isn't here. That he's gone. That he's–

“He’ll be back.”

Bruce doesn’t jump out of his skin. But it is a very, very near thing.

“He goes out, sometimes,” Dick continues, melting out of the shadows as he is wont to do. “With Cass-Shrike. Redjay sometimes. Usually Cass-Shrike.”

“Ah.” Bruce doesn’t know how well he’s hiding his racing heart rate. Dick can probably hear it anyways. “You…you follow him?”

“No. I asked him. First time he was leaving. To make sure he was not going somewhere that would hurt us.”

Right. Because Dick protects the family. He’s their formerly undead assassin. Or, rather. Still undead, just formerly an assassin. Reformed. Saved. Safe, allegedly.

Dick is utterly devoted to Mother. Dick adores Damian. Dick would adore Timothy too in a heartbeat if Timothy let him. Dick isn’t that fond of me or Father but would protect us with his life for Mother. A litany Bruce has to repeat to himself, when all his instincts are telling him that he is alone in the dark with a predator.

Dick’s conditioning is undone. Dick protects the family– No, Dick is family. Martha plans to adopt him, once they can figure out an appropriate cover story for where he came from and why he’s half-dead. But Dick is already a Wayne in all but name. And eventually, Bruce will stop being made utterly uneasy by him. Eventually.

“Thank you for that,” Bruce says, and even manages a smile. “Did Timothy tell you why he goes out with Shrike?

Dick jerks a little. Bruce flinches. But then Dick does it again, more purposeful this time, and Bruce realizes he’s trying to shrug.

“Birds need to fly,” Dick says with another spasm-shrug. “So do dragons.”

Which tells Bruce absolutely nothing about what Timothy and Shrike are actually doing. “…is it dangerous? What they do together? Can you tell me that much?” 

Dick does his version of a head tilt. Which is an owl-like rotation that makes him look like his neck’s been snapped. “As dangerous as flight. Sometimes Timothy comes back and is fine. Sometimes he comes back and is limping.”

Well, that’s no good. Bruce's hand slips into his pocket, wrapping around his phone. He has Black Canary and Harleen Quinzel’s numbers now. If Bruce reactivates the tracker they’d had on Timothy before, then maybe he can–

“Is the Manor a cage?”

Bruce blinks, jolted out of his planning. “No, but–,”

“Is Timothy an adult?”

“Yes, however–,”

“Then let him fly,” Dick says, unblinking. “He wants what he wants. Before, his only wants were what his master wanted. Now, he has his own wants. Nana says having your own wants is important. So important. Let Timothy fly, because it’s what he wants. But remember– what Timothy wants most of all is to stay with Damian. He is always back by morning.”

Bruce looks back towards Damian's closed door, chagrined.

If Damian returns to his mother, to the League and a life as an assassin, than it is better that he is never publicly linked to the high-profile Waynes. And so, for now he is a secret. Timothy Drake is still believed to be dead, and Timothy has no desire to change that, however much he texts that Dowd boy. To remain hidden, both the boys mostly stay within the Manor grounds. Bruce spends as much time with Damian as he can. Learning about the boy's life, telling him about Bruce's own, even sparring. And he knows Damian doesn't feel particularly confined by the Manor– he grew up mostly confined to his mother's compound, after all. But Timothy spent his early teens mostly unsupervised. And even when collared by Ra's, he'd eventually been given a good degree of free movement.

Dick is correct, in that Timothy likes to stay close to Damian. But that doesn't mean that he's not secretly chafing within the Manor walls.

Bruce's fingers loosen around his phone. Slowly, he removes his hand from his pocket.

“Right,” he breathes out. “Right. We should always listen to Nana.”

Dick’s smiles, a little-less corpse stiff than it was a few months ago. “Yes. Because Nana is always right.”

October

The room is all warm tones, the colour of tilled earth and sunsets. Tans and browns for the walls and carpets. Oranges on the bedspread and curtains. Gold-bronze decals of leaves and woodland creatures scattered across the walls.

The desk is organized and clear of clutter, the bed is neatly made, and weaponry are safely sheathed and on their mounts on the far wall. But the floor is a typical teenaged disaster of scattered clothes, and the window bench hosts open sketchbooks, scattered art supplies, and pillows stained with pastels.

Damian’s room has only been his for a few months. But it’s already lived in, already full of interests and hobbies he’s continued and interests and hobbies he’s discovered. Full of swords and animals and nature and art. Full of Damian, despite the distance he’s tried to hold between himself and Wayne Manor in anticipation for the day his mother called him home.

The day that will never come.

“Your mother loves you,” Bruce says, words that taste like heartache. “You know she does.”

Damian doesn’t look at him. Sits on the edge of his bed, hands flexing. Fingers curl, digging into his pants, before going lax with resignation.

“She doesn’t trust me,” Damian says flatly.

“It’s the League she doesn’t trust–,”

“As if I would ever allow myself to be a pawn to disloyal cretins!” Damian spits, head snapping up at last. “There is no threat without my buy-in, and so if she believes the threat to be real, she doesn’t trust me.”

Bruce truly, genuinely, does not believe that’s true. But he also hasn’t seen Talia in many, many years. And…people change. The Talia he knew was loyal to her father absolutely, but the Talia of now betrayed him after he betrayed her first. There is a chance, a likelihood even, that the woman who believed in family and blood above all no longer exists. His belief that Talia would never distrust her own son, would never see Damian as a threat who could one day turn against her, is just that– a belief.

During her call, Talia had placed blame squarely on League dissidents. If Damian returned to her side, became her heir, she believed that her critics and oppositions would try and have him usurp her. Not just because he was male, but because a child leader would be malleable to the suggestions and influence of the upper League leadership. When Talia was Ra’s heir, and safely so, Damian as her successor was not so much of a threat. But Talia as her father’s usurper is something else entirely.

Or so she had said.

And so, Talia intends to follow Ra’s example. She is not going to have heirs until she has led the League for at least a century and her rule is absolute. If her internal detractors kill her without an heir, the League will be left to a civil war between Shiva and Nyssa. And even those who dislike Talia are still loyal enough to the League to want to avoid seeing it torn apart. Her rule and life are safest if Damian never returns to the League. He was therefore to remain with Bruce, in Gotham. Safest for him, safest for her.

“If she didn’t trust you, I find it hard to believe she would allow you to remain in Gotham with Wyvern,” Bruce points out. “Two male heirs to the League, in contact with the daughter of one of the women actively challenging Talia’s leadership. I can’t pretend to know your mother’s mind, but if it were a question of trust I do not think here is where she would have left you.”

Damian’s shoulders slump. Though not with relief. Something more bitter, that curdles his face like milk.

“Then it is about weakness,” he says dully. “She wants me away from her because I am a liability. Because she doesn’t believe I’m strong enough to resist being manipulated and used.”

“Her decision almost certainly has nothing to do with you and your capability.”

Bruce approaches slowly, as he always does. Leaving time for Damian to warn him back with a glare, or to shift away. But no such shield comes up. And Bruce sits on the bed beside his son, close enough for Damian to close the distance with a small shift. If he wants.

“Parenthood operates outside of logic,” Bruce continues, soft. “You’ve seen that with your own eyes. I mean, I’ve made something of a habit of trying to protect people who are more than capable of handling themselves. Wanting to protect your children…it doesn’t matter how strong they are. The need is beyond logic.”

“…like Nana dragging you away from Mother,” Damian says slowly. “Because Nana didn’t want you in the League. It didn’t matter how capable you were, how you could have stood at Mother’s side.”

Even decades on, Bruce doubts how much of a League prospect he ever truly was. But that’s not helpful to point out. “Something like that, yes.”

And that really might be the truth of it. Perhaps Talia was lying, or embellishing, when she claimed concern over hypothetical plots to dethrone and replace her with Damian. After all, hadn’t half the problem been that most of the League didn’t see Damian as a viable prince and heir? Maybe it wasn’t true, that there were those who sought to position him as leader sooner than later. Maybe Talia simply knew the same thing that Bruce did– that the League of Assassins was not safe for any child. And that removing Damian from the organization entirely was the best way to protect her son.

“Do you think…”

Damian is looking away again, but Bruce can see that he’s blinking furiously. That he’s fighting his own emotions, his own heart. “Do you think…there’s a chance she might change her mind?”

I am not the person to ask. I do not know your mother very well anymore. But that, Bruce thinks, is neither helpful nor important at the moment.

“Damian, I want to ask you a question,” Bruce says seriously. “And I want you to think about it, really think about it, before you answer. Do you believe in the mission of the League of Assassins?”

Damian frowns. Opens his mouth to answer immediately, then seems to restrain himself. Takes the time to think, brow scrunched and gaze directed at his knees.

“My…my grandfather’s League…no,” he finally answers. “What it was in the past, the League that existed before Grandfather lost himself…I think so. There are no checks and balances on the elite destroying the planet. That is true.”

“But the League has spent more time targeting anyone Ra’s saw as an enemy than championing environmentalism. And right now, your mother is doing the same.”

Damian’s head snaps up again. “That’s necessary. If she doesn’t remove threats, she won’t be able to put plans in place to save the world–,”

“But that’s the thing, Damian. There will always be threats. And the League’s primary targets always end up being people and entities that are personally inconvenient to the al Ghuls, rather than the people actually doing harm to the planet. Is that the mission you believe in?”

“It is my birthright! I’m an assassin.”

"An assassin isn't all that you are," Bruce argues. "Or rather, it isn't all that you always have to be. Dick was an assassin for nearly twenty years, and now he isn't." 

“That’s not the same–,”

“Timothy has been an assassin for as long as you’ve known him. But he has set that life aside.”

“It’s not the same!” Damian shoots to his feet, face blotchy and overwhelmed. “They were both kidnapped. I was born into this!”

"Birthright and bloodlines aren't chains," Bruce says, and is surprised by the vehemence in his own voice. "Damian, you have a choice. The League, being an assassin, it is not the only future available to you." 

"Of course you would say that," his son sneers. "Because you want me here. You want me to be your heir, your socialite son. You want me to discard Mother's legacy for yours!" 

Damian's anger echoes up to the high ceiling, fills the room. And with it comes a wave of deja vu– but mirrored, reversed. Memories of standing in Damian's position, face blotchy and overwhelmed, facing an unmovable father who had very specific ideas of who Bruce should be. 

Slowly, Bruce shakes his head. At the memory, at the false equivalence, at Damian's accusation.

"It's true that I don't want you to return to the League. It's true that I don't want you to be an assassin," he admits, keeping his gaze level and steady. "But I don't want to tell you who to be either. I want you here, yes, but I want you to be you even more. I want you to find a calling that you believe in, not just what's expected of you."

Damian's nostrils flare. "My birthright–," 

"Damian, you haven't had a chance to be anything other than your Mother's hidden away son for your entire life. I just...I want you to consider other options. You don't have to be an assassin. You don't have to be a doctor. You don't have to be a businessman. But what you can be is up to you. It's not for me to tell you. And so, I think..."

Bruce takes a slow, measured breath. "I think if I have any ask of you, any expectation, it's this: you'll be eighteen in three years. For these three years, do not be an assassin. Take this time to figure out who you are and what you believe in beyond that birthright. What other ways can you change the world? What other missions can you champion? No one can tell you the answer; it's up to you find. And if you still want to be an assassin once you're eighteen..."

With effort, he swallows a grimace. "...I am sure between Aunt Kate and your Nana, we can find non-League avenues for you to pursue that. All I ask is that you spend the next three years doing anything and everything else. Learning who you are beyond being someone's son, being an assassin's heir."

The anger doesn't immediately abate from Damian's face. But slowly, it becomes diluted to frustration. And then, to a more troubled look of contemplation, concentration. His eyes drop down again, staring at his feet. Both hands and jaws clenching. 

"You would not try and stop me from becoming an assassin, if I wait until I'm eighteen?" Damian finally asks. 

"I would not try and stop you," Bruce replies, even though it kind of kills him to say. "However, you could not do it here. Gramps would never permit it under his roof." 

Damian's face goes carefully blank. "I would be expelled from the family." 

"No. Heaven's no! You just couldn't be operating as an assassin from any Wayne-held property. But again, I'm sure we can...figure something out with Aunt Kate."

The troubled look of contemplation-concentration returns. After a few long seconds, Damian sits back down, hard.

"Aunt Kate's organization," he says eventually. "They are the ones trying to develop a cure for Talonization."

It takes a few seconds for Bruce to respond. Mostly because Damian has closed the distance, leaned into him, and the burst of warmth that causes is distracting. "Ah. Yes. That's true. The Colony has been trying to create a cure since they first started capturing Talons years ago." 

The defeat of the Court of Owls and the subsequent seizure of their records and labs has, according to Kate, led to major breakthroughs in the Colony's research. It could still be years before an actual stable Talon cure is created, but it is certainly a project that Kate is prioritizing. 

"And the Colony had been working against the Owls for a long time," Damian continues. "Not because they were hindrances and enemies, but because they were doing harm to the world. The Colony does a lot of covert operations to try and take down powerful people and entities doing harm." 

"...Yes, to my understanding." 

"And...and if I were to be involved with an organization like that, and prove myself a successful agent, Mother might change her mind." 

Here, Bruce has to take a steadying breath. I do not know what Talia al Ghul is thinking. I no longer know her at all. "Perhaps." 

Damian swallows that down. Then gives a slow, careful nod. "Very well. I...I will continue to think on your request. But I...I believe I will accept your terms. No assassin activity until I'm eighteen. And...exploring what else I can do in the meantime. Who else I can be." 

And then Damian's careful expression disappears, overwritten by an expression of genuine dread and panic. "Wait, if I'm not returning to Mother– does this mean I have to go to school?" 

November

Timothy slams the door in Bruce’s face.

The thud of it echoes, rattles the walls. Bruce is glad that Damian and Dick are out in the garden with Damian's new dog, aren't here to hear, to see Bruce thunk his forehead against the shut door in helpless frustration, to watch him then slink away in defeat back to his office. 

His mother finds him there sometime later, with the lights off and his head down on the desk. 

“But if it isn’t what Timothy wants…” Martha says with a frown, after Bruce explains the situation and she's turned on the lights. “I mean…you are always emphasizing how we must respect the children’s wishes.”

“Timothy’s primary wish is to stay with Damian. And his current course runs counter to that,” Bruce argues, massaging his temples. “Once we reveal Damian’s existence and your adoption of Dick, both of them will be able to leave the Manor and be seen in public. But there will be a great deal of media attention. If Timothy ‘stays dead’ as he wants, he’ll never be able to join them. He’ll have to stay in the Manor, or hidden. He would never be able to be seen with Damian, and Damian wouldn’t be able to mention his existence.”

“And with the expected level of press and gossip, him joining us in disguise likely wouldn’t hold up,” Martha surmises, frown deepening.

“No one should have to live as a secret. It's damaging.” Bruce sighs, shakes his head. “But anytime I try to explain as much, Timothy shuts me down completely. As far as he's concerned his occasional nightly jaunts with Shrike...or that Dowd boy...are more than enough. And he didn't take kindly to me noting that it will be hard on Damian as well, keeping his brother a secret."

"Well…do you think we should move elsewhere? Bludhaven, maybe?” Martha’s voice and face are visibly pained by the idea. But she continues on gamely. “We’d be less recognizable there, Timothy Drake especially.”

“Who’s moving to Bludhaven?”

Thomas asking, having passed by the open office door. Now paused in the doorway, peering at his son and wife with an eyebrow arched.

“Us, perhaps?” Martha replies, still less than enthused. But she dutifully repeats Bruce's explanation of the problem.

Father blinks. Once. Twice. Then grunts, “Leave Timothy be,” and continues down the hall. His slow steps and tapping cane mark his progress to his own office, concluded with the sound of a heavy door opening and shutting.

Don’t be annoyed. Bruce takes a breath, resists the urge to drag his hands down his face. Don't be bothered. You know how Father is. Thomas Wayne can be brusque and emotionally distant at the best of time.

And yet...this is still a disappointingly aloof reaction. Because after Damian, Timothy spends the most time with Thomas. 

Dick is normally content to spend his day doing whatever Martha is doing. Though at Harley and Dinah's insistence, he also spends time exploring hobbies (birdwatching, chemistry kits, and topiary are his current favourites). Damian has started on curriculum packages generously provided by Gotham Academy, with the intention of starting Grade 10 next September. He also has a host of interests and hobbies, a dog that requires much of his attention and time, and occasionally joins Dick in assisting Martha with household tasks. 

Timothy has no interest in school, seemingly no interest in revisiting old or finding new hobbies, still isn't completely at ease with Dick, and finds Martha somewhat exhausting. Staying close to Damian doesn't seem to be synonymous with always being in the same room as Damian; Timothy spends most of his time at the Manor in his room by himself. Thomas Wayne, however, can't stand idle hands. Which is why he had more or less voluntold Timothy to start assisting him with lower risk Wayne Enterprises matters.

They always take care not to conflate the people here with the children they met in the other dimension, but there is still something to be said for universal constants. Because Timothy hadn't blown Thomas off. Begrudgingly but undeniably, Timothy had taken to WE work like a fish to water. And subsequently spends most afternoons in Thomas's office.

Which is why it's so disheartening for Father to just...brush off this situation.

But, well. Stubborn and taciturn men in their mid-seventies. What can you do?

Still, Bruce does end up taking Thomas’s advice and leaving Timothy alone for the rest of the day. He looks at Bludhaven properties, tries to quiet the uncomfortable squirming in his stomach at the thought of moving Damian and Dick just as they’re starting to settle, and leaves a message for Oracle asking if there’s any way to remove all online news articles with Timothy’s photo. Bruce resolves not to try and speak with Timothy again until he’s explored all the available options. Resists the urge, the need, to knock on Timothy’s door.

And is quite startled when the next afternoon, Timothy knocks on his door instead.

“I accept the proposal,” Timothy says, sounding grumpy, but not outright angry. “I was unable to prepare adequate counter-arguments to the majority of the report’s rationale. So, fine. You can adult adopt me.”

I can– wait, what? Bruce’s mouth opens. Then he thinks better of speaking and shuts it. Silently taking the thick stack of stapled papers from Timothy.

It is indeed a report. A comprehensive, professional report detailing all the reasons Timothy should allow Bruce to adopt him. Which is something Bruce has never once proposed or mentioned. Nevertheless, the report argues quite persuasively as to why it is the best course of action.

Becoming Bruce’s son will not only allow Timothy to stay close to Damian by resurrecting his identity, it will legally tie him to Damian, ensuring that Timothy can step in if anything were to happen to Bruce. It will also position him as a Wayne heir, meaning he’ll be able to assist with Wayne Enterprises in a more official capacity and implement some of the suggested changes he’s proposed (Bruce has no idea what these are). Furthermore, Timothy will be able to use the Penthouse without having to sneak himself or "Young Master Dowd" in and out of it (Bruce didn’t know that was happening).

And, perhaps most importantly, becoming a Wayne will offer him far more protection than if Timothy simply came back from the dead as an orphan. The Waynes can stand between him and the news, society gossip, and crucially, the courts. A team of Wayne lawyers to help unite Timothy with anything he’s entitled to, and to slap cease and desists onto any vicious tabloids that try and make a spectacle of him as they had in his youth.

Moreover, Timothy won’t be the only one who benefits. Dick can’t be expected to put on an act in public– he still struggles to show what he is feeling. Faking a feeling to be perfectly palatable to the media and masses isn't currently within his capabilities. Damian is certainly skilled in deception, but delicate social posturing isn’t something he’s used to, growing up isolated as he had. But Timothy has been a Drake heir and an al Ghul heir. He was trained to be a leader within a den of snakes and sharks. And he knows Gotham. He could, if he chose, be the spokesperson for the Wayne sons; the one that's interviewed (by reputable journalists only), the one that gives media-trained statements, the one who can play picture-perfect personas when necessary.

The report is full of angles that Bruce never considered. Fears he never realized Timothy must have had. It is impressive, sobering, and very clearly the product of someone who has gotten to know Timothy quite well.

“While I've accepted the proposal, there are some points I'd like to negotiate," Timothy says, all business as Bruce reaches the end of the report. “As you can see, I've marked certain pages with sticky notes and left comments in red pen...”

Leave Timothy be, huh Father? Bruce returns to the front of the report, to the cover page with Thomas Wayne’s signature and stamp affixed. I’m very glad that you didn’t.

December

Since Alfred’s retirement, Thomas Wayne has been the sole early bird in Wayne Manor.

The new additions do not change the situation much.

Bruce and Martha have always preferred late nights to early mornings. Damian likes to wake up early in theory. But in practice, his teenaged body struggles to rise before 10am, and Titus has adopted the same schedule. Timothy is sometimes awake at dawn, but his sleep schedule of ‘grab a 2-hour nap when the opportunity arises’ can’t really be called nocturnal or diurnal– just alarming. Dick doesn’t sleep, but prefers to keep the same hours as Martha and Damian. He occasionally paces the property or perches on the roof at night, but usually remains in his Nana’s room or outside Damian’s door until they’re up.

And so, when Bruce drags himself towards the kitchen at 5am to secure a strong black coffee before a Zoom meeting with business partners in France and finds the light on, he assumes it’s likely Father or possibly Timothy.

It’s not.

It’s Jason.

“One of the kids has a holiday bake sale,” Jason grunts. He does not look up from the counter, and continues to plop batter into a baking tin. “And if I used the kitchen at the Aviary the kids would descend like locusts and the cupcakes would never make it out the door. Nana Wayne said I could come use the kitchen whenever I wanted to.”

“Oh, um. I see. Of course! Wonderful.” Bruce is delighted to see Jason, genuinely. But it is also very early and he has not yet reached the coffeemaker. “Bake sale, I see. Neighbourhood? Or, no. It’s so early. School? But do they, um. Do that? School. Your kids.” God, it’s so bloody early.

“They ‘do school’.” Jason’s eyes aren’t visible, but the roll of them is audible in his voice. “We got teachers on staff at the Aviary. But some of the kids still want to go to school. There’s older kids who actually want a high school diploma, who’ll know it’ll make life just a little easier. Or kids who had friends in school before they became homeless. Most of the schools in Park Row don’t ask too many questions about permanent place of address anyways.”

“Ah, good.” Bruce blinks. “Or, not good. Or. Well. Rather–,”

There really is no hope of higher brain function at this hour without stimulant, so Bruce gives up on speech and beelines for the coffee machine.

The silence that falls isn’t uncomfortable. Could even be called companionable. Bruce pouring the beans into the automated grinder, portioning out the grounds. Jason filling the cupcake pans with absolute concentration.

The pans go into the oven as Bruce’s mug finishes filling. And he pauses. Looks at Jason leaning against the counter, speckled with flour and almost defensively casual in posture.

Bruce has seen Redjay a decent amount of times, these past months. Most regularly at the poetry nights Duke hosts – which Jason now attends religiously – but also at Leslie's clinic once, and at Luke's studio twice. But Bruce knows that Redjay meets with Mother biweekly, possibly more. And that it's probably best that he doesn't know what it is that they do together. Maybe it's shopping! Maybe it's tea! And maybe it's sabotage and extortion. Mother doesn't say, and Bruce doesn't ask. 

Bruce also knows that these meetings are always out in Gotham. As far as he knows, Redjay has never come to the Manor before. Him and Cassandra both. 

It has been half a year since everything went down with Ra’s. Damian, Dick, and Timothy have all settled in, and are set to be revealed publicly in the new year. Bruce still sees the Beacons semi-regularly for a bit of sparring, but Duke and Stephanie have actually starting coming by the Manor. Duke to tutor Damian and help with his curriculum packages, and Stephanie to 'tutor' Timothy in all of the major pop culture moments he's missed. The fact that as the former leader of a spy network, Timothy has always been fairly plugged into the news is apparently inconsequential.

Both Duke and Stephanie, and occasionally Luke, have taken up Bruce on his offer to use the Manor's newly created home theatre whenever they want (and consequently introduced Dick to a new interest: cheerleading movies, which he absolutely loves). Even Barbara's been by the Manor semi-regularly to update the security system, and in January will be by more often to start Dick on reading lessons.

Bruce doesn't known what Cassandra's been up to, these past months. Other than the fact that Stephanie has reportedly been successful in befriending her as well, the 'murder kitten corner' reunited. But Cassandra never joins Stephanie in hanging out with Timothy in the Manor. Cassandra has never been to the Manor at all.

Bruce thought it was the same with Redjay, but there's no denying that Jason looks quite comfortable in the Manor's kitchen. Seems to know where everything is and how everything works. An observation that pulls a soft smile to Bruce's face. 

"You know, it's not just the kitchen," he can't help but say. "If there are any other Manor facilities you wish to make use of–,"

“Goodbye Richie Rich,” Jason snorts. Waving Bruce off. But his tone is amused. Almost fond.

Bruce ducks his head into his mug as he departs, still not quite awake, but filled with warmth all the same.

January

Timothy is quiet on the drive back from the Ives.

It’s a different quiet than the sharp, heavy silence of a young man that has carried and suffered far too much for his years. This quiet is…lighter isn’t exactly the right word. But perhaps…less dense.

Timothy Drake is officially alive, legally and publicly. Returned with a story of kidnapping and human trafficking. Of escaping his captors, but being trapped in a foreign country with no way home. Of serendipitously ending up as an English tutor to a young Damian. Of convincing Damian’s mother to send them to Gotham together, because Bruce Wayne would know who Timothy Drake was, and would be more willing to hear out the claims of a boy claiming to be his son. Of the boys’ arrival and story leading the Waynes to pour money into investigating shadowy organizations in Gotham, which in turn led to the dismantling of such an organization (details classified) and the discovery and rescue of one Richard Grayson.

Technically, Timothy’s return was announced a few months past New Jersey’s grace period for people who disappeared without a body. But it was close enough that probate for Timothy’s trust fund had only just begun, and Wayne money and pressure greased the legal wheels enough to roll back the process. It will take a few months more for everything to be finalized, but Timothy’s trust will be his.

There was no real legal trouble around his meagre personal belongings. The items that Sebastian and his parents had been able to claim from police custody. Those, Timothy received without a fuss.

Now, he is quiet on the drive back to the Manor. Looking out the window, elbow braced against the door and chin in hand. A casual pose, completely unsuitable for an assassin. The only tightness found in the arm wrapped around the box in his lap.

Timothy keeps tight hold of the box as they head inside the Manor. Holds it tight as Martha fusses over him, keeping the physical distance he prefers and removing herself to the kitchen to make him something warm when he starts to stiffen. Holds it tight as Thomas asks if it went well, takes his nod as all the answer needed, and doesn’t burden him with additional attention. Holds it tight as Damian hovers, clearly uncertain what to ask or do or say, eventually settling on just staying close, walking at Timothy’s shoulder. Holds it tighter and tighter as he makes his way to the main living room, where Dick is perched on top of a cabinet.

It is only here that Timothy puts the box down.

He’s silent as he slowly removes the lid. As he reaches inside, rummaging through the small number of belongings Sebastian and his parents had been able to claim from police custody. The last remnants of Timothy Drake that the Ives had kept safe, all these years.

Bruce finds himself holding his breath as Timothy pulls out a photograph.

It is worn, and old. Visible tears at the edges. Wrinkles. The kind of wear that speaks of something cherished, something held again and again. A value that’s clear in the way Timothy’s calloused fingers hold it now, careful and almost reverent.

And then he stretches out his hand and holds the photograph out to Dick.

“Wh–,” Damian begins. But silences himself as Bruce places a hand on his shoulder. Irritated at his own confusion, but taking the admonishment and going quiet. Waiting. Watching.

Dick spends a few long seconds just staring. Squinting. Then he drops down from the cabinet, soundless. Takes the photograph from Timothy. 

Immediately, his face goes completely blank.

“It’s okay if you don’t remember,” Timothy says softly. “I just…”

Silence, again. Long. Stretching from seconds to minutes. Until Dick slowly lifts his head. Golden eyes unfocused, but turned towards Timothy.

“I’ll do a special flip just for you,” whispers Dick.

Surprise– then relief– then something unquantifiable but raw flashes across Timothy’s face. “Yeah.”

“You were– you– you saw me fly.”

“Yeah,” Timothy repeats hoarsely. “I saw you fly.”

Dick makes a sound then. That low keen that escapes him sometimes, when something breaks through the scar tissue formed from years of abuse, when he's reminded of all that he’s lost. He moves towards Timothy with the inhuman speed that always makes Bruce flinch, that makes even Damian flinch this time.

But Timothy doesn’t flinch. Even as Dick invades his closely guarded personal bubble. Even as the undead former-assassin rests a cheek against the side of his head.

“Little brother now for real, okay?” Dick says, in that warbly voice that’s as close to crying as he can get. “No take backs. Timothy is little brother.”

“That’s...that's fine. That's...yeah. That's, that's good,” Timothy says, his own voice a little thick. He doesn’t lean away from Dick's touch. Leans into it instead. “And…you can call me Tim.”

February

“Why am I here again?” Bruce asks, only a little despairing. 

"Because you're still single," Steph declares. "This is your punishment." 

Worryingly, Mother does not refute this statement. Just smiles and adds another bag to the collection hanging from Bruce's arms.

He is the designated mule for this particular trip to one of Gotham's fancier malls. A mission to secure Valentine's Day and "Galentine's Day" gifts. Bruce is already laden with Barbara's gifts for Harley and Dinah, Stephanie's gifts for her mom and Cassandra, and Martha's gifts for Thomas and Dick.

"Tough it out, Bruce," Barbara orders, unsympathetic. "I still need to find something for Pam that's both ethically sourced and cute."

Admittedly, Bruce doesn't know Pamela Isley that well. But he's still surprised when Martha steers the party towards a high-end jewellery store, glittering with diamonds and gemstones he very much doubts are "ethically-sourced". Perhaps she wants to peruse earrings for Tim? Just as Martha always bought Bruce a gift for Valentine's Day and has bought one for Dick, he knows she's looking to buy something for Tim and Damian this year.

Martha's motive is made clear the moment she steps into the store and begins enthusiastically waving. 

"Elizabeta!" Martha calls out, delighted. "Oh, how good to see you! It's been far too long!" 

Elizabeta Buchanan looks up from the case of necklaces she was browsing, visibly caught off-guard. But she quickly pulls on a smile. A bit resigned and indulgent, but not annoyed. She likes Martha Wayne well enough, and her smile brightens as she and Martha clasp hands and begin to chat. 

Bruce ambles gingerly into the store. It is a boutique, with just enough clearance between rows of display cases to pass accessibility standards, and not an inch more. It's safest for everyone in the vicinity if Bruce and his cargo moves as little as possible, so he finds a sliver of wall and leans against it, placing the bags on the floors. Watches as Martha and Elizabeta engage in a bright, giggly conversation. Watches the store clerk behind the counter decide they're rich enough to ignore the disruptive volume, her eyes instead on Barbara and Stephanie.

There is a moment of tension until – if Bruce had to guess – the clerk recognizes Barbara. The daughter of a respected public official who, while not in the tax bracket of the boutique's usual clientele, could reasonably afford to splurge on a gift for a holiday. The woman's eyes linger for a moment on Stephanie, narrowed, taking in her undesigned clothes, cheap studs, Walmart watch, and lack of high society bearing. But Stephanie is pushing Barbara's wheelchair – even though the chair is automated and Barbara always prefers to push herself – and not looking at the display cases at all while Barbara makes a show of perusing them. After a few seconds, the last of the clerk's concern dissipates, and she returns to working at her computer. Reassured by the knowledge that the young blonde woman is simply Miss Gordon's attendant. 

Abruptly, Bruce is annoyed and exhausted with Gotham society. And a little bit with Mother, for subjecting Barbara and Stephanie to this charade. All this to catch up with a friend you could call anytime? 

The annoyance grows as Stephanie and Barbara turn down the same row as Mrs. Buchanan and Martha. Martha doesn't pause, barely seems to notice the girls as she continues her happy verbal onslaught, and Mrs. Buchanan doesn't acknowledge them either. Simply shifts slightly to give Barbara's chair enough room to pass by them–

Bruce blinks. 

His eyes flick to the store clerk, still preoccupied with her computer. Then back to Stephanie, Barbara. Just in time to catch Stephanie slip the phone she just pickpocketed to Barbara. Which Barbara then slips beneath the blanket over her lap. After a moment, the phone reappears. Now in the same phone case as Barbara's phone. But Bruce is fairly confident, certain even, that the phone in Barbara's hand currently is the one Stephanie just slipped to her. The phone that isn't hers.

This time, Bruce's eyes flit upwards. To the multiple cameras positioned in ceiling corners. If it's a live feed, if there's a security guard on site reviewing footage–

"Bruce!" Martha calls out, pulling his attention. "Goodness me, I just about forgot you were here! Come say hello to Mrs. Buchanan, dear."

"Yes, of course, Mother." Bruce slaps a congenial gala smile in place. Manages not to look at the cameras again, or the girls, as he heads over to join his mother. "Excuse my poor manners, Mrs. Buchanan. I have simply learned it is best not to interrupt Mother when she is greeting a bosom friend." 

Elizabeta Buchanan laughs, genuinely charmed. A little weary at the edges, but still not annoyed. She is one of Martha's friends. And is happy enough to catch up with Bruce when Martha excuses herself to answer her phone. 

The timing of the call – right when Bruce had come over to take Martha's place in the conversation – is quite convenient. Enough so that Bruce isn't surprised when Martha returns a few minutes later, and with deft slight of hand, slips a phone back into Elizabeta's purse.

Eventually, Mrs. Buchanan makes her polite apologies and waves the clerk over to open a case for her, noting she must be on her way. The Waynes give effusive goodbyes, before departing.

"Well that was a nice surprise," Bruce says as they exit the store. "Mrs. Buchanan is a lovely woman. And such a good friend to you!"

A statement, and a question. 

"Indeed," Martha agrees amiably. And then, quieter: "So it's important to know who it is that's trying to blackmail her." 

An answer, but not a full explanation. Still, considering the fact they're out in public, Bruce doesn't try and ask again. Sits with his mother on a bench while she hums to herself and people-watches, and keeps a surreptitious eye on the boutique, watching for signs of mall security bursting on the scene.

After about 10 minutes, Barbara and Stephanie exit the store. No security guard in sight, and a single bag hanging from the back of Barbara's chair. 

"A successful trip?" Bruce asks, arching an eyebrow. 

"Oh quite," Stephanie replies, with an over the top Bristol affectation. "We picked up something for Dr. Thompkins. Nothing wild, but something she can wear when she has to go to your stupid fancy galas."

"Well, that's lovely. I'd say I had a successful time as well; I didn't knock over any of the display cases!" Bruce chuckles. "I'm sure the footage would have been all over the internet if I had. Those types of stores always have multiple cameras."

Barbara shoots him a dry, unimpressed, real subtle there, pal look. "And I'm sure those cameras are manned by an expert IT professional and not a poorly paid, barely trained security guard incapable of noticing looping footage." 

Bruce laughs again, genuine this time as his shoulders untense. "Of course. I should expect nothing less!" Then, looking at his mother. "Do you all make a habit of...this kind of excursion?" 

"Nosiness is unbecoming, dear," Martha tuts. But she has a pleased, smug little smile, which is an answer in and of itself.

"If you really want to know," Stephanie winks, "you should hang out with us more often!"

March

“I am never hanging out with you again,” Bruce declares, gritting teeth and gripping the steering wheel.

Stephanie laughs over the comm in Bruce's ear. Oracle snorts, then shouts: "Take a left!" 

Bruce jerks the wheel. Through the window, he hears Duke make the same aggrieved squeak as the overtaxed tires.

“Everything alright back there?” Bruce calls out. He doesn’t dare look over his shoulder or in the rearview; he’s just managed to blink away the lightspots from the last time.

“I’ll live,” wheezes Duke. “Don’t slow down on my account. Our moth friend is still gaining!”

By which he means, the mutated moth monster that escaped from a lab on the edge of the city has almost caught up with the light it's chasing. Nightlight, sitting in the bed of the pickup truck Bruce is piloting, glowing brighter than a searchlight. Duke's meta powers allow him to teleport, but the purpose right now isn't to get away– it's to lead. 

“Oracle, we’ve got a schoolbus of kids who can’t move out of the way by pulling over or turning into an alley,” Luke says over comms. He and Stephanie are a few streets ahead on cycles, doing their best to get civilians out of the way. “Need a detour!”

“Agent B, do you think you can take that truck across a parkette?” Oracle asks sharply.

“I suppose we'll find out!” Bruce turns the wheel sharply to the right.

The beatup pickup truck holds its own, making it up and over the curb and across the grass of the parkette. Somehow, Duke doesn't bounce out of the back as the truck goes from road to sidewalk to grass to sidewalk again. Once on the road again Bruce takes another hard left, the entire vehicle squealing as it spends time on two wheels. 

"I really should have stolen a better vehicle," Bruce mutters. He's fairly certain he can smell the tires smoking. And the Moth's screeches are getting louder, closer.

"Drop-off two streetlights down," Oracle says crisply. "No more turns; it's a straight shot. All civilians cleared in front of you. Floor it." 

Oracle can't smell his tires smoking. But two streetlights worth of distance seems a reasonable enough ask. Maybe. 

The truck shudders violently– which feels a bit like it's begging for Bruce to spare its life and not slam down on the gas pedal. But then Bruce risks a look into his side mirror and sees energy beams fired towards the monster. Which means it's close enough that Duke's felt compelled to fire off some shots. Too close.

Bruce floors it. 

He hears, rather than sees, Duke go ass over tea-kettle. And then he feels it, because Duke's foot goes through the open cab window and nearly hits Bruce in the head. Unfortunately, this shifts the visibility to 'driving at night in front of someone with those abominable LED headlights', and Bruce quickly unwinds his scarf and throws it over the brightly glowing ankle. Blinks the blurriness from his eyes in time to avoid hitting cracks and dips in the road– at this speed in this truck, hitting potholes might very well send them to space.

Oracle's intersection comes into view, identified by the flat metal panels on the ground and the unmarked, dark-coloured vans blocking the other three roads. Bruce slows down just a fraction as he drives over the panels, hears the Moth monster screech, hears Duke shout in alarm–

The clang of metal and steel– A monster's hunting cry shifting to one of surprise and panic–

And then, nothing but an overworked engine. 

Bruce spins the steering wheel, spins the pickup truck, hits the brakes and comes to a beleaguered stop. Sits there, breathing hard and patting Duke's ankle absentmindedly. 

"They caught it!" Duke reports excitedly. "The containment unit sprang up like a dream– Mr. Moth is ethically caged and officially no longer our problem!" 

"Splendid," Bruce breathes out. "Shall we turn off the light then?" 

"Oh, yeah. Whoops. Sorry!" 

Duke retracts his no longer glowing foot and Bruce recovers his scarf. Just in time for a helmeted figure in military garb to approach the driver side window. 

"Thank you for your assistance, Nightlight," she says. "...and you, anonymous Beacon." 

Bruce grimaces. Resists the urge to poke at the ill-fitting yellow Beacon mask on his face. "...no trouble at all, anonymous Colony operative." 

Kate does a poor job at hiding her amusement. "You, ah, a new a recruit?" 

"No, no. I was simply in the area when the moth creature appeared and decided to lend my assistance."

As in, Bruce was giving Stephanie a driving lesson in an empty parking lot when Duke called with an emergency, subsequently drove her to the scene of the monster attack, and for some reason decided that since he was there he couldn't not help. Hence slapping on a mask and ditching his Audi for something a little more unassuming. Hopefully, Oracle can find the owner of the pickup truck so Bruce can return it– or, honestly, replace it. Because he's definitely not imagining the smell of burning tire.

Eventually, duty trumps cousin-teasing, and Kate gives her goodbyes to help her team with transporting the newly captured moth monster. Duke climbs into the truck cab, and Bruce drives the limping vehicle away from the scene. 

"Okay, so, uh..." Duke says, sheepish. "No-dad vibes as always, but could I maybe get in on those driving lessons? I mean, my mom's already taught me how to drive, but she doesn't know how to safely break traffic laws to avoid monsters. Or how to drift."

April

Bruce pauses mid-step.

He stops. Looks to the open doorway he just passed, into the penthouse’s main living area. There are no lights on, but the blinds have all been retracted, leaving the wall of windows uncovered. Revealing the Gotham cityscape, wreathed in the darkness and sparse flashes of a thunderstorm.

Thomas sits in an armchair in front of the window. More unusual now than it used to be– these days, Father doesn’t like to come downtown for anything but business. Although admittedly his penthouse visits have been on an upswing the past few months. Possibly in correlation with Stephanie's increasingly frequent Manor visits and Dick slowly but surely remembering he used to be an extrovert.

Tim, currently sitting on the couch across from Thomas, is a much more frequent fixture in the penthouse. It's easier for him to meet up with Shrike from here. And truthfully, while Damian and Dick both love the Manor and the sprawling but isolated Wayne estate, it's become increasingly clear that Tim is a city-boy at heart and prefers the bustle of downtown. 

Their presence isn't a surprise. Bruce has on multiple occasions walked into the penthouse and found Thomas and Tim pouring over a Wayne Enterprises report, or playing chess, Go, or poker, or simply sitting in companionable silence. 

The surprise is Shrike. 

Bruce hasn't seen Cassandra in months. And before that, all he saw of her was short glimpses. Visiting Dr. Thompkins on her birthday and finding Cassandra there with Stephanie. Seeing her stretching while at Luke's martial arts dojo, her back to him. A short exchange of words when Bruce came to the Aviary around the holidays to deliver the results of a WE toy drive. Bruce can count the number of times he's seen Cassandra since the confrontation with Ra's on one hand. And it is always far, far away from Wayne family property. 

But she's here now, in the penthouse. Sitting on the couch beside Tim. Legs scooped up and feet on Tim's lap. Dressed in loose, comfortable clothes rather than her Shrike combat gear. Looking perfectly at home. Staring straight at Bruce. Just like Tim and Thomas are staring. 

“…”

“…”

“…”

"...ah." Bruce clears his throat. "Sorry for the intrusion. I'll, er, just be a moment. Good to see you all!" 

Never in his life has he felt more like he was interrupting and making a nuisance of himself, Christ. 

Bruce quickly locates and retrieves his intended target - a large umbrella from a storage closet. The unexpected consequence of frequently transporting young adults is the constant borrowing. The umbrella, jacket, blanket, socks, and pack of mints he used to have in his primary car have all vanished into the hands of the various youths in his life. Which is normally fine, until one has an onsite meeting to assess a park revitalization project and it's raining cats and dogs. Hence, the pitstop to grab an umbrella from the penthouse.  

When he crosses back past the doorway, umbrella in hand, Father and Timothy have returned to staring silently out the window. But Cassandra turns to look at Bruce again. The movement isn’t sharp or accusatory. Neither is her gaze. She nods once, accepts the grateful smile he gives her in response, then goes back to looking out the window.

“Oh yes, your father has seen Cassandra at the penthouse quite a number of times,” Martha confirms once Bruce is back home at the Manor. “Mind you, my understanding is that they haven’t exchanged more than ten words. But I don't think they need to. You know how your father is, and from what Jason and Stephanie have told me, Cassandra is much the same. I daresay they may have found kindred spirits!" 

“That’s…that’s good," Bruce says honestly. "I’m happy to hear that.” More happy than he can possibly put into words. That said: “Why is the lawn on fire?”

Technically, the rear lawn is only smoking now, all the flames extinguished and replaced with smouldering black patches. Still, Martha laughs. "Well, speaking of Jason and Stephanie, they both came to visit! Jason needed some space to test out a new...tool. You were at work, your Father and Timothy were at the penthouse, Damian and Titus are out with Duke today, and the grass was still wet from the rain– so conditions for testing were optimal. Stephanie was just stopping by but was glad to assist, and Dickie loves spending time with the two of them and wanted to help. We all had a lovely afternoon!" 

"...was the tool a flamethrower?" 

"...no? It was something quite unique and custom." Martha pauses for a moment, considering. "Perhaps closer to an RPG?" 

May

“This is why you were missing for two weeks?” Damian asks, quite dumbfounded. 

"How did you keep this a secret?" Tim asks, both suspicious and impressed. "Is the whole Manor like this?" 

"On paper, it's an accessibility upgrade," Bruce replies, pleased and smug in equal measures. "And yes, more or less." 

The walls throughout the Manor are now affixed with bars and railings. A perfectly reasonable minor renovation for aging parents. But the walls have also been dotted with divots and protrusions, spots that can function as hand and footholds for those acrobatically inclined. 

Dick, of course, is already climbing. 

"Bruce wanted the Manor to be a space that you could be yourselves," Martha says, pride positively radiating as she watches Dick. “Including the parts of you that aren't particularly fond of gravity." 

"Really?" Damian asks. And then at Bruce's smiling nod, flushes with that embarrassed happiness that always afflicts teenagers when they feel they've been perceived.

Tim, twenty-one, is a tougher nut to crack. “How did you do all of this so quickly? How long have you been planning this?"

"Oh, awhile," Bruce hums noncommittally. Then grins at Tim's annoyed scowl.

Technically, the Manor renovation has been in Bruce’s mind since they returned from the Batman dimension, from that version of Wayne Manor already upgraded for gravity-defying children. But of course, finding the children in his own dimension had taken precedent. And once found, Bruce had been trying very hard to not conflate them with their other-dimension counterparts, and to also not overstep their boundaries through grand gestures.

Bruce had only started thinking about the renovations again when Tim and Damian accepted their rooms in the Manor. And had only started preliminary planning when Tim started sneaking out at night. The planning had begun in earnest when Damian agreed to set aside the League on the promise that he could do similar work elsewhere if he wanted...and when Dick started eyeing the chandelier with a contemplative, hungry look. It was only then that Bruce felt confident he could design something based on the knowledge of the boys with him now, and not who they were in another world.

Once they were all made public in January, Bruce had started ordering supplies and interviewing contractors. Small amounts of work on the unused East Wing had been done whenever Timothy, Damian and Dick were confirmed to be out of the house. But the vast majority of the work was done over the past three weeks, while the Waynes legal and biological took a vacation to Hawaii.

Bruce had spent week 1 of the vacation “stuck at Wayne Enterprises”, when he had in fact been supervising the full renovations. He’d joined the family in Hawaii for week 2, trusting Barbara and her associated birds to supervise the work at the Manor for a few days. Then "been called away back to Gotham" for week 3, where he'd overseen the final stage of the upgrades.

The result was a Manor reborn by the time the vacation was over, ready for the boys when they came home.

"The renovations are a bit...more dramatic in the East Wing," Bruce continues, utterly unable to conceal his smile. "I wonder, which of you boys can get there first without touching the floor?" 

It's a childish little dare, better suited for middle schoolers than two adults and a fifteen-year-old. But neither Dick or Damian had a childhood of carefree dares, and Bruce knows secondhand from Stephanie that Tim and Cassandra get insanely competitive with each other. So it's rewarding, but not a complete surprise, when the boys exchange a single series of looks then take off like bullets, running along the walls and rails and newly added parkour steps. 

The East Wing of the Manor has undertaken the most dramatic transformation. On the lowest level, every wall has been demolished or replaced with load-bearing pillars, leaving a huge open space which has been filled with equipment and structures to convert it to a gymnastics-climbing-obstacle course-acrobatics arena. The level directly above it has had the same walls demolished and is filled with ropes and silks and trapezes and tightropes to swing from and balance on. Sections of the floor have also been demolished so that the floor that remains function more as platforms between the aerial-oriented 2nd level and the lowest level. The third, top level has remained largely intact. But every room on that level has been converted to a training area, complete with practice dummies and walls lined with weaponry. 

When Bruce makes his way over to the East Wing, Damian is running through one of the obstacle course areas with Titus, his face focused but bright. Dick is visible above on the 2nd-level, swinging between trapezes. There is no sight or sound of Tim, which means he's likely on the top level, exploring and assessing the training rooms.

"Let me know when you want to take a break," Bruce calls out cheerfully, "and I'll show you all the renovations outside!" 

"There's more?!" Dick's excited, incredulous voice from somewhere up above.

An archery and knife range, a skateboard rink, a trampoline park, and a duck pond. "There's more," Bruce admits. "Moderation is not my strong suit." 

"We know," says a trio of voices. Followed by Dick, cheerfully: "It runs in the family!" 

Bruce chuckles. And then just bends over and laughs.

Yes, he supposes it does. 

June

The new Wayne family portrait features, for the first time, three generations.

Martha and Thomas, sitting in adjacent chairs. Bruce and Dick behind Martha. Tim and Damian behind Thomas. A new photograph, for a new family.

In this dimension, there is no secret second Wayne family portrait. No fuller photograph hidden in an old nursery.

But 12 months after defeating Ra's, 6 months after introducing the boys to the world, and 1 day after the barbecue, there are other photographs that paint a fuller picture of Bruce's family. 

A photo of Martha in the kitchen, one arm around Jason’s neck, pulling him close. His expression half-awkward, half-bemused, smile crooked and flour on his cheek. The caption scrawled on the back reads: Nana Wayne and her bonus grandson.

A photo of Thomas in his chair watching a news segment on an iPad and frowning. Tim and Cass each stand over one of his shoulders, looking down. All of them engrossed, or perhaps, silently strategizing. Gramps and his mini-mes.

A photo of Duke and Steph next to Bruce, jointly presenting him with a poorly designed certificate that reads ‘World’s okayest driving instructor’. They’re both grinning. He has one hand pressed to his forehead, which doesn’t hide his smile. Duke, Steph, and their non-denominational mentor figure.

A photo of a grinning Dick lifting Jason into the air, Jason's face clearly panicked. Damian standing behind them, looking like he’s preparing to catch Jason and dreading it. To the side, Tim and Steph are leaning on each other, laughing. Dickie and his little siblings.

A photo of Duke and Damian – Teenaged Artsy Ninja Students – A photo of Martha, Jason, Steph, and Dick – Chaos incarnate (affectionate) – A photo of Tim, Steph, and Cass – On Wednesdays we wear pink – and many, many more.

No family portrait, but pages and pages of a family album.

And their whole lives to fill it.