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When Bruce first adopted Dick Grayson, there had been whispers.
Of course, as one of the richest men in America, was it any surprise that people liked to treat Bruce's business as prime time television drama? Not really. This had been the case his entire life, and his parent's life, and their parents’ life before them.
This isn't a surprise, because people had been whispering about the Waynes since before their rise to prominence, and would likely continue to do so long past Bruce's vigilante-related early death.
Such is the curse of being rich beyond human comprehension and very, very influential.
And kind of stupid.
Because being rich, influential and a himbo? They can’t get enough of it.
Bruce might not actually be an idiot, but he would be lying if he said it wasn't fun playing as one. For every insane antic he got up to, sober or otherwise, the public opinion of him became even more concrete, and far more confused.
Why did Bruce Wayne bring a paintball gun to a private shooting range? A whim, maybe something about 'the vibes'. Nobody knows.
How did he injure himself so badly during high-intensity badminton? No idea.
Who wore a neon glow-in-the-dark three-piece suit to a Very Important gala? Bruce Wayne, of course. Why? Because he wants to. The man's crazy.
How did he escape that hostage situation so easily? He's just built like that. Must be the yoga.
At this point, the public reputation of Brucie Wayne has become shrouded in more confusion than his reputation as Batman, which was just as ridiculous as it is hilarious. Getting away with stupid stuff has never been so easy, because everyone knows who he is, but no one knows what in the world is happening inside that empty skull of his.
Why does his private sports car look suspiciously like an orange Batmobile? Same supplier.
Which supplier? Get ready for a one-sided three hour conversation in which you'll be lucky to get a straight answer.
The straight answer? Dunno, he was drunk at the time. It involved a couple of sharks, a poorly designed tattoo and a Russian Ballet involved, not to mention the chocolate fountain, but he woke up on his lawn the next morning with the worst hangover, and it's all slightly embarrassing, so please stop asking about it.
Why is he gone so often? Surely travelling gets boring after a while.
Well a few years ago, his personal chakra reader told him his 7th acupuncture point was blocked, one week before he accidentally tripped over his second favourite bonsai tree and accidentally face planted into his first favourite vase (neither was salvageable, unfortunately), and as a result, it was absolutely necessary that he went on a world spirituality tour to 'purge the bad energy'.
This effort would land him in the hands of four different sets of kidnappers, an organ trafficking ring, and a rather large community of nudists. He's still trying to regain spiritual equilibrium, hence the trips, but the veganism bit isn't going too well. On that note, does anyone know if chicken counts as meat? Because he was hungry, and those hors d'oeuvres were looking really good. Asking for a friend.
It's awesome.
He can get away with anything.
So when he adopts Dick Grayson, after one tragic night at the circus, Bruce assumes he can just get away with this too, another whim of the fabled Brucie Wayne.
He is, inexplicably, wrong.
See, although Bruce Wayne publically refuses to be put in any box apart from the one messily labelled 'CHAOS', the act of adopting an actual child? A black-haired, blue-eyed, equally chaotic little brat? Being a parent requires being a functional human being, something Bruce has never been in the history of Gotham. The man, as far as Gotham knows, spends half his life either drunk at parties or in near-total solitude, only emerging to do something incomprehensible and confusing, before immediately dipping for the next few months.
Now if anything, that's out of character.
Therefore, it’s a reasonable extrapolation that there are… extraordinary circumstances behind the scenes.
Gotham high society finally, finally (maybe) has a reason behind one of Bruce Wayne's inexplicable whims, for the first time in a while.
The whispers explode.
At his first public appearance, Dick Grayson appears more doll than boy, all piercing blue eyes and slight frame belying surprising strength, as they all find out.
It starts off well enough, as Bruce ushers his angel-faced new charge around with uncharacteristic gentleness. The man himself is missing his quintessential cocktail glass of something resembling glitter-doused thrown-up highlighters in hand, and is dressed in a way that makes those who know him double-take.
Of course, it’s not all entirely out of character. Every now and again, when engaged in conversation near the snack table, Brucie will idly empty entire trays of sweet treats into his suit pockets. Macarons, cupcakes, the like.
Why? Who knows, it’s Brucie, for goodness’ sake.
But for all his faults, it's clear that Bruce is trying to make it easier for the kid, even if that means mother henning him beyond all belief and acting as a human shield against the more unpleasant party goers. None of them even realise it's for their sake, rather than Dick's.
It is, quite frankly, adorable.
The child is precocious, that much is clear, yet appears surprisingly well-mannered and level-headed upon further examination. His smiles are sharp, and he maneuvers and manipulates like he was born for the red carpets and opulent halls.
Anyone who as much as exchanges words with this child can't help but think, why Bruce of all people? These two couldn't be more dissimilar if they tried.
And as it tends to do, confusion creates curiosity.
But as much as Bruce can try to steer the conversations to where he wants them, he can't fully stop them from harassing him about his newly-adopted child. As a result, he soon excuses them from the endless conversations, sequestering them into a semi-abandoned corner.
To pretty much everyone around them, Bruce is taking the time to comfort his overwhelmed charge. How nice.
How... out of character.
Midway through their fourth barely veiled interrogation about Dick's origins, Bruce spots Dick's eye twitch.
Oh dear.
A sign of impending evacuation, of the chandelier kind.
The hand he puts on Dicks shoulder is less of a comforting gesture, and more of a shackle holding him on solid ground.
The conversation with the MacIntyres, if you could even call it that, is cut forcefully short as Bruce excuses them, and guides Dick into the closest semi-abandoned corner.
“Dick, chum,” he begins, in a voice that could be classified as ‘pleading.’ “I know these chandeliers look great and all, but trust me, the bases aren’t reinforced for swinging. Trust me, I would know.”
Bruce has had a lot of accusations levelled at him, but none of them can claim he misspent his youth.
He might not be up for some hapless chandelier-acrobatics right now, but that’s not to say he hasn’t wowed trapped audiences with aerial acrobatics on various hanging fixtures. In his defence, the seven-year-old child of a foreign diplomat bet him twenty bucks he couldn’t a few years back, and Bruce performed. Then there was also that time where couldn’t find a better place to have a nap, that one very costly game of ‘the floor is lava’, the one time the police busted a party he was at yet none of them bothered to look up, etcetera, etcetera, you get the picture.
It’s ironic that it’s now Bruce who’s trying to be the responsible one.
“Yeah, for you,” Dick retorts, crossing little arms crossly, “but you’re super tall, and like, heavy. I bet you I could do it. Easily. See. Watch this-”
Dick goes to prove that he can, in fact, do it easily, but Bruce spots the telltale bend of his legs and bodily grabs him in what could be mistaken as a hug from an outside perspective. He gets a rough jab to his unarmoured kidneys for his trouble, and barely manages to stifle the rough exhale the blow reflexively brings.
“B-” Dick furiously squirms out of his grip, “You- you, you party pooper!”
He says it with all the gravitas of a nine-year-old calling someone a ‘butthead,’ which is honestly more serious than most interactions he’s had with Gotham Rogues in recent memory. It’s not his fault Gotham villains are fashion rejects, dramatic to a fault, insane maniacs with a history of advanced secondary education. Having a straight conversation with any of them is a once-in-a-blue-moon kind of event.
Either way, it’s only been fifteen minutes, and Bruce is sounding the death knell for this event. It’s clearly either time to make a scene and get out of here.
He sighs, “I know they’re vultures, but there are many better ways to avoid social interactions-”
“-Like chandeliers-”
“- Not like chandeliers, there will be property damage-”
“You don't care about property damage, you're literally Batm-mmph-” Bruce cuts off that sentence with a strategically placed hors d'oeuvre, once again saving his secret identity. Dick glares at him as he furiously munches on what appears to be a dainty pink raspberry-flavoured macaron, dusted with a royal purple finish.
“I don’t want to pay for the damage.”
Dick, still glaring at him, licks the icing sugar off his fingers. “You’re literally the richest guy here, get over it.”
“Leave me with some dignity.”
“What dignity are you referring to? I wasn't aware you had any left.”
“The answer is still no.”
Dick goes to open his mouth to protest again, and Bruce pulls out another macaron in warning.
And here come the tears. Dick’s lip quivers slightly, and Bruce feels his defenses crumble into tiny little bits and pieces. It could be tears, it could be that sugar he just gave Dick (a massive mistake on his part). “I’ve seen the pictures of you doing it, why can’t I? It’s what my parents would do,” a sniff, “Are you telling me to be less like my parents?”
First of all, Bruce has no idea where that came from.
(He does. Dick, at the age of nine, is already a budding master of psychological manipulation. Bruce is praying he doesn’t end up going to university or joining any acting clubs, because he’s ninety percent sure that Dick will pop out the other end as a new Gotham Rogue.)
Second of all, curse his own lackluster reputation. He knew that they'd bite him in the butt one day, but he was expecting that day to be far in the future, and heralded by like, accidentally burning down his own house or something.
Gently, he presses a hand on Dick’s shoulder again.
“It’s not because I want you to be less like them,” he starts slowly, taking the time to find the correct words, “I want you to be less like me. I’ve been acting for years, and in front of them, I have no dignity. They respect me for my money, but not much else. In their eyes, I’m just a washed-out, unworthy heir to a great legacy, and I want better than that for you.”
Dick’s eyes glitter. “What makes you think that I care what they think? Half the people here are judging me for my ‘inferior breeding’,” he scoffs, “just because I can’t trace my lineage back to the eleventh century like they can, and the other half have already started plotting how to take advantage of the situation to get one over you. None of them are real and I hate it.”
As much as Bruce hates to admit it, Dick is right.
It hasn’t even been an hour yet, and Bruce hasn’t seen a real smile in the entire room.
He’s had eight people attempt to set up ‘playdates’ between Dick and their own offspring, eleven people inquiring on his ‘sudden decision,’ and his security team has already waylaid three separate private investigators. As for those wondering about the heritage of his new charge, there’s been too many to count.
As he watches, Dick’s fingers, now sugar-free, start to tap rhythmically against his side. The realisation comes in slow motion, that he just gave Dick sugar. Of his own free will. All the effort he put in, warding him away from the part of the snack table with the treats, or strategically emptying nearby potential targets into his pockets, all for naught.
There will be chandeliers broken, and soon. It’s basically inevitable.
Even so, he manages to wrangle Dick for a solid seven minutes post-pleading, until Bruce looks away for a grand total of three-point-four seconds to grab a glass of something fizzy and vaguely alcoholic to get through the rest of night, and Dick is gone with the wind.
He looks left, right, and out of instinct, behind him. He may not have a cape in this suit, but muscle memory still prevails, even out of the mask. Lastly, he looks up, and yep. That's his adopted son, sitting comfortably in the chandelier and grinning like the cat that got the canary.
Then someone points overhead and screams.
Bruce downs the rest of the champagne in his glass like it's a shot.
Swiping two more full glasses off a passing server's tray, he performs a quick toast to what should have been a relatively sensible, quiet night and downs those too.
He's going to need that buzz for what he's about to do.
Right. Time for damage control.
“Chum!” Bruce yells, faking a stagger in his step, “Are you alright?! Don't worry! I'll catch you!” He throws his arms out, and unbeknownst to their growing audience, gives Dick his well-practised get-the-hell-down-from-that-goddamn-chandelier-please look.
For his troubles, he gets a raspberry blown in his face. Right. Like that was ever going to work. It was worth a try.
“Bring me more chocolate,” Dick screeches. The chandelier swings precariously, and there’s a round of gasps from the audience. Someone is calling the police, the fire department has been called, and another four are calling ambulances. Another group of idiots have mistaken the chaos for a rogue attack, and are barricading themselves under the snack table. There’s another, growing portion of the audience that is here solely because it’s Brucie that’s involved which has promised classic entertainment in the past.
“Maybe if you come down.”
“You can't make me!” Dick hisses, then lies down on top of the rungs of the ornament, lounging like he owns the place.
Dick eventually comes down, once Bruce brings out the ‘you’re getting grounded’ threat, but he does so feet-first, at a high velocity, using Bruce’s outstretched face as a landing pad. First of all, ouch, second of all, that’s going to leave a bruise.
Huh, the Gotham elite think privately. Maybe they are similar, after all.
Later that night, covered in small bruises and buzzing at another successful night, he realises how impressive Dick's self control is, that he actually lasted fifteen minutes on solid ground in the first place.
Dick Grayson spends his formative years with the circus and then with Bruce Wayne. An unholy combination.
Is it any surprise he takes to Brucie's particular brand of chaos like a fish to water? With age, he grows to be more and more like his adoptive father. Broken chandeliers, arson and chaos follow in their wake, and the paparazzi hang on to every word.
Many people look between the two and think, what are the chances it's genetic?
In high society, when an illegitimate child comes to widespread attention, it is typically for one of two reasons. They have either been dragged into the spotlight, usually by a mistress looking for benefits or the child has come of age to inherit. It also ends one of two ways, where they are scandalously accepted into the family or scandalously kicked to the curb.
It is another situation entirely to deny all relations yet adopt the children regardless.
So what do the people say when Bruce adopts even more black-haired, blue-eyed orphans down on their luck?
“How magnanimous,” they say, “to accept an unknown child into your family.” Then left unsaid, w hy on earth are they so damn similar? They don't hiss the words charity case or publicity stunt to one another in opulent halls, uncalloused hands raised to disguise the shape of those scandalous, scandalous words.
They say bastard.
Jason Todd, blue eyed and black haired, is frankly, quite starstruck at the glitter of high society, and takes to it like a duck to water.
He is enthusiastic, charitable, and well-mannered in a way that makes people wonder ‘how on earth did Brucie Wayne of all people manage to create such an angel’? He is invited to gatherings and yacht parties and book clubs and the typical gathering points for rich people who don’t have anything better to do with themselves.
Alas, in one of these book clubs some old lady makes a comment in poor taste about classical literature in front of him, and he utterly lambasts them.
The scolding is legendary.
Somehow managing to reference both scientific literature and ancient Greek philosophers in a way that is well-articulated enough to make a debating coach cry with happiness, Jason is also vicious enough to render the entire gathering speechless. He then manages to go into a comprehensive analysis of the depths of their privilege and how it has blinded them to the author’s true intent, and the complexities of their own personal biases.
He also manages to insult everyone in the room at least sixteen times using obscure and less obscure means, and half of them can’t even respond because his arguments are well-supported enough to be true, and the other half didn’t understand the insults in the first place.
The book club is disbanded, and within a day, everyone and their grandmother knows the real truth.
Jason Todd is, without a doubt, a Wayne under that perfect exterior.
That kind of crazy is surely genetic.
Unfortunately, Jason dies after a couple of years, and book club releases a sigh of relief and begins to hold meetings again, and all of Gotham waits for the next kid to pop up out of the woodworks.
Why? Because it’s Bruce Wayne. Brucie, the bachelor of Gotham, who spent his golden years drunk and jovially sleeping with anything that had a pulse. There’s no way he only got two kids out of it. By the time the next comes along a couple of years later, the orphaned (black-haired and blue-eyed) child of his neighbours, it’s a widely accepted fact.
Roses are red, violets are blue.
Bruce definitely has more bio kids than two.
When Tim Drake’s adoption is finally passed after the tragic death of his parents, nobody is surprised.
Hell, people were betting on Timothy getting adopted. Not if, but when.
In fact, Tim Drake makes even more sense than the other two kids, because of course Brucie slept with his neighbours. Hell, he’s done worse than that before! Janet never seemed like the type to step out, so it was probably a threesome. Makes perfect sense.
It was about damn time.
As much as the fake Uncle Eddie plot served its purpose, it eventually fell apart under prolonged scrutiny. With its failure came Tim’s eventual (inevitable) adoption, which has resulted in today. The annual Winter Gala, and Tim’s first public appearance as a proper adopted Wayne.
Which has resulted in this. This. Situation.
He’s never wanted the ability to melt into the floor before, but now sounds like a pretty great time to start praying.
Bruce and Dick, although they’d never admit it, have the same damn sense of humour. Naming everything related to their night jobs with the Bat- prefix, the entire ‘To the Batmobile!’ catchphrase, the fake identity Bruce uses to donate exactly one dollar more than Oliver Queen on all charitable expenditures (it drives him mad), and now this.
It’s clear that ‘throwing off suspicion’ and ‘having fun’ is just a thinly-veiled excuse to mess with people.
Either way, it’s been forty minutes of watching Bruce and Dick clearly have the time of their lives, and, Tim has had the pleasure of noticing four (4) important things.
Number one) Bruce and Dick have no shame whatsoever, two) he can never unsee any of this; three) it actually looks kind of fun, and four) there is a lot of money being overly exchanged at this event.
It’s uncanny.
Something is happening behind the scenes, and for once, Tim doesn't know about it. It rubs him up the wrong way, being out of the loop. A distinctly uncomfortable feeling to have, especially when trapped in a social situation as precarious as a gala. It’s… certainly not ideal.
He should convene with Bruce, gain a second opinion.
As he usually is, Tim finds Bruce in the centre of a small crowd.
“If humans can only hold their breath for ten seconds,” Bruce is saying to a group of enraptured businessmen, “then how was Louis Armstrong able to become the first person on the moon?”
Surrounding him, the group of panderers nod seriously and mutter to each other, like it is not, in fact, complete and utter bullshit that Bruce made up on the spot. Even so, nonsensicality aside, it’s hilarious to watch how these people hang onto his every word, every strand of attention he deigns to bestow upon them.
Across from Bruce, Dick stands in a bejewelled tuxedo. His foot taps impatiently on the tiled floor, and he crosses his arms with a disbelieving huff. His eyebrow is raised in the way that Tim knows to mean that he’s either really exasperated or about to make everything much, much worse.
Tim almost believes he’s about to refute the sheer lack of logic in Bruce’s statement but-
“You guys believe in the moon landing,” Dick states incredulously, “Even though it was totally faked by the American Government. I can’t believe it.”
-Apparently not.
At this point, one of the less tolerant hangers-on recognises Tim’s addition to their little circle for what it is: an opportunity to change the subject from something that doesn’t cause AOE psychic damage with every word.
“Timothy!” A suited man exclaims, barely hiding the relieved note in his voice, “Good to see you again, bud! It’s been a while since I saw you at one of these events.”
“Oh yes!” Someone simpers, “It has been a few seasons, hasn’t it, dear?”
It’s amusing how fast they all change track, eager to take the opportunity for what it is and get away from this conversation.
Yeah, not anytime soon.
Tim raises a hand, and with Bruce’s unerring attention on him, the group falls silent. “You guys believe in the moon?” he asks, sounding faintly confused.
It’s a critical hit and watching them all die inside is a dream come true. It’s amazing.
“Without a doubt!” An portly older gentleman in a waistcoat says, “You’ve come to find your old man, eh? Well, Don’t let us get in your way!”
“Awwww,” Bruce gushes, slapping a hand over his heart, “That’s so sweet of you all!”
After performing the socially appropriate farewells required from him, while being careful to conceal the fact he knows exactly none of these people, Tim tugs on the sleeve of Bruce’s suit, dragging them both to a more secluded part of the dancefloor.
“I’ve noticed at least six people overtly exchanging money,” Tim hisses, “Something’s going on, and they’re not even being subtle about it.”
Dick winks at them. “Give me three seconds and a pole dance, and I’ll let you know.” With that, he disappears into the crowd.
“Hn,” Bruce says, swirling a glass of chardonnay. “Is there a pattern?”
“Other than talking to us immediately beforehand? Not really.”
“Then there’s a reasonable chance it’s related to you, but I’m sure a couple minutes of flirting could loosen the some tongues-”
“Tim,” Dick hisses, roughly shoving partygoers out of his path as he ploughs through the crowd towards them, “Everyone thinks B had a threesome with your parents!”
Tim spits out his non-alcoholic kiddy martini onto someone’s bejeweled shoe.
“What?!” His voice breaks. It’s incredibly embarrassing. But not as embarrassing as the thought of Bruce doing the horizontal tango with his parents. Hell, the thought of Bruce in any biblical context at all is traumatizing. That’s his father figure. How dare.
“Everyone?” he squeaks, just to confirm.
Dick, hand on his back, effectively drags their little group towards a more private corner, away from prying eyes, nods frantically. “Everyone!” He begins shouldering even more people out of the way in his urgency.
Barely avoiding three separate tripping hazards, Tim whisper-yells, “Is that what they’re betting on? If I’m his-” he shoves a hand at Bruce, whose face is carefully blank in a way that means he is experiencing an Emotion. Perhaps even more than one, “-actual, blood-related kid or not?!”
Dick’s chuckle is best described as pained. “Nope, Timmy, it was more of a ‘when’ kind of bet, not an ‘if’.”
“You’ve gotta-” Tim nearly knocks over someone’s drink, “-be kidding me.”
Eventually they end up in their desired corner, sheltering behind an ornate life-size statue of some half-naked lady in silks and a conveniently placed ice-sculpture. Now, in semi-privacy, they look to Bruce for clarification.
Bruce does not make eye contact with either of them. “I may have had a, a wild streak in my youth,” he says carefully, and Tim’s jaw drops.
That’s effectively a confirmation.
Every interaction over the night flashes before his eyes, and it’s becoming increasingly obvious. Snippets of Bruce getting congratulated for his ‘conquests’ and ‘adventurous tastes,’ and wow.
Tim needs brain-bleach, stat.
He turns to Dick, who also appears to be regretting ever leaving Wayne Manor earlier that evening. Fortunately, Dick, the best brother ever in the history of siblings, immediately catches his drift. They will never mention this ever again.
Tim slams his glass of non-alcoholic martini onto the tray of a passing waiter, and stalks off to find another, more private corner to have a mental breakdown in.
It is a surprise to no one when Gotham gets word that Bruce Wayne adopted his first daughter. Frankly, it was about time.
Cassandra Cain is quiet in ways the press doesn’t know what to make of. Her eyes are piercingly heavy, like Bruce’s sometimes turn in his more sombre moments, displayed in the rare photos from the darker years following his parent’s tragic deaths.
Her public presence is nearly entirely absent, and her rare few appearances are mostly in the backgrounds of other people’s photos, flitting under notice in events. One may think that would be it; that the latest Wayne child avoids the cameras with a vengeance. However, on a stage, under a spotlight, she is their darling.
Now there’s four of them, Bruce’s adoption tendencies can’t really be written off as chance any more.
Everyone else notices too.
Then finally and with great fanfare, Damian comes along. It takes exactly one gala night of hushed questions about the unknown woman who bore the son Bruce is claiming as his own for it to become apparent that they weren’t married.
He is loudly proclaimed to be the ‘biological’ son, and as a result, the most prominent reaction to him that night is “???”
Because, ?!?!?!?!?
If he’s a biological son, yet also a bastard born out of wedlock, then what does that make his four other kids??? And if they aren’t related…
Bruce Wayne has a PROBLEM. An adoption problem.
A serious adoption problem.
Damian settles into the Wayne household surprisingly quickly, after the confiscation of his extensive knife collection, and the acquisition of a dog, a cat, a cow and random turkey he smuggled in one night. And given that the Justice League doesn’t intrude into Gotham (as per Bruce’s preferences), it takes a while for a large enough threat to crop up for them to meet Robin.
Robin, who immediately flaunts his position as Bruce’s only biological son.
Only biological son.
They look to Bruce to confirm, which he does, and later, in the safety of the Watchtower, all hell breaks loose.
“They’re not even your biological kids?” Ollie yells, hands in his hair.
Dick struggles to hold back the laughter bubbling up his throat. Keeping a straight face is getting harder and harder by the second, but this is just so entertaining he’d rather asphyxiate than interrupt this. Whatever this is. This golden opportunity. This absurd scenario.
“Never said they were.”
Bruce, once again, looks entirely dead inside from disbelief. From the very moment of Jason’s adoption, he’d made it clear it was an adoption out of respect for Jason’s departed mother. Clearly, no one had actually taken him seriously.
“It was implied!” Ollie moves to grip Bruce’s shoulder pads tightly, desperately. “I just lost so much money, and you couldn’t even give me a heads-up? We went to boarding school together, and this is how you treat me?”
This is beautiful. Stunning. The funniest thing Dick’s seen this year.
“I explicitly stated they were all adopted.”
“I know! I thought it was a, a logical ruse or something!”
Bruce just raises an eyebrow.
Everyone knows Ollie gets the message because he begins to sputter with frustrated anger. “And what, you, you’re just going to tell me you actually saw some kid nabbing your tyres and went, I’m keeping you?”
“Hn.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Ollie says flatly. “You actually fished a random kid out of Gotham’s dumpster.”
“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” Dick interrupts sagely. He can’t help himself. Ollie just looks at them like he’s had a recent lobotomy.
“And that frankly adorable kid went and became him?”
Ollie points over to where the Red Hood is sitting in the Watchtower meeting room they're using, iconic helmet abandoned on the table in front of him. He’s commandeered the seat next to Dick and Cass, and together, they are helping Barry demolish a family-sized set of fast food takeout. Hal, Diana and Clark are all sitting across from them, eagerly watching like this entire scenario is prime-time reality TV drama.
“He’s adopted,” Dick says, “as B has told you all, multiple times.”
“You’re adopted too, asshole,” Jason snaps back, domino narrowing. “Hell, we’re all adopted, ‘cept for the brat. I don’t get why that’s so hard to accept.”
“I know,” Barry says, “It’s kind of really obvious.” He turns to Ollie, who is looking three seconds and two deep breaths away from committing homicide. “Just because you lost to me and Hal doesn’t mean you’ve got to steep in denial. It’s kind of sad.”
“Really.” Ollie's voice is dangerous. “How is it obvious, pray tell.”
“He-” Barry points at Bruce, “-eats justice for breakfast, but that guy-” he points even more frantically at Hood, who waves at him with hands full of fried chicken, “-murdered over eighty people. Bit of a difference.”
“Exactly.” Ollie snaps. “It’s the daddy issues, like I’ve said multiple ti-”
“-Finish that sentence,” Jason interjects for the first time in the conversation, “And you’ll be able to take in a nice deep breath in through your forehead.” The cocking of his gun echoes through the room.
From the side, Hal whispers to Clark and Diana, “Why’d we even let him keep those on him?”, all of whom are still acting as the proverbial peanut gallery in this entire situation. Diana reaches over without even breaking eye contact with the showdown happening across the room, and blindly slaps a hand over Hal’s mouth. Clark, who had presumably used his superspeed at one point to acquire a bucket of popcorn, is equally as unhelpful as he passes the bucket back to Diana.
Bruce could intervene on Ollie’s behalf. Or he could just… not.
Fortunately, the structural integrity of Green Arrow’s brain is preserved with the presence of Cass, who takes exactly point-two seconds to nerve-strike Jason’s wrist, collect the weapon and let it clatter, fully disassembled, onto the floor.
Jason cradles his temporarily disabled wrist. “Cass!”
“No threatening. Or murder.”
“But he-”
“-Hn.” Cass cuts him off, effectively ending the conversation, coming out on top. Looks like she can’t be bothered with English anymore. Bruce is glad to see someone else finally appreciating his preferred form of communication.
“Oh my god,” Hal whispers to Clark, aghast. “She’s literally a smaller, female version of Bruce.” Everyone hears him, and Cass’ smile turns smug.
“But more terrifying,” Diana agrees, stealing another handful of popcorn.
“Hn.” Bruce agrees. Cass is terrifying.
“They even sound the same,” Barry breathes in awe, “Even the way they stand!” And with that, everyone looks back and forth between him and his daughter. Cass, despite being a solid 5'4", somehow still manages to loom menacingly. Bruce is so proud of her.
Ollie, still hung up on losing to Barry and Hal in the world’s most obvious bet, slams both palms down on the table with a crack. “Hood being adopted I get. But her? Are you sure?”
“C’mon man,” Barry says around another chicken drumstick, “You lost the bet, accept it.”
Ollie does not accept it, turning to Bruce. “Look, I know she’s adopted because of your honestly insane child-collection habit, but are you absolutely sure this one isn’t yours? Like during your playboy days you had a little, I don’t know, a slip of the-”
“Don't finish that sentence.”
“Are you absolutely sure she's not related to you. I have fifty thousand dollars of betting money riding on this. And my dignity.”
“No.”
“Just a single little paternity test, please-”
“No.”
“I will tell them what we did in boarding school, Bruce.”
They do a paternity test.
Dumbfounded, they all stare at the result.
[CASSANDRA CAIN ||| BRUCE WAYNE]
[1ST DEGREE GENETIC MATCH. INDICATES DIRECT RELATION.]
As it turns out, Ollie gets his betting money back, at the cost of Bruce’s worldview.
“Hey,” Dick says later, once they’re all huddled around the Batcomputer, still trying to process the news. “Why don’t we try-”
“No.”
“Yes! Look, it’ll be hilarious-”
[RICHARD GRAYSON ||| BRUCE WAYNE]
[1ST DEGREE GENETIC MATCH. INDICATES DIRECT RELATION.]
It is not hilarious. They immediately regret it.
Surprisingly, the person who is happiest about acquiring two brand new siblings in the span of a single afternoon is Damian.
Sure, he may huff about not being the first-born son of the Bat, but Bruce’s youngest is clearly thrilled at having Dick as an elder biological sibling. At first Bruce was worried about assassination attempts, but going against Dick, the first Robin, the original Boy Wonder, is both a pipe dream and a death sentence. Not to mention Cass, with her fearsome background as an assassin and even more fearsome reputation.
Regardless, it doesn’t happen. Having Dick as a blood-related elder sibling makes all the difference to Damian, who has been raised viewing blood ties with the utmost importance.
He is also bonding with Cass via handling of dangerous reptiles. It is going splendidly.
Jason watches it all with his specific brand of schadenfreude, using every opportunity he can to poke and prod Dick’s temper with endless comparisons of personality traits and quirks. It drives everyone up the wall, but they’ll never admit it, because that means Jason wins, and they’re all too petty to give him the satisfaction.
Bruce is halfway to catatonia, yet looking lighter than he has in months. He is Dealing With It. Come back in three business days.
Alfred is, simply put, chuffed. More excuses to spoil his grandchildren? Excellent. Although they were already part of the family, this is also a very good outcome, given that he’d half expected Bruce to die alone and a virgin after his emo training montage with the League of Assassins.
The term Alfred had found on the internet was ‘bitchless,’ which he felt suited Master Bruce quite effectively, given the only woman he had given his heart in entirety to was the City of Gotham herself. Fortunately, it appears that this was not so.
It takes exactly two hours and thirty-four minutes for the media to catch on from the moment it is officially registered.
Gotham goes apeshit. The paparazzi are once again lining up out the front gate, Vicki Vale is blowing up Bruce’s civilian phone, and Steph has called multiple times about them ‘ruining her internet experience with their dumb faces.’
There are articles about Brucie’s playboy days coming back around to bite him, about how many other kids of his might be out there, and an untold number of people claiming they’re a secret Wayne lovechild. It drives Bruce insane, but he still checks for each and every single one of them, even if none are actually his.
What is loudest, though, is a lot of people finally getting to say some very, very obnoxiously smug ‘I TOLD YOU SO’s’, more than a few of which were years in the making.
“Recently,” Tim slowly starts, “I made a file.”
“Did you,” Jason says. They are lounging in the kitchen of Safehouse No#14, one of many scattered through the Alley, and Jason didn’t even have the chance to say ‘get out’, before Tim had made himself at home, stolen Jason’s bandages and his coffee, and threatened to lick his prized Himalayan salt lamp if he didn’t let Tim stay. Brutal threat, but effective. “How surprising.”
Tim sniffs at Jason’s sarcasm, and burrows further into the couch, a Heat-N-Eat enchilada balanced precariously on his lap. “Aren’t you even a little bit curious?”
Jason pretends to think, taking another heaping bite of his enchilada. “Nope,” His grin is crooked, right corner curled up like it always does when he lies through his teeth. “You make a lot of files. Can’t expect me to give a shit about all of them.”
“You’re alike.” Tim clarifies. Neither of them have to ask who is the basis for the comparison. “Don’t you think there could be some merit in testing it?”
Jason is silent. Tim just tilts his head, questioning. Birdlike.
A minute, and he cracks. “I’m not anything like him,” Jason says lowly. “And I don’t fucking want to be.”
“But-!”
“Drop it.” Jason’s tone is harsh, and Tim lets the silence fester between them.
Jason might rather scuba-dive in Gotham harbour than give a single indication that he also longs for that connection, but the statistics speak for themselves. Since the news, Hood’s activity in the Alley has nearly tripled beyond his usual hours, throwing himself into larger and more dangerous operations like he has something to prove.
Jason deals with his emotions by committing violence against unsuspecting criminals, which, once again, is very similar to Bruce. There’s a pattern he’s noticing here, and Tim’s not sure he likes it.
Ollie might have been onto something, actually. Daddy issues, indeed. Might have to add that to his (rapidly expanding) file.
“If anything,” Jason continues, “you’re literally his fuckin’ clone. Overthinking, paranoia, detective shit, the works. Even the fabled black hair and blue eyes.”
Tim, carefully, doesn’t make eye contact with Jason.
Tim is well aware he reflects Bruce in more ways than one. Overthinking, controlling tendencies, paranoia, intellect, ambition. It’s the physical traits, the skin tone, the hair and eyes. It’s the lateral thinking, it’s the title ‘Detective’.
He looks at his siblings in name and he sees fractals of Bruce, scattered between them, warped reflections of their mentor, father and paragon. He looks in the mirror, and sees the same.
It’s hard, knowing that there’s another connection he doesn’t have, another barrier separating him and those he’s chosen to dedicate his life to. It aches in a way he struggles to describe, it makes him stare at the ceiling until the early hours of the morning, he’ll look down and find bloody crescents on his palms. He wants. He wants in ways he cannot even begin to verbalise, in ways he doesn’t dare to.
What is arguably worse is the sole, guilty relief is that it’s not just him.
It’s why he’s here in the first place. Despite their tumultuous relationship, Jason, at this moment, is the only person who could possibly understand him.
How much of this is just wishful thinking?
It’s just curiosity. What are the chances? Statistically, it’s so incredibly unlikely that all of Bruce’s adoptees are biological but…
But.
In the end, it takes a particularly bad run-in with Poison Ivy to kick him into action. Later, he’ll maintain it was the pollen making him loopier than usual, that it was the aftereffects of the substances he got hit with.
But in the moment…
Well, you know what it’s like.
What happens is you fully disassociate, start astral projecting, your soul leaves your body, and your body performs a paternity test between you and the father figure who you might kind of secretly wish was your actual dad! He’s not going to investigate why any further there, because compartmentalisation exists, and Tim is not unpacking that right now! Or ever!
Tim pinches himself, hard.
It doesn’t magically change the result showing on the Batcomputer display.
[TIMOTHY DRAKE ||| BRUCE WAYNE]
[1ST DEGREE GENETIC MATCH. INDICATES DIRECT RELATION.]
He picks up his phone, still feeling like his world is collapsing around him, and blindly navigates to a certain contact. The call goes through.
“Dick,” Tim says, struggling to keep his voice steady, “I have just found out that the tabloids are, in fact, correct. Batman had a threesome with my parents, Dick. I am struggling over here.”
“Well, join the club.” Dick’s voice is strangled through the receiver.
“YOU TOO?”
“YES! HOW DO YOU THINK I HAPPENED?”
“I’M TRYING VERY HARD TO NOT THINK ABOUT THAT EXACT SCENARIO, THANKS.”
It is a very short phone call. For obvious reasons.
Damian is horrified, but accepts it easier than Tim would expect, especially under Cass’ watchful eye. Cass herself is quiet with her congratulations, but the way she gently pulls him into her embrace is about as clear of a ‘welcome home’ as he’ll ever need.
A half-hour after he sends her a screenshot of the results, Steph stops by Wayne Manor for a short period, all of which is spent wheeze-laughing at Tim’s expense.
She shows up, laughs at him, shows him a poorly edited ‘spiders georg’ meme ( “average billionaire discovers 3 bio kids a year" factoid actualy just statistical error. average billionaire finds 0 bio kids per year. Childrens Bruc, who lives in batcave & gets over 10,000 each day, is an outlier adn should not have been counted ), then nimbly dodges his attempts to strangle her, and dips, leaving Tim to wallow in his own disbelief.
From where Tim’s buried his head in his hands, he nearly misses his phone buzzing on the table, lying face down. He flips it back over absentmindedly, and is greeted with a text from Jason.
[Lmaooo Bruce fucked ur mom]
He’s at his limit. Tim is three seconds away from animorphing into the fucking Joker.
This calls for one singular, rational, measured response. Tim sits down before the batcomputer heavily, stretches his shoulders, cracks his neck and his fingers.
In the end, he doesn't even need to fake a genetic relation.
[JASON TODD ||| BRUCE WAYNE]
[1ST DEGREE GENETIC MATCH. INDICATES DIRECT RELATION.]
Tim laughs himself sick.
Jason is well accustomed to the power structures of Crime Alley. He’s been entrenched in it since a child, clawed his way from the bottom to the top of the system with guns blazing. He knows the tricks and tips, the ins and outs.
But sometimes…
“What in the Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way is this?” Jason mutters, leafing through financial records. Did a two-year-old write these? What was even the point of having records if they were this badly kept?
All his experience, and Jason still hasn’t the foggiest clue how these guys managed to pull themselves into positions of relative power.
With a combined IQ of maybe over a hundred, the leaders of the newest gang attempting to infringe on his territory are a special sort. Insignificant enough to stay under the radar, and dumb enough to eradicate with an afternoon’s work. Usually ops are more difficult than this. Hell, they’re always more difficult than this.
Keeping that in mind, he strides back out the main office, and retraces his steps back to the main common room, following his mental map from there to track down their weapons cache. Earlier, the bodies of moaning thugs lined the walls where Jason put them, thoroughly encouraged to stay down with a little negative reinforcement, but now the halls are vacated, and the building is mostly empty.
This is 100% a trap in some way.
Stalking down the corridors, he debates the likelihood of this place being rigged with explosives. With ledgers that bad, there was no way this entire operation wasn’t a massive set up. He hastens his pace to their weapons cache, busting through the door, and delivering the mother of all concussions to the goon sheltering behind it.
Dumping the body out of the way, Jason gets to work.
He has a feeling…
Annnd, once again, he’s right.
He had suspicions these guys were dumb, but this really takes the cake. They set the charges, and then left the ‘big red boom button’ in a spot easily accessible to the average four-year-old. A lethal combination of terrible security, overconfident guards, and not even having the decency to prep for when shit hits the fan à la vigilante. Pathetic.
Still, detonator in hand, he comms Nightwing.
“Found the objective. Going to beat the crap out of the head honcho now.” Dragging the lone goon behind him, Jason rechecks his mental map of the dang place, and begins to deftly navigate the white-washed halls back to the exit.
“Any danger?”
“They have guns.”
“Cool. Can they actually use them?”
“If everybody aimed like these guys, JFK would probably still be alive,” Jason says honestly. Behind him, the goon begins to wake up. With a swift boot to the face, he is forcibly sent back to dreamland.
“Sweet,” Nightwing says. “I’m en route for the final bust, just so you know.”
Jason audibly groans as he shoulders through the front door, and out into the open air. “It’ll be easy, I don’t need you.”
Dumping the goon, he makes his way over to where his motorcycle is parked. The gang had done a terrible job at hiding their finances, they had done an even worse job at hiding their digital footprint. Getting into their mainframe was easy as pie, and the warehouse where they stored their goods?
It’s about to become free real-estate.
“There’s going to be a lot of live ammunition! I’d feel better if you weren’t going in there without backup! It’ll be fun!”
Fun, he says. Which, true.
There’s nothing Jason loves more than setting someone else’s plans on fire, and watching the chaos unfold.
Then, in his pocket, his phone buzzes.
Even better, it’s Tim’s ringtone. Heh.
Learning that Timmers is related to Bruce? Funniest shit he’s seen in a long time, especially after that talk they had. Jason wishes he was there to see how that went down, hell, he’s willing to bribe Babs with a couple favours in order to get ahold of that security footage. His reaction would have been priceless.
But alas, he wasn’t there, and selling Babs his soul for two minutes of Batcave security footage is a bit steep of a price, so he’ll just have to settle with cyberbullying him instead.
It’s the small things in life.
Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he navigates to his and Tim’s text conversation with an amused huff. He is not met with annoyance or threats of vengeance.
It’s so much worse.
[Lmaooo Bruce fucked ur mom]
Jason stares at his phone, dumbfounded. The screenshotted results of a paternity test stare back at him. 99.92%, it reads.
Right.
Only a big explosion can make him feel better about this. Good thing he is currently holding a detonator, connected to a metric fuckload of explosives.
He hits the big red button.
With an earthshaking boom he feels in his bones, the warehouse erupts into a mess of molten steel and bits of scrap. Alas, it only makes him feel a little bit better. Clearly more explosions are needed.
“Hood, report!” Nightwing’s panicked voice sounds through his comms. “Are you alright?”
Shielding his forehead from the blast of heat that follows, he’s forced to blink a couple of times to get the sunspots out of his eyes. “All good, Wing. Just throwing them a little bit of a housewarming party,” he says. It’s to stave off my impending mental breakdown, he doesn’t say.
“Gotcha. Civs and goons out?”
“Only the unimportant ones.”
“The others?”
“ I like my enemies medium rare.”
“Any possibility to just leave them non-barbecued next time?”
“When they’re not spiking the drugs they're distributing, I’ll consider it.”
“I’ll take it.”
He arrives at the destination - a warehouse, how original - and finds that Dick started in on the fun without him. That’s the last time he lets Dick tag along to one of these, the damn nuisance.
Peering through a skylight, he is greeted with the sight of Nightwing getting effectively dogpiled with goons in a frankly cartoonish melee fight.
Fists are flying, and Nightwing’s escrima sticks spark with live charge as he wields them with deadly efficiency, a wild smile stretched across his face. A baseball bat gets repurposed into a launchpad, Nightwing coming out of the flip in the perfect position to plant his foot square on someone’s face.
Still the fact remains, there are a lot of them, and only one of Dick.
Fortunately Jason was immediately able to resort to violence to solve this problem. Now, it is Nightwing and the Red Hood versus a frankly ridiculous number of goons. A significant improvement to the situation.
His genetic relation to Bruce is, unfortunately, not a problem he can solve in this manner.
Alarmed cries ring out as he joins the fray, and someone yells, “It’s the Red Hood! He has the red helmet!”
Which. Gold star for your observational skills, random henchman.
Recognising him is about as great of an accomplishment as plugging in a usb the first try, given that his getup is both common knowledge and blatantly obvious to anyone with more than two brain cells to rub together.
One of the other men begins to claim that their boss was apparently some Big Bad, you’ll rue the day you crossed him, blah blah, blah, he has massive plans and you are merely a pawn in his games, etcetera, etcetera. It’s all incredibly contrived, and not something they haven’t heard before twenty times or so.
Jason rates the speech a 4/10 for execution and a 3/10 for general grandstanding.
A glance at Dick beside him, a flash of hand signals, and Jason is now aware that a 4/10 is far too generous for this speech. It’s a 2/10 at most.
“Are you sure that you're actually describing your boss and not one of the villains from Scooby Doo?” he snipes, landing a controlled blow to someone’s instep, sending them staggering into another goon.
The monologuing henchman howls in rage and lunges at him. Jason slowly side steps, and pistol-whips him on the back of the skull, leaving him groaning in a pile on the floor. Dick just looks at him; he shrugs and they get back to their scheduled amounts of necessary bodily trauma.
“What happened to the rest of the shipment records you were supposed to get?” Dick yells over the chaos, movements controlled yet aggressive as he sends a hulking man crashing to the floor.
“I blew them up.” Someone’s nose breaks under his fist with a satisfying crack.
“What?! Hood!” Dick yelps, twisting in a way Jason previously thought spines couldn’t and landing a haymaker in the gut of the closest henchman. “I’m telling Batman!”
Jason dodges another knife strike aimed at his neck and uses the overextension as an opening to snap the offending elbow like uncooked spaghetti.
“The fuck would you do that?!” He yells, punctuating the word ‘fuck’ with a heavy blow to someone’s temple. They collapse like a puppet with cut strings, and he rounds on the next knife-wielding man. “That won’t work on me anymore.”
“But you’ll feel bad!” Dick chirps. “B’s really improved his special fatherly disappointment batglare. It gives me shivers.”
“Ohhhhh,” a nearby goon gasps, hanging back from the action. “It’s daddy issues. I see.”
He says it like some kind of revelation.
There’s a beat of silence.
The remaining four or so goons that aren’t writhing on the floor or generally incapacitated look at the speaker with such a mix of utter dumbfounded betrayal that Nightwing is forced to smother a grin in the corner of his vision.
Jason slowly unholsters his gun.
“Haha, don’t we all?” Nightwing says, raising his hands placatingly. “Hood, gun away. Now.”
Jason keeps the gun out, only partially out of spite.
But the goon isn’t finished. In fact he looks like he’s barely even started. “It all makes sense! I’ve connected the dots!”
“You haven’t connected anything.” Nightwing butts in, making frantic and subtle hand movements across his throat, but the goon doesn’t take the hint to shut the hell up.
“I’ve connected them,” he marvels, staring at his hands like he holds the universe in his palms. He doesn’t. “The viciousness, the well-defined moral creeds, the wide-arching goals, the ability to challenge the status quo, destructive and tunnel-visioned quests that are ultimately pointless-“
“I am trying to help you.” Nightwing interrupts. “If you stop speaking right this second, I’ll be able to get you into witness protection with minimal life-threatening injuries. It’s a bargain deal! Please.”
“-the terrible costumes, the cringeworthy monikers, it all fits.”
Nightwing can only facepalm with the hand he isn’t now using to force the barrel of Jason’s gun away.
“Are you trying to get a bullet in your frontal lobe? Please.”
“It’s genetic!” The goon exclaims.
Maybe this is hell. Jason's in hell. He got blown up, and came back a little, but clearly not enough.
“He’s adopted,” Dick is saying frantically. “He’s not related to that guy at all, so let’s all just drop this conversation topic, okay?”
The entire warehouse holds its breath.
The goon nods thoughtfully. “Makes sense. Never mind. He’s clearly adopted. A single set of daddy issues isn’t enough to create that.” He gestures at Jason’s entire being.
Right. That’s it.
This idiot is going down.
Fortunately for the goon, Nightwing full-body tackles Jason before he can enact retribution.
“They’re never going to find your body!” Jason howls at the goon from where Nightwing is attempting to pin him to the concrete floor. The goon, who is now typing frantically on his phone, isn’t even paying attention to the threats being made on his life.
“Hood,” Nightwing hisses from where he’s attempting to disable Jason’s gun arm as best he can without permanent damage. Joke’s on him though, Jason can shoot just as well with his other hand. “Stop it, you’re better than this. You don’t need to kill this idiot. Please.”
With a huff, Jason goes limp. Fine, he’ll be the bigger person. Listen to his older brother. He’s been better lately, less headshots and more kneecappings, less bullets and more rubber balls, no matter how it irks him to give concussions instead of killshots to people who deserve much worse. Besides, his days of killing relatively-innocent goons are far behind him-
“I put it in the group chat!” The goon says happily, and Jason and Dick stare at this stupid, stupid man with matching faces of abject betrayal on them.
“Correction.” Jason says lightly, tightening his grip on his trusty gun. “They’re never going to stop finding your body.”
(The goon survives, mostly unscathed. Jason’s pride does not.)
Once the cleanup is finished, and all the men are on their way to Gotham’s police station, they end up sitting on the edge of a worn-down apartment building, watching the cars go by. Jason’s helmet lies on the roof beside him, enjoying the chill of the air on his face.
“I can’t believe you went in without me, or a decent plan other than ‘ beat them up’,” Jason finally says.
“Improvisation is an incredibly valid plan.”
“It’s an incredibly stupid plan. You literally jumped into the warehouse and hoped for the best.”
“But it worked out, didn’t it?”
Jason’s fist itches to punch the smug grin off Dick’s face. It’s an urge he’s become accustomed to nowadays, and seeing it here, accompanied by these new revelations? It feels strange. Is it really Dick’s fault for being so damn punchable? At least part of it has to be Bruce’s fault somehow. Clearly Tim inherited it too, with that face. And Jason now, as well. Apparently.
He can’t help but let out a soft snort. “Let’s hope your predisposition to shit plans isn’t genetic,” he says quietly, “or we’re all gonna be in trouble, given how many damn kids B has.”
“Good thing you’re adopted then,” Dick chirps, throwing a warm, comforting arm over Jason’s shoulder. “Keep an eye out for the rest of us and our bad life decisions.”
From where he’s seated, legs hanging over the balcony, Jason carefully does not make eye contact with his older brother.
An awkward silence falls.
“I was meaning to tell you earlier,” Jason admits quietly.
“Jason?” There’s a tremble in Dick’s voice.
“Dick.” Jason says, lifting his chin to meet his gaze.
The looming, uncharacteristic silence between them is deafening.
He holds out his phone, showing Tim's messages and that damn screenshot.
“I’m not adopted.”
For a moment, there is no reaction. Just quiet.
Dick turns to the phone, then to him, to the phone again, and finally, slowly, back to Jason. His face is slack. Jason can see the neurons firing, the connections being made. The implications of his last statement. He sees the moment it all comes together.
The expression on Dick’s face is blank, before it slowly morphs into pure, unadulterated glee.
Dick spends the next half-hour alternating between dying of laughter and dying of laughter-induced asphyxiation. Beside him, Jason sulks.