The second fiscal quarter of the year has barely begun, April bringing whispers of torrential downpours that are soon to worsen. Gotham winters are bitter and unforgiving, angry wind biting at Bruce's hands through insulated gloves on patrol. The next season is meant to be a glimmer of hope that breaks the frost, but instead the skies are somehow darker, with heavy clouds and even heavier rains. Four months into the new year, and he is already feeling the dreariness that bleeds through the city air.
Bruce is broody in the winter, gloomy in the spring, and they are not the same.
Wayne Industries's first quarterly report has been promising. Revenue high, profits sizably large, and expenses manageable. The technology department had dipped a few points in the market early last year, but the plan of action that had been approved to remedy it is progressing as scheduled.
Gotham nightlife has been consistent. Not quiet, because silence is suspicious and signifies the arrival of a storm, but at the very least, there have been no major threats to level the city, and any minor ones have been quickly diffused by Batman and his team.
The company and the cape are both doing fine, but if neither of those aspects of his life is suffering, then Bruce himself certainly is.
It is like that phrase Dick had complained about, a few weeks into his second year at college. There are three points to the triangle. Good grades, enough sleep, and an existing social life. You must pick two. You cannot have it all.
At the time, Bruce had rolled his eyes and told Dick to prioritize better. Dick had rolled his own right back and dropped out of school. Nearly seven years later, Bruce realizes that he may have been the one in the wrong.
The door to his office creaks open, and there is only one person at the company who regularly enters without knocking. Bruce wiggles the mouse beside him to wake up his computer screen, in case the lack of light reflecting off his reading glasses is visible from across the room, just before Tim pokes his head around the corner.
"So, I was thinking," he says, making Bruce's heart thud nervously for one brief moment, "Some new blood in the tech department would be good for us. We could use the extra help over the summer."
Bruce hides his relief well, busying himself by sliding the glasses off of his nose. "We are always hiring."
"Yeah, I know, but," Tim pauses, "I kind of wanted to expand our filters to include a younger application pool."
The bundle of nerves is back, an unwelcome visitor that curls a home into his stomach lining.
"No," Bruce replies, shortly.
His son's head thumps against the wall, fingers gripping the door frame.
"Why not?" Tim whines, suddenly sounding years younger, tugging on Bruce's cape, and asking not to be benched from patrol after staying up all night to solve old case files.
Bruce fixes him with a hard stare. "You know why."
Tim huffs, disappointed, though he had already expected the answer, and disappears out of view.
He loves each and every one of his abnormally genius children, but Wayne Industries is thriving, Batman is busy, and Bruce does not have a shred of time left over to manage another.
Bruce doesn't technically need to have an office at the Wayne Enterprises building. He hasn't been the CEO of the company for a few years, and Lucius is doing a good enough job that Bruce shouldn't have to oversee his daily processes. He's still the majority shareholder, and therefore the owner, which comes with its own varied set of responsibilities, but nothing that should require him to permanently occupy a too-many-square-foot space on the second to highest floor.
Tim knows this, and he also knows that Bruce spends half of his time behind that desk on Batman-related matters instead of road mapping WE's future vision, but he's not going to be caught dead complaining.
For one, the more time Bruce spends in the office is less time Brucie Wayne, ditzy playboy turned disgustingly devoted father, spends gallivanting around Gotham City spilling embarrassing stories about his children. Tim's siblings should really thank him for his sacrifice.
Except it's not really a sacrifice, because that means he gets to see Bruce several times a day. Someone would have to pull his teeth out one by one for him to give up this information, but Tim actually enjoys barging into Bruce's office during lunch breaks to talk to him under the guise of being annoying. Despite years of pretending that isolation is really no big deal, he likes being around people and he thinks Bruce does too, although the man is far pickier about his chosen company.
"Have the engineers begun alpha testing?" Bruce asks, fingers clacking along the keyboard.
The meal that the building's chef had delivered ten minutes ago sits untouched to the side and is still steaming. Tim's nostrils flare as the scent hits him.
"The prototype gets finished next week," he rolls his eyes, picking at his own slightly cooled food, "You'd know that if you didn't sit there monitoring Cobblepot's location all day."
His jab goes ignored, and he wasn't really looking for a response, but a slight eye twitch would have been nice.
"Did the location scouts decide a place for the unveiling?"
Tim hums a yes, chewing, as he eyes Bruce's desk.
"Any updates on the blueprints?"
"Not sure," he shrugs, "It's not really my department."
Bruce clicks a few things on his monitor that Tim can't see from his seat across the table, then speaks without making eye contact.
"You really do have to work with them on this, Tim. I know you don't like it, but—"
"It's so boring," Tim groans, "I'd rather just oversee the actual coding."
The silence is brief, but he knows Bruce is unimpressed with his interruption.
"You know what would help?" Tim smirks, continuing, "A couple of college kids running info back and forth, doing all the boring communication stuff so I can focus on the tech."
"You asked me that two weeks ago," Bruce says dryly, peering at him from over his glasses, "What did I say?"
Tim scowls, a few stands of hair falling out of his professional style. "Lexcorp takes interns, why can't we?"
The other man doesn't miss a beat. "Maybe if you spent less time thinking about our rivals, you'd make better progress on your responsibilities."
"I'd make better progress if I could take advantage of unpaid labor."
"We give all of our interns healthy compensation, Tim," Bruce says, giving him a sharp look and falling directly into his trap.
"And that's the other thing," he argues back, "Every other department gets interns."
"Other departments don't handle alien technology," Bruce counters, easily dodging it, "Not to mention everything that goes on behind the scenes to support our work downstairs."
He's made the Batman point countless times before, the dangers of people discovering all the suit and weapon advancements happening hidden away from prying eyes, but Tim doesn't buy it.
"We have confidentiality agreements," he shoots back, "And security protocols. And all of that stuff is handled in a completely closed-off section of the building."
Bruce stops his maybe-work, leaning away from the screen to face him better, and sighs, deeply tired.
"Would any of those things stop you?"
Tim's mouth snaps shut.
As much as he hates hearing that logic, he can't deny the weight it holds. Tim crosses his arms, scowling, and presses his back against the chair as Bruce wins the age-old argument for the nth time.
The man returns his attention to the computer, letting silence fall between them for a few moments, before humming his name.
"Yeah?"
"Here," Bruce offers, sliding his plate of still-warm food to Tim's side of the desk, "Switch."
Gotham does everything in extremes.
At some point between May and June, something flips and all of a sudden, the heat is blistering, smog-like and suffocating. Strong enough that Bruce's utility bill runs through the roof of the Wayne Enterprises skyscraper trying to keep both the mansion and the entirety of the cave below cool.
Bruce knows what patrol will feel like later, all those heavy layers of Kevlar, and chooses to conduct his work in the cave wearing loose clothing, soaking up as much cold air as he can before it's time to leave.
He is in the middle of dissecting the Penguin's recent financials, looking for a connection to one of the city's more corrupt officials, when the bottom of the computer screen buzzes with an incoming video call. Bruce glances at the contact, and hovers his hand over the mouse, debating. Ultimately, the feeling of obligation wins out and he accepts it.
When the window opens up, he is looking directly at someone's chest, an ill-fitted shirt that is missing two buttons. He clears his throat and hears a brief 'oops' before the web camera is adjusted upwards.
"Bruce!" Clark greets happily, "You won't believe what Lex did today."
Bruce only has seven to eight children, and Clark is not one of them, but on the days when the Kryptonian sounds like a kid coming home from school with hours of gossip about his classmates, it really feels like he is.
"How much?" he grunts, bringing Penguin's accounts on a split screen so he can multitask.
"How much what?" Clark frowns, then leans out of frame for a moment, calling for Lois.
The woman glides into the video, briefly glancing at who her husband is speaking to, then rolls her eyes.
"He's asking for a number on damage expenses," she translates for him, then answers Bruce, "None this time, actually. We took care of it."
Clark grins proudly, as if to say, 'See how well I did?'. Seven to eight, Bruce reminds himself, nine is too close to double digits for his liking.
"Anyway," Clark coughs, adjusting his unnecessary glasses, "You know about the Sky Sentry, right?"
Bruce scowls instinctively, being well aware of the technology.
Early on in the year, he had gone on a ski trip with several other important businessmen as a way to keep up appearances and create alibis for some of his more recent injuries. Luthor had crashed the getaway with all the grace of an irritated bull and spent an entire hour bragging about the capabilities of his new missile-deterring technology that was yet to even be finished developing.
"We went to the demo with the Planet to watch," Clark continues, "And guess what?"
"It didn't work," Bruce tries, hopeful.
"He fired two missiles at his own building!" his friend explodes, "Completely irresponsible, putting all of his employees in danger like that. Then, he tried to turn on the Sky Sentry to save everyone, and guess what?"
"It didn't work," Bruce concludes, briefly closing his eyes.
He's not surprised exactly, and he'd be a little more concerned, but at this point, Clark knows better than to bring up crises in conversation without first making it clear whether they've been handled or not. Years of spiking Bruce's heart rate for no reason at all has trained him well.
"I mean, it was fine in the end. I dumped the missiles in the harbor, and no one was hurt, but you should have seen the crowd. Government people can actually be kind of scary when angry, especially since there were so many of them," Clark shakes his head, "Lana helped a little, but still."
His friend winces, imperceptibly, as Lois snorts off-screen.
"Lang?" Bruce hears her say, almost distastefully, "I don't trust her." Then, upon Clark's visibly put-out face, continues, "And no, it's not because of that."
"I think you two could be friends," Clark says, hesitantly.
"Me and Luthor's little assistant?" Lois asks, and Bruce can hear the eyebrow raise in her voice.
Clark sighs and starts to argue back, but the sound of footsteps recedes, signifying that Lois has left.
"She's not," Clark says again, still talking about Lana Lang.
It takes Bruce a second to realize he's being addressed, because in the last two minutes he's deemed his participation unnecessary and gone back to investigating the Penguin. Once he does, he takes a moment to think of what he knows about the woman. Bruce doesn't have a substantial amount of personal information, not yet at least, but in a strictly professional sense, he knows she is intelligent and competent, qualities that could sway both ways on the morality scale.
Recognizing from the silence that he's not going to convince Bruce, Clark drops the subject.
"So, anyway," he starts, "How are things going with you? Gotham summers have already hit, I see? You can always come to Metropolis to escape the heat, you know my door's always open."
"I can also go to space," Bruce points out dryly, then checks the time left until patrol, factoring in the minutes needed for suiting up, "Is that all?"
Clark sends him an easy-going grin, that stays frozen for a second, glitching, and it's definitely not Bruce's wifi that causes it.
"Yeah, but I thought we could chat, I haven't seen you in—"
Bruce hangs up on him.
Things are blowing up in the group chat and Tim is struggling to keep up, each new message sliding the screen further and further up before he's gotten the chance to read the previous texts. Tim registers Jason and Steph dragging Dick's recent tabloid picture through the mud but before he can join in, Duke asks for a partner, specifically only one, for some light stalking, and suddenly the 'pick me' texts roll in at rapid speed. Tim has half a mind to actually call him up and beg to be saved from boredom, but the office phone interrupts him.
He doesn't want to pick up, but then Duke says he chooses Cass and there's really no hope for him left.
"I have a representative from Jada Airways asking to speak with you, sir," his assistant says crisply.
Tim blinks at the information. Why would they—
Then he nearly laughs, remembering the news articles from a few days ago, all those shocked statements and painfully vague explanations.
"Put them through," Tim tells the man, schooling his expression into something more professional.
"Mr. Wayne," a woman over the phone says.
"Drake-Wayne," he corrects, rolling his eyes.
"Yes, my apologies. The reason for this call is, well, I am assuming you have heard about our current predicament?"
"I have, yes," Tim replies, then remembers his manners, "I'm sorry for your loss."
"Er, thank you," the woman says, momentarily confused, "Naturally, we have cut our existing ties with Lexcorp, the legalities of which should be ironed out within the next two weeks, but I am calling now to see if you would be interested in partnering with us from now on."
Tim's first reaction is to widen his eyes in surprise. His second is to scowl. We're no one's second choice, he thinks bitterly, but doesn't say. The third thing he does is narrow his gaze.
"If you are," she continues, without waiting for his answer, "Our company is still looking to fulfill our original order for two commercial-grade planes, and I can have the details sent over to you as soon as—"
"Do you know who you're speaking to?" Tim interrupts.
He doesn't normally play this card, but in this case, it works out quite nicely, and he'd be lying if he said it isn't a little bit satisfying.
The representative pauses. "Mr. Wayne's son, Timothy—"
"Drake-Wayne," Tim takes over, before she can get it wrong again, "Head of Research and Development at Wayne Technologies."
"That's correct?" she says, unsure.
"You're aware we have a separate division that'd be better for this sort of thing, right? Wayne Aerospace."
"Well, yes," she stutters, "But you—"
"Don't handle aircraft manufacturing."
There's a bout of awkward silence in which Tim suddenly feels a little guilty. Maybe the reason he thinks she's calling isn't actually her true intention. Maybe he's read it wrong and he's being a little unnecessarily harsh on someone who is just trying to save her job. He still doesn't want to be second place to Luthor, but new contracts are always nice for profit, and technically maximizing that does fall under his job responsibilities.
"Listen," he sighs, "I can't promise anything, but I'll talk to the head of aerospace. If we've got the capacity for a commission that big, they'll get back to you."
"Honestly, we're in a lot of hot water right now. We needed these planes on time, and we're willing to pay more than what we offered Luthor for the guarantee that they won't, er, explode," she says, then hesitates, "Is there a way we can speak to the CEO to speed up the process?"
"Mr. Fox's schedule is pretty busy at the moment," Tim lies, unsure yet if Lucius needs to be involved in all this, "I don't know if—"
"Oh, I meant Bruce," the woman interrupts with a laugh.
He had been right all along then. Any previous guilt fades at the confirmation that she only called him in a sad attempt to get to her true target.
"Bruce? I don't think I know anyone that works here by that name," Tim replies innocently, then hangs up the phone.
He makes a note to his assistant to send any future calls from Jada Airways straight to voicemail, before pulling out his personal phone to beg Cass to let him take her spot. Duke always plays the best music on stakeouts and Tim can't sit in this office any longer.
Bruce glares at his oldest son through his cowl, but it bounces off of him, like it almost always does. Dick has gotten too used to it. Does that mean he should glare less or glare harder? Whatever gets him to stop squeaking his chair, he decides, reaching out to the side and clamping down on his shoulder.
Dick's lips twitch, amused, but finally stops his fidgeting and turns his attention back to the watchtower security updates presentation.
Normally Bruce would be up there, flicking through the slides himself, but some of the more annoying leaguers like to ask questions and Clark had asked Bruce not to glare harshly every time they interrupted. Tim had suggested a video format layered with audio, and Bruce finds he actually prefers it, even if Barry in the corner is trying to hide the fact that he is sleeping. That's fine. Bruce will make sure there are consequences.
After the video tapers off, and the rest of the room flees, Hal startling Barry awake, Clark floats a few feet away as Bruce retrieves the flash drive with his presentation on it.
"Have you seen my new article?" Clark asks, smiling pleasantly.
"I don't have time to read all your pieces," Bruce says.
"The Sky Sentry one," he clarifies.
Bruce grunts, and he's aware that it doesn't sound like a no, but he knows his answer comes across.
"I read it, Uncle Clark," Dick grins, "I thought it was great. The title was top-notch."
"Thank you, Dick," the man replies, pleased.
Bruce grunts again.
"Superman mops up Luthor's failed science project," Dick answers.
He pauses for a moment, taking in those words, then nods approvingly.
"Dick's right," Bruce says, startling the other two, "Tell Lois she did a good job."
As he pockets the drive and sweeps towards the zeta beams, he sees Clark turn sheepishly to come clean. Dick looks scandalized at the plagiarism, but unfortunately, Bruce knows that no matter what he does, Superman will always remain his son's favorite superhero.
"You sure you don't wanna play?" Duke asks, dangling the extra controller over Tim's face.
Tim scrolls down on his phone, reading the latest in Gotham news. Lying horizontally on the couch, with his head pressed to the outside of Duke's thigh and legs hanging off the armrest is kind of uncomfortable, but Steph is taking up space on the other side, so he has to compromise.
"Yeah, I'm good. Steph needs the win anyway."
The girl in question scoffs and leans over to swat his hands. His phone falls painfully on his nose and Tim rolls his eyes up to glare at her. Duke shrugs, and soon after, he hears a familiar intro sound start up on the tv.
It's some fantasy game, and the forest fighting ambiance is so loud that when Bruce enters the room and calls his name, he has to raise his voice to a near shout before Tim peels his gaze away from the phone to respond.
"Did you see what I put on your calendar for Friday?" he asks, still in his office suit.
"Oh that," Tim responds, not even trying to be heard over the clash of swords because Bruce can read lips just fine, "I'm not going."
"Someone has to," he says, frowning.
Tim rolls his eyes. "No one has to go to Luthor's anything."
Bruce gestures for Duke and Steph to turn it down, and when that doesn't work, Tim reaches up with his arm and smacks Duke's head haphazardly to get his attention. Still fairly new to the family and unsure to what extent he should be following instructions, Duke pauses the game completely.
"For publicity," Bruce tells him, making Tim groan.
"It's bad enough I have to go to your galas, there's no way I'm going to Luthor's. You go."
"I am away on a mission this weekend," Bruce counters.
"Lucius can go."
Tim can feel Duke and Steph's eyes flit back and forth between the two like a riveting tennis match, but neither one of them speaks up to help.
"Lucius does not have the time."
"Well neither do I!" Tim lies.
That is a mistake, because Bruce's eyes soften ever so slightly.
"If this is about your hesitance toward speaking with strangers—"
Tim cuts him off with a loud groan. "It's not about that at all. I'm just not spending an entire night hanging out with old, Luthor-loving men."
"Clark and Lois are going," Bruce offers.
"Still no."
"There could be people your age there," he tries.
"We have people your age at home," Duke says.
Steph cracks up, convulsing in laughter that shakes the whole couch. Tim would join in, has to struggle not to, actually, but instead, he continues to stare Bruce down. He holds his ground, unmoving and unblinking, trying to convey just how much he will make the man's life hell if he ends up having to go to Luthor's stupid charity event.
Finally, Bruce sighs.
"I'll send a check."
Clark
And then he said he was here on vacation!
VACATION
Bruce
Does his species do this often?
Clark
All the time apparently.
Bruce
That is a problem.
Clark
I sent him back home, but who knows how many are on Earth right now?
He said he comes yearly!
That's the equivalent of us going to the shore!
Bruce
And for us, Aspen.
We'll have to speak with their leader.
How far is Tybalt?
Clark
You're not funny, Bruce.
Close, 1.3 million light years.
"Mr. Wayne, is something the matter?"
Bruce looks up from his phone to see a few people in the room staring at him with thinly veiled judgment. The man who is presenting near the front has paused in his slides, trying to disguise his annoyance at being interrupted. Not by Bruce, because his texting is near silent, but by one of the more stuck-up officials who has taken to glaring at Bruce like he has committed a criminal offense.
"Of course not," Bruce says smoothly, and gestures for the presenter to continue.
Once everyone's attention has turned back to the slides, he resumes his conversation.
Bruce
Meet me at the watchtower at 4.
We'll discuss diplomatic strategy.
Clark
I can't today.
Meeting Lana at 4:30.
Bruce's fingers pause over the phone, in the middle of typing out a word. He lets them sit for a few seconds before deleting and starting anew.
Bruce
Lang?
Clark
Not like that!
It's an interview.
Sort of.
Bruce
So is it or is it not an interview?
Because Lois always picks up my calls.
Someone clears their throat. He does not have to look up to know who it is, but he does so anyway.
"Is something the matter?" Bruce asks, with a plain smile.
The man's face purples, and he clenches his hand around the pen he has been using to take notes as if this entire meeting is not being both recorded and streamed, as if the secretaries at the end of the table won't have detailed minutes typed up and distributed by the start of lunchtime.
"You're not paying attention, Mr. Wayne," he grits out.
Bruce sighs, then turns his face toward the front.
"We finished static testing and are fifty-two percent of the way through the unit ones. Our engineers estimate another two weeks until integration testing can begin, as long as we don't encounter any major bugs. Overall, our time complexity is on par with previous predictions, but space complexity has been exceeded," he says, with an air of mild disinterest, then gestures to the slides, "Now, if you'd let us resume the meeting, I believe we were just about to hear the cost of expanding our servers."
The presenter sends him an apologetic glance that he returns with a brief shrug. This time, Bruce doesn't even bother to wait for the man who is still glaring to look away before going back to his phone.
Clark
I know what you're doing.
Stop it.
I might have heard that those planes exploding was Luthor's fault so I'm trying to convince Lana to give me some information.
Bruce
The Jada Airways ones.
Who's your source?
Clark
Nobody.
Just an employee.
It slipped out in conversation so I don't want to get them in trouble.
You know how Luthor's employment contracts are.
Bruce
Right.
His "Don't help Superman" clause.
Clark
Exactly.
I'm hoping Lana gives me something concrete to work with.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that same man from earlier lean in to try to read his screen. Bruce tilts it away long before he can get the chance.
"For god's sake," Bruce says, with an exasperated sigh that pauses the meeting once more, "I'm trying to talk to my son. He misses me."
It is one of the biggest benefits of shifting Brucie Wayne's public persona. Years ago, he would have said he was texting his latest fling. Now there is a lonely child who needs to be soothed. It is no secret which of these excuses goes over better.
"Have you," a different man says, then swallows, "Adopted another?"
"No," Bruce frowns, "This is Damian."
The entire room titters nervously.
Bruce glances down to see that he has been in the middle of typing a sentence for a beat too long, leaving Clark, accidentally this time, at the mercy of those text-in-progress dots for several seconds. Before he can finish, the man's response comes through.
Clark
And yes, Lois knows.
"I'll get it!" Tim calls out down the hallway.
Alfred is busy dusting the drapes in the formal living room and Tim is already near the front of the manor, so he might as well answer the door. Besides, he doesn't want to be near the man when he finds that jagged, four-foot-long gash Damian had slashed into the fabric during an argument last week. It may have been Damian's sword, but Alfred is going to ask who started the fight and Tim cannot lie to the man.
There are not many people who it could be, especially since visitors have to check in at the gate first, and villains don't usually knock. When he opens the heavy mahogany door, Clark and Lois are not the surprise, and neither is the fact their hair is windswept, indicating that they've just flown in from Metropolis.
The thing that makes Tim blink is the expression on Lois's face. It's some kind of incomprehensible mix of disbelief and vindictive glee, and it is utterly terrifying.
"Is Bruce home?" Clark asks, but it comes out more like a demand.
"No…" Tim takes a step back, still eyeing Lois, "But I feel like you should've known that."
Clark's already frazzled demeanor becomes even more so, and his face pinches in a way that Tim knows means he's extending his superhuman hearing. Now that he's here he could have just asked, but he's rattled enough that Tim lets it slide.
"He's in the city," Clark mutters, glancing to his side.
"At a business dinner," Tim finishes, before the man can fly off, "Very important, told us not to interrupt him. Is something wrong?"
Something is most definitely wrong, or perhaps right. It's hard to tell by looking at Lois, and it's hard to look at Lois for too long.
"Someone dropped off a packet of evidence addressed to us," she says, nearly pulling at her dark hair.
"You're reporters," Tim points out, because he has a problem with saying things he really shouldn't, "Should be pretty used to that by now."
He's actually insanely curious, at what could possibly garner this kind of reaction in both of them, but the words are coming out of his mouth, and he is unable to stop them.
"We are, it's just this specific envelope," Clark stresses, with one ear still cocked for if Bruce is free, "It's pretty damning, and it's about—"
Suddenly, Lois elbows Clark in the side, effectively cutting him off even though he probably barely felt the jab.
"Maybe we shouldn't…" she trails off, staring at Clark meaningfully.
"You think we should wait?" he replies, frowning, "But he could help?"
"It has to be above board," Lois stresses.
They stare at each other for a minute, as if Tim is not still standing there watching them have a conversation with just their expressions. He wishes he could understand anything that flits across their faces, but all he can pick up on is the hesitation to spill their secrets.
Clark clears his throat, finally acknowledging his presence.
"False alarm, Tim," he says, cheerfully, but even that is strained, "We'll be on our way now."
Tim plasters on an equally fake smile, fully intending on just snooping to find out himself. Duke owes him a light stalking favor anyway. Unfortunately, Lois picks up on it and gives him a sharp smile.
"If you go behind our backs," she starts, pale eyes glinting, then leans into his space and whispers something so chilling it makes Tim shudder.
"Yeah, okay," he finds himself nodding furiously, "I can wait."
The press release for the simulation technology is coming up soon and unfortunately, Bruce has to be the one to deliver the announcement. He knows why, and it makes sense, but trying to modify the script he's been given to form that perfect balance of airheaded father and actually knowledgeable businessman is harder today than it usually is.
It's likely because he hasn't eaten since lunch, and his brain requires the calories. He's getting old, a revelation that makes him feel inexplicably conflicted, and over the years, his body has started to become rigid, needing to follow an even stricter schedule.
The others are in the dining room, and Bruce has already informed them he may not be joining, but perhaps Alfred can send a plate to his office. He doubts it, but it wouldn't hurt to ask. Perhaps after he finishes altering this paragraph.
His cell phone buzzes, and Bruce slides it open to give it a brief glance.
Clark
Since you said you don't read all my pieces, here's my latest.
He sighs, almost turning his attention back to his computer, but then the link is delivered, expanding into a small preview of the article with a cover photo and title in bolded font.
Without wasting another second, Bruce transfers the link to his computer and begins to read.
(He's getting old and will never admit it out loud but the tiny print on his phone is becoming increasingly more difficult to read even with the glasses and thankfully none of his children are present in his office to call him out on it.)
When he has scrolled to the end, Bruce sits back, momentarily stunned.
Lex Luthor killed his parents.
The murder isn't necessarily the surprising aspect of it all, though it does make a small part of Bruce's stomach clench with fury.
The year is 1993. Lex Luthor has just identified the remains, expression contorted in false sadness as he tells the coroner that the bodies on the table are indeed his parents. It's not fair, he lies, skin bubbling with the excitement of an incoming payout, they were taken too soon. Meanwhile, the year is 1993, and twelve-year-old Bruce Wayne is still reeling, four years later, drowning in grief and anger that he does not yet know what to do with. It isn't fair, not in the slightest.
Bruce blinks those thoughts away, shoving them somewhere deep inside, promising to take them out when he needs the strength.
Right now, his focus is on the fact that Clark and Lois have somehow built a near-airtight case against the man who has been plaguing the world with his atrocious, ego-seeking schemes for years on end. Luthor has always managed to come out unscathed, using others as his scapegoats, but there's really no way out of this one. Legally perhaps, but in terms of public opinion, Bruce really doubts anyone will look at him the same.
Clark has been suspiciously silent for the last week. Tim had informed Bruce of his strange encounter with him and Lois about a mysterious envelope of evidence, and Clark had told Bruce not to worry about it. Bruce has had his suspicions, namely surrounding the Jada Airways incident that he had been hell-bent on researching, but it seems as though pulling on one thread has unraveled an entire tapestry of crime dating back to Luthor's early years.
The question is then, who sent the envelope? And what are their intentions? Is the anonymity a safeguard against Luthor's potential retaliation? Or are they disguising their identity for a more sinister reason? Are they a concerned citizen trying to do their part or help, or do they want Luthor gone in order to take his place?
Bruce's rapidly spiraling barrage of questions that don't seem to have answers is interrupted by thunderous footsteps echoing up the hall. His eyes widen, just as the doors to his study are thrown open and a swarm of teenagers rushes in, all chattering over each other to be heard.
"—should throw a party and invite everyone we know—"
"—so unoriginal, I mean, a car accident?"
"—feel kind of bad for the employees—"
"—should we ask Connor or is that insensitive—"
"Father, have you verified Kent's claim—"
"—would suck to intern there—"
"—doubt he'll actually go to jail, but still, what a piece of—"
"Seriously, when have those ever been anything but a scheme—"
"—summer job and your new boss turns out to be a murderer—"
Shifting his glasses up to his head, Bruce makes eye contact with Tim over all the chaos. He is quiet, brain no doubt running at light speed. Out of all his kids, Tim is most similar to him in terms of intellect and pattern of thought and he knows he is asking himself all the same questions Bruce had gone over. There's an unfamiliar glint in Tim's eye, however, a strangely calculated impulsiveness that makes Bruce's stomach pit uneasily.
In the wake of Luthor's arrest, Wayne Industries's stock market value has spiked tremendously. All the employees are talking excitedly about it, when they're not gossiping about Luthor that is, and as much as Tim wants to tell them all to sell and get rich now while they can, he is not allowed, because that is illegal and not in the fun way that crime fighting is.
He knows the sharp uptick won't last. Some way or another, Lexcorp will recover, at least somewhat, and the scales will settle once again, each company trying to gain whatever small advantage it can over the other.
Right now, though, when the stocks are at an all-time high, would be the perfect time for people to take advantage. Is it really insider trading if he's just giving advice based on his expertise, or does the fact that he's so high up at WE erase any possibility of brushing his words off as an educated guess?
Tim rolls over the potential consequences in his head as he waits for the elevator to take him up to his office. There's a receptionist in the lobby whose daughter is going to graduate high school next year. Maybe he'll slip her a little note.
They've set a date for Luthor's trial. July 29th. It is a week from today. Everyone on the news is hopeful, expecting a win by the state, and normally, Tim would agree with them.
While Clark and Lois had been surprisingly adamant about him and Bruce not interfering, they did let them conduct a thorough background check on their witness. Dennis Bryant, the insurance investigator who helped file the original claim. Tim's findings show an average childhood and a successful career that was uneventful aside from a few interesting cases here and there. His wife had passed away a few years ago by natural causes—he had this verified in case this whole Luthor thing is a revenge plot—and his remaining daughter has two children, twins born by artificial insemination. Their extended family is sparse and equally as ordinary.
But even though not a single thing about Bryant's history is suspicious, and the witness testimony seems to be genuine, Tim does not share the public's idealistic outlook. He wants so badly for Luthor to rot in a jail cell for the rest of his life, but Tim knows that the truth is not always enough to put bad guys away.
On Thursday evening, Bruce is enjoying dinner with his kids for the first time in a very long time when his phone buzzes with a call. He moves to silence it, because Stephanie is in the middle of a story that he really needs to hear the end of as it will determine how much he owes in damages to the city, but the contact name is one he cannot ignore.
One seat over, Tim gives him a calculating look but doesn't stop him as Bruce slides his chair away from the table and moves to the living room for privacy.
"Are you coming tomorrow?" Lois asks.
"To the trial?" Bruce raises an eyebrow, "I hadn't planned on it. It's not great publicity, and we all know how it's going to turn out."
He almost regrets the words, no matter how true they are, because if there's one thing Lois does not like it's being told she hasn't made a difference.
"I don't know," she says, slowly, "I think you'll be surprised."
"Why?" he asks, bluntly.
"Haimes and Bereda pulled support."
He will deny it later, but Bruce's mouth actually parts.
"Are you saying Luthor's lawyers no longer work for him?" he repeats, just in case he has heard that wrong even though he knows he didn't.
"Yes," Lois says, sounding amused. It's not every day she gets to share information that Bruce does not already have. "So, change your mind yet?"
"When?"
"Officially, two days ago," she reveals.
Quitting this late into the trial preparation is baffling. Bruce knows the firm. Haimes & Bereda are notorious among their community for wiggling their clients out of nearly air-tight cases with no regard for proper conduct in court. Their use of fabrication and bribery is more convincing than actual evidence and Luthor has them on retainer for that very reason. A decision like this, there is only one possible reason for.
"Luthor's going to lose," Bruce breathes out, realizing.
He can hear Lois's smile through the receiver. She takes a breath to answer, but Bruce blinks and suddenly he is looking down at Tim who has appeared from thin air, nearly frothing at the mouth.
"Let me go to the trial," he demands, then adds as an afterthought, "Please."
Lois laughs into his ear. Every bone in Bruce's body tells him to say no.
"It's bad publicity," he repeats.
"For you, maybe," Tim argues instantly, "My face isn't as well-known."
"Among that crowd, it will be," Bruce counters.
"Come on, Bruce, let him come. He can sit with me and Clark," Lois says.
"I promise I won't do anything you wouldn't do," Tim grins.
Bruce stares at his son. He's not lying and yet, sometimes Tim's brain works in a way he cannot predict. There's nothing for him to do at the trial except sit and listen. The worst thing he might do is clap, but even that can be explained away by a well-crafted excuse.
"Why are you on his side?" Bruce asks into the phone to delay the decision.
"I was a little mean to him earlier. Tell Tim I'm sorry."
He does so, and Tim says, "All good," raising his voice so Lois can hear it clearly before looking back at Bruce expectantly.
He shouldn't. He really shouldn't but Tim hasn't done anything crazy in a while, except complain about being swamped with work on the new simulation technology and he does feel a little bad about the intern thing so the least he can do is give him this. After all, what could go wrong?
Bruce sighs.
"Fine."
Tim sinks slightly further into his seat on the bench as a few spectators file into the courtroom. The judge has been behind the podium for a while, and Luthor's court-appointed layer is at the end of the table, but the jury, prosecutor, and guest of honor have yet to arrive.
Next to him, Clark suddenly grins in amusement. Before Tim can ask about it, the doors behind them fly open and Luthor is escorted in by armed prison guards. The man looks momentarily furious, then smooths out his expression as he walks to the accused bench.
He's limping. Tim recognizes the strange gait immediately.
"X-ray his leg," he mutters under his breath.
"Stab wound," Clark whispers, a second later, confusion coloring his voice.
"What?" Tim hisses.
Not a single person in lockup would dare to harm Luthor. No one would have a reason to nor the means to get close.
Lois clears her throat, silencing them, as a pair of people approach.
"I can't believe you beat me here," Lana Lang says, smiling.
Tim spares his counterpart at Lexcorp her a brief glance before his eyes flick to her companion.
The first thing he notices is that she looks his age. The second thing he notices is that she's unbelievably unnerving. Taller than him, by several inches, with curly blonde hair pulled sharply back from her face and pale gray eyes that glide over him like he's not there, settling on the adults next to him instead. He feels a little offended by the lack of acknowledgment, but objectively, it's better than being recognized.
"You know Clark," Lois smirks, "Always first at the scene of the crime."
Tim snorts at the blatant hero reference, as the blonde girl looks almost thoughtfully at the trio.
"I should say congratulations though," Clark says, after he's done laughing, "On your promotion."
Lana Lang is the chief of technology and there is only one open position above her. Tim stiffens, discreetly looking at the new CEO of Lexcorp and trying not to get caught doing it. He suddenly feels very relieved that he already 'spoke' to that receptionist.
While Lois engages her in light conversation, Tim notices Clark smile at the newcomer.
"It's nice to see you again, Annabeth," he says, and all of a sudden Tim has a name, "Seems you were right."
There are many things he could be talking about, likely insignificant, seeing as though the two already know each other, but the way Annabeth's eyes widen and then flick over to Lana makes Tim think there's something else there.
"Guess so," she shrugs.
Her voice isn't really what he was expecting either, a little too weighty to properly fit the California girl image she sports.
Lana and Annabeth sit down and there are too many people in between them for any more theorizing, and besides, he's here for Luthor. Tim turns to the front, and for the time being, pushes it all to the back.
Dennis Bryant's story is solid. It doesn't have all the answers, but it also doesn't have a single hole, that is, until Luthor fires his attorney, stalks to the center of the room, and creates one.
Bryant is understandably nervous as he's forced to admit his medical diagnosis to the court and has his testimony nearly thrown out. He shifts in his seat, and based on his enthusiasm to bring Luthor down, Tim expects him to try and argue his case, but what he does instead is incredibly peculiar.
His eyes gaze around the room, before settling somewhere a few feet to the left of Tim. Leaning back in his seat for a better angle, Tim finds the man's target.
It's Annabeth. Her jaw is set, lips neutral, and just before Tim almost looks away, she shakes her head minutely.
His first conclusion is that it is one of disapproval toward Luthor cornering the witness, but then all the way up on the stand, Bryant relaxes. And he relaxes before the prosecutor motions for redirect and introduces the dementia report that reinstates his credibility to the jury.
When he is escorted off the stand, Bryant is smiling, and no one questions it because the man is clearly relieved that his testimony went well. It's clear he is proud of himself, and grateful to the prosecutor, but Tim is not sure anymore who the smile is for.
"How was day one?" Bruce asks at the dinner table that night.
Tim's fork stops on his way to his mouth.
He cannot stop thinking about Annabeth shaking her head and Bryant's posture untensing like he had known it was going to be okay, but Bruce is still looking at him, waiting for an answer, and if Tim says the wrong thing, he might regret his decision to allow him to go. The trial is not over yet, and Tim needs to attend the next day. Luthor's reaction to being convicted is no longer his only reason.
Tim glances up and smirks.
"I'm not allowed to discuss ongoing proceedings," he says, hearing Duke snort with laughter.
Bruce just sighs.
The jury only takes twenty-six minutes to deliberate. The rest of Luthor's entire free life is on the line and a panel of twelve people only discuss for twenty-six minutes before making their decision. Tim knows it is twenty-six minutes because Annabeth says so. He hasn't timed it himself, but for some reason, he does not doubt that it's accurate.
The foreperson stands, and with shaking fingers, reads the verdict.
"We the jury, in the case of The State versus Alexander Luthor, find the defendant guilty of the charge of first-degree murder on two counts and sentence him to life in prison, with the possibility of parole after twenty years."
Beside him Tim feels Clark sag with relief then pick his head up to look at Luthor with a disappointed look, utterly ashamed by the direction the man has taken his life in. Tim never wants to be on the other end of that stare.
He watches Luthor digest it, the revelation that he will forever be branded by this moment, that even if after twenty years he is released, short of a worldwide memory wipe, no one will ever forget what he did. It's satisfying, and normally, he would revel in it, but as the judge's gavel comes down, Tim slants his eyes to the side and freezes.
The smile on Annabeth's face is entirely unnatural.
Tim gets out of patrol that night by saying he needs to research if a worldwide memory wipe is possible and, if so, who is capable of it and how they could be stopped. It works, and he actually does need to, but after everyone has disappeared into the streets of Gotham, Tim sits down at the bat computer and stretches out his fingers for a different reason.
Annabeth is Annabeth Chase and Annabeth Chase is not a common name.
A whole slew of information pops up immediately, and Tim has never been provided with so much data that makes so little sense that he has to take a minute to process it all.
Missing reports filed for a child that never came home yet were dismissed anyway, a kidnapping where the perpetrator was never caught but the trio of children were returned home safely, known family in San Francisco and close associates including a boy with even more outlandish accusations and other kids in a similar age group from seemingly random locations around the world.
Tim begins a file, documenting every detail he can get his hands on, but he cannot seem to make them fit in a way that gives him an answer. He switches tactics, comparing her past whereabouts with Dennis Bryant, but he still cannot find where their lives intersect. There is no reason, no good explanation for why they would know each other. They should be complete strangers. But Annabeth shaking her head and Dennis instantly relaxing says otherwise.
A mysterious Lexcorp tech intern, who somehow becomes Lana Lang's personal assistant in two months, knows the insurance agent that testified in court when she shouldn't, and smiles proudly when Luthor is sentenced to life in prison.
Sounds like a job for a detective.
Tim smiles and gets to work.
A.N.
part 1 of 2
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