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The secretary’s face, when he walked through the doors, was…peculiar. Relieved, almost happy, but hesitant, and nervous. Her movements were jerky, unsure, as she reached for her phone, pressed the button to connect with the man behind the door.
“Mr. Drake?” She hummed. It was a question, but rhetorical, as she didn’t wait for an answer. “…You have a visitor.”
A pause, then she nodded and placed the phone back in its receiver.
“Go on in, Mr. Wayne.” She smiled, but it wasn’t the fake smile that all corporate pencil pushers had. It was genuine, and pleasant. “And might I say? I’m so happy you’re well. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“And you.” Bruce rumbled, bowing his head as he walked past her, making a mental note to give the girl a raise, a promotion, a better parking spot, something.
Because she knew.
She knew that Bruce Wayne’s son was currently living with and being cared for by Timothy Drake. She knew that Tim had gone through a lot, with his latest disappearance. Probably even knew of his adoptive brother, Dick Grayson’s believed demise, and the torture that was for him, Damian aside.
She knew Tim was angry, now. Estranged from Bruce. Avoided him at all costs. Scheduled meetings and audits for everywhere and anywhere Bruce wouldn’t be. Most likely, she came to the same conclusion the media and conspiracy theorists did – that little playboy Brucie was just on another one of his benders across the world, with too much booze and too many pretty ladies.
But regardless.
She knew.
She knew, and she put up with it. Silently took care of things for Tim when he couldn’t. Probably did a bunch of things for Damian, too.
So, if today accomplished nothing else, Bruce could at least request for Tim to do something for her.
He steeled himself as he put his hand on the doorknob, and twisted it downwards.
Tim’s soft voice sounded as he pushed the door open. The young man was on the phone, clearly, but not the one situated on the corner of his desk. Instead, he appeared to be on his cell phone. A personal one, if the insignia on the back – from a video game, he recalled Tim telling him a long time ago – was any indication.
“Nooo, I’m not saying you can’t be vegetarian,” He droned, but it was good-natured, and – Bruce’s heart hurt at the thought – damn near fond. He held his hand up to Bruce, in a just-a-moment gesture. “I’m just saying that, love you or not, that fact is not going to stop me from eating a nice, juicy hamburger right in front of your face.”
Bruce felt himself stop breathing, just for a second.
Damian. He was talking to Damian.
“Oh, don’t throw a tantrum.” Tim had yet to look up at him, was scribbling something across one of the papers strewn across his desk. “I’m just saying. If you want to have Colin come over for dinner, fine. Just actually tell the nuns he’s coming this time – no more window escapes out of the orphanage, or so help me – and ask him what he wants on the pizza. We can go halfsies. Or hell, just get two pies.” A pause. “…It’s not a waste of food, if I eat the leftovers.” Another pause. “Excuse me, just because I’ll eat anything does not mean I have no taste.”
He nodded absently, scribbling one more thing on the page before flipping his pen between his pinky and ring finger, and lifting the paper to put in a bin on the edge of his desk. His eyes rose, just slightly, just to find the bin, only far enough to take in Bruce’s shoes, before dropping back down.
But it was enough.
He froze, before his eyes shot back up, widening in recognition. The jovial look on his face from his phone call melted away to annoyance, and downright fury.
He didn’t let it into his voice though.
“Yup, I heard him. Pepperoni and pineapple for Colin, extra cheese and peppers for your whiney butt. I’ll order it here in a second, and be home in about an hour.” He wouldn’t blink, wouldn’t take his eyes off Bruce, blindly wrote Damian’s words down on one of the forms. “But – listen. I have to go okay? Text me when you and Colin get to the loft. Please try not to break the window again when you two inevitably play monkey-in-the-middle with Titus.” A stop, and the flash of a smile. “Yeah, you too. Bye.”
He ended the call, and gently laid the phone on the desk. He wouldn’t stop staring, though, Bruce realized, he wouldn’t either. They just watched each other, like two animals, predator and prey.
He stepped forward.
“We need to talk.”
It was like a spell was broken. Tim suddenly blinked once, looked back down at his papers, and began scribbling once more.
“Sure.” Tim sounded nonchalant, but tense. “Do you want to talk accounts or clients?”
“What?” Bruce shook his head. Another step forward. “No, I don’t want to talk business I want to-”
“I don’t care what you want.” Tim spat, squeezing his pen tighter. “Now either we talk business or you can get the hell out of my office.”
Bruce knew he needed to be patient. Knew he needed to be calm and collected and listen. Because this was his fault. This was his and Dick’s fault, and this was their punishment.
But damn, he hated that kind of tone.
Another step forward, and suddenly he was against the desk. “My son is my busine-”
Tim suddenly jolted upwards. Fists slammed on the desk as he stared ferociously up at Bruce. “He’s not your son anymore.”
The statement echoed, literally and figuratively, in the resulting silence.
“He’s not, and I’m not.” Tim continued, lower now, but not easing away in the slightest. “At this point, I don’t think you can claim to have any kids at all.”
“Tim.” Bruce breathed. “Please, let me explain.”
“Oh yeah, sure, Bruce. Explain. Justify lying to us, again.” Tim scoffed, backed off, began fiddling with the papers across the desk. “What’s it going to be this time? For the good of Gotham? The safety of the world? Or was it just for shits and giggles? Because you just find some sort of sick glee in breaking the hearts of those who love you most?”
Bruce didn’t think as he reached out, and gently took hold of Tim’s wrists. “Tim-”
“Do not touch me.” Tim hissed, jerking away so quickly he ran into his chair, sent it rolling awkwardly away. He was huffing, as if he just ran three miles, hands balled into fists at his sides. Another beat of silence, and this time, Bruce could see behind the anger in Tim’s eyes.
He could see the hurt.
“Please, just listen.” He begged.
“No.” Tim said stubbornly, lips pursed, eyes tearful. He looked more Damian’s age now, an upset ten-year-old, than the barely twenty-year-old he truly was. “No, I won’t.” A gulp. Painful and loud. “I want you out.”
Bruce inhaled.
“I want you the hell out of my office. So leave. Now.” Tim ordered. Bruce let out the sigh, knew a lost cause when he saw one. “You have ten seconds before I call security.”
“Okay, Tim. Okay.” He held up his hands in a gesture of peace. “I’ll go. But just…promise me we’ll talk, alright? About all this. One day.”
“I don’t have to promise anything.” Tim snapped, but Bruce quickly saw the way his shoulders relaxed with every step Bruce took backwards. He was almost completely across the room before Tim’s eyes widened, and he was leaning desperately over his desk, practically digging his nails into the wood. “And, I swear to God, Bruce. I swear to every fucking holy being in mythology. I even catch a rumour of you being near the loft, of being near Damian, and I might just kill you myself. Got it?”
“Loud and clear, Tim. He’s off-limits until you and I talk.” Bruce worded it carefully, despite how hard it was to say at all, and took the small victory that was Tim not denying the stipulation. He paused when he felt the door at his back, leaned against it for just a second. “…Can I just say one thing?”
Tim crossed his arms. “No.”
Bruce, true to stubborn form, pushed forward.
“What we did was awful. You and Damian – and Cassandra and Jason and Stephanie and everyone – deserve better.” Tim didn’t argue, but didn’t move to throw him out either. “And I understand you’re mad. You’re hurt, and you have full right to be. Just…just please do one thing for me, Tim. If nothing else.”
Bruce paused. Tim waited.
“Don’t blame Dick.” He whispered. All anger disappeared from Tim’s face, replaced with surprise. “He didn’t want to hide from you. He wanted to stay, with you and Damian and the others. More than anything else, he wanted to stay. But I made him. I forced him to fake his death and go undercover for me.”
Tim’s eyes suddenly dropped, and he hugged himself tighter.
“Everything that’s happened. All the choices and mistakes that were made. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t want it. This is all on me. And I…I just want you to know that.” He waited for Tim to say something, say anything, but no words were spoken. After a moment, he sighed, and opened the door, turning and stepping out of it. “Goodbye, son.”
Tim remained silent, even as the door closed.
The secretary was still sitting there, putting dates into a calendar on the computer. She looked up when the door clacked and smiled. Still genuine, still lovely. He felt a little guilt, though, for not actually mentioning her or any rewards she deserved to Tim. Maybe he would next time, or in a business-related email. Tim would at least read those, right? Even if they were from him? He let the thoughts drift from his mind as he returned the grin, gave another bow of his head as he moved away.
He’d only taken three steps when she cleared her throat.
“Mr. Wayne?” He glanced over his shoulder. “If I may?”
He shrugged.
“He’ll come around. He always does.” Her smile turned wistful. Motherly. “He’s just going through a lot right now.”
“I bet.” Bruce returned dryly. He glanced back at the door, wondered how Tim was dealing with the emotional traumas Bruce had caused him, again. “Thanks again, ma’am. Have a good one.”
Another two steps, and then: “…Mr. Wayne?”
When he looked back again, she was standing, a small white envelope in her hand.
“I…” She glanced down at the object, then huffed an exhale, and held it out. “Here.”
He hesitated, then spun around and moved back. He took the envelope, turning it in his hands. It was sealed, with cat stickers and a wax imprint, and obviously empty, save for a thick bulge in the corner.
“A flash-drive.” The secretary explained, then shook her head. “I-I don’t know what’s on it, I swear! I just. Well. In this job, you learn the feel of a flash-drive pretty quickly, you know?”
Bruce hummed, flipping the envelope over. His name, only his first, was sprawled across the front.
“Your, um, daughter. Miss Cain, she dropped it off a few days ago. Said she knew you’d be stopping by soon, and to give it to you when you did.” She hesitated, biting her lip. “She asked me to keep it a secret from Mr. Drake and Damian. And to give it to your secretary, if you didn’t show by the end of the week.”
Bruce would have smirked, if he were in a better mood. She knew I would try to talk to him, he mused almost bitterly. And she probably knew he’d refuse to see me.
“Thank you.” He said instead. “Did she say anything else?”
“Just a message, I was supposed to pass on.” The secretary said confidently, obviously proud of herself for completing the mission. “’This is what really happened. This is what you really did. Call me or Jason when you’re done.’”
“Will do.” Bruce nodded, stashed the envelope in his coat pocket. He went to turn away again, but stopped mid-way. “Uh…Miss?”
“Hm?”
“…Does Damian ever stop by the office?”
“Oh, all the time!” Her face immediately brightened. “He and his dog. And I must say, Mr. Wayne, your son is the cutest little pea this side of Metropolis. Shows up two or three times a week after school to pick up Mr. Drake. And he’s so sweet, too! He drew me that famous view of Gotham for my birthday.” She held up the frame sitting on her desk, exposed a careful pencil sketch of Gotham’s skyline, Damian’s signature clear in the corner. “He’s a doll. I can see why Mr. Drake loves him so much.”
Bruce glanced back towards Tim’s office. Could see the young man moving behind the opaque glass. Swinging a coat over his shoulders, even as he held that cell phone to his ear again – probably ordering that pizza.
“Yeah.” Bruce said sadly, finishing his turn and walking briskly away, hoping to avoid upsetting Tim any further. He stepped onto the elevator, brought that memory back to his mind. Of Damian standing terrified in the doorway of the loft. Of Tim standing protectively in front of him. Of Damian, torn between Tim and Dick and himself, and in the end, choosing to comfort Tim first and foremost. He smiled bitterly, as the doors closed, just as Tim appeared from his office, smiling to the woman still standing at her desk. “Me too.”