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Tax season was never easy. 

Most years it came like a polite warning in the distance. Usually they’d already have the numbers all lined up, the spreadsheets and the necessary forms all filed and ready to go, and meetings with auditors already scheduled. The legal and finance teams were always abuzz with life and caffeine. And Bruce would meet their nerves with the same calm efficiency he brought to everything else. 

With patience, a perfectly curated playboy persona, and a willingness to sign whatever tower of paperwork was placed in front of him.

This year, however, Wayne Enterprises had acquired three new subsidiaries, made numerous generous donations to the Justice League, and struck deals with a number of international partners. 

That has led to the company being under greater scrutiny this year. Every news outlet was probably waiting for a chance to turn any decimal into a potential headline.

And Bruce…

Well, he’d been up until three in the morning with projections glowing across the Batcomputer. Not only has he been dealing with the impending chaos of tax season, but he has also voluntarily taken up more Batman duties since Steph and Cass left the city for vacation.

So he slept later than expected and woke up earlier than he meant to. 

He took a call from Legal and two from the board before Alfred informed him his breakfast was ready. And then begrudgingly closed his laptop when Alfred cleared his throat when he set the plate in front of him.

Bruce sighed. “Thank you, Alfred.”

“Very good, sir,” Alfred replied, already moving to prepare breakfast for the rest of the Manor’s inhabitants. “Might I recommend consuming the food while it is still recognizably breakfast.”

Bruce ate quietly and efficiently. He could already hear the sounds of his children waking up and moving about upstairs in their rooms. Tim was most likely already awake and sitting in the dark on his bed with only his laptop as a source of light. Duke was most definitely already awake and likely in the Batcave getting ready for his morning patrol. And Damian would be making his way down for breakfast any second now—

Right on cue, there were footsteps on the stairs.

And judging by how perfectly measured they sounded, his guess was correct.

Damian entered the kitchen with Titus at his heel. As usual, his son’s expression was arranged in its usual morning neutrality, and he was already dressed for his day at school.

“Father,” Damian greeted.

“Damian,” Bruce returned. “Good morning. How was patrol?”

“Uneventful,” Damian answered as he settled into his seat. “Drake is still awake.”

“I assumed.”

Alfred set Damian’s plate before him. To which the boy cut into the food with efficient precision. “You should make him sleep.”

Bruce hummed. “I should make a lot of people sleep.”

Damian raised an eyebrow at that but let it go.

Bruce checked the time. It was still early, but if he took into account early morning traffic and the time he would wait in his car or office before coming out to make a big spectacle about being fashionably late… well, he still had a lot of time, but being earlier than necessary never hurt anybody.

He stood, draining the last of his coffee.

“I’ll be back late. Good luck on your exams today.”

“I don’t need luck. I have done my due diligence in preparing.” Damian replied primly.

Bruce felt a half smile grace his face before heading out the kitchen. “Alfred, please make sure Tim eats something before school.”

“Of course, Master Bruce.”

As he made his way towards the front doors, he was already mentally arranging the day once more. Smile playfully, laugh loudly, nod at the right moments, pretend not to understand what a tax haven is.

Easy.

He reached for the handle, opened the door—

—and nearly tripped over a child.

The boy sitting on the top step scrambled back with a startled noise, clutching a worn backpack to his chest. He had probably been there for a while because his hair was wind-tangled and his cheeks were dusted pink.

They stared at each other.

Bruce’s thoughts, already running on fumes, attempted to reboot.

“Uh,” the boy mumbled, pushing himself up in a hurry. “Hi.”

Bruce blinked down at him.

There were protocols for unexpected arrivals. Threat assessments, body language reads, escape vectors. And yet for some reason, he couldn’t recall whether any of them covered small children appearing before eight in the morning.

“Hello,” Bruce managed.

The kid squared his shoulders, visibly summoning courage.

“Is Damian Wayne here?”

Bruce’s brain stalled.

“Yes,” he answered slowly. “He is.”

Relief flashed across the boy’s face so hard, Bruce almost felt it.

“Okay,” the boy breathed. “Good. I found the right place.”

“Why are you looking for Damian?”

The boy shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder. It was too big for him.

“Because he’s my brother,” the kid answered.

Silence.

Bruce had experienced gunfire with less immediate impact.

“I see,” Bruce replied, because apparently that was what his vocabulary had been reduced to.

The boy nodded quickly, mistaking Bruce’s tone for understanding. “Yeah. He said there was a new cool escape room that opened up in his last letter. So I sneaked on a plane when no one was looking.”

“Uh huh. Your name?”

“Peter,” the boy answered immediately with a nod. 

“So you got on a plane,” Bruce repeated slowly. “By yourself.”

Peter nodded enthusiastically. “I hid in the big boxes.” He dug into his pocket with one hand while the other kept a death grip on the backpack strap. He pulled out a folded, very loved piece of paper and held it up. “And then I searched all night with Damian’s picture.”

Bruce took it.

It was, in fact, a very well-done sketch of Wayne Manor.

With his son’s signature signed just below the sketch.

His pulse thudded in his ears.

“You said letters,” Bruce said, because he had learned to follow the threads that presented themselves. “Damian wrote you letters?”

Peter beamed, almost jumping on the spot with excitement. “Yeah! Two every month. They’re kinda short. He asks how training is, and he tells me about Gotham and school!”

“Master Bruce?”

Bruce turned and found Alfred standing statue-still just behind him. The older butler’s eyes flickered between him and the kid.

“I was under the impression you had already left.” Alfred continued. “And who is this young guest?”

“I’m not sure—”

“I’m Peter!”

At the rather loud exclamation of his name, Bruce heard a number of things at once. The sound of Titus barking. The dropping of utensils on porcelain. And then the hurried steps of one young Wayne.

The second Damian turned the corner and his eyes landed on the small figure just behind Bruce, his eyes went wide.

“Peter?”

“Damian!” Peter waved his hand excitedly.

In an instant, Damian was on the young boy. His eyes narrowed as he took in the dishevelled look, and his hands snatched the picture Bruce still held.

“Mother did not inform me you were coming.” Damian muttered, crossing his arms.

“She left for a mission.”

Damian nodded. “Father, I will leave with you.” He waved something to Titus, who ran back into the Manor only to come back with Damian’s bag in his mouth.

Without even waiting for Bruce’s approval or any sort of acknowledgement, Damian was already walking to the car.

“Come along, Peter,” Damian called out.

The young boy trailed after him with a wide grin and a little pep in his step.

“Well, I shall prepare an extra plate for dinner tonight,” Alfred sighed. Bruce nodded absentmindedly.

Then he descended the steps.

Every part of him wanted to gather information, secure the perimeter, call Oracle, maybe wake up half the League. But he caught the way the boy tugged on Damian’s sleeve with a level of familiarity that made him curious. That and the fact Damian wasn’t bristling with annoyance around the kid like he usually does with strangers.

“Where are you going?” Bruce spoke up.

Damian looked over his shoulder. “I am going to school. Peter will stay with you while I contact Mother. He shouldn’t be trusted to be by himself.”

“Hey!” Peter protested.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

Bruce held up a hand. 

Both boys stopped.

“Damian, explain,” Bruce commanded.

“Peter is easily distracted. He needs to be supervised.” He paused for a second before continuing. “He is competent with numbers. Have him help you with your taxes if you want.”

“Alfred can watch over—”

“Alfred has plans to mop the Manor. And I have exams. Everyone else is busy. He can stay with you until Mother picks him up.”

Damian didn’t wait for a response. He helped Peter into the backseat of the car before buckling himself into the passenger seat. Bruce sighed before moving to the driver’s seat himself.

He shut his car door a little harder than he meant to.

For a moment he just sat there, hands on the wheel, eyes pinched closed as he tried to will away the headache he was sure he would feel any second now.

In the backseat, Peter bounced once, then froze like he had remembered his manners. He folded his hands in his lap. Unfolded them. Then folded them again.

Damian, in the passenger seat, had already pulled out his phone.

“Damian,” Bruce spoke lowly enough for only Damian to hear. “I need you to tell me the truth.”

“I am informing Mother of Peter’s current whereabouts.” Damian simply stated.

“It can wait five minutes,” Bruce huffed, starting the engine. “Until I understand why a child just cargo-shipped himself with your architectural drawings.”

Peter raised a hand timidly. “They are really good drawings.”

Damian preened despite himself. “They are.”

Bruce pulled the car down the drive.

He caught Peter in the rearview mirror.

The kid was staring at everything. The seats. The dashboard. The passing trees. His eyes were huge, tired, and glittering with the kind of awe that came with discovering something new.

Bruce softened his voice.

“When did you leave?” he asked.

Peter counted on his fingers. “Yesterday morning. I think. There were different times in different places.

Jet lag, Bruce translated.

He glanced at Damian. “How old is he?”

Damian crossed his arms. “Seven come August.”

Bruce almost swerved.

“So he’s six.”

“Yes.”

“And you never mentioned you had a brother.”

“I assumed you knew.”

Of course he had.

Bruce exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Bruce asked.

Damian looked at him like he didn’t understand a word out of Bruce’s mouth. “I thought you knew.”

“Well clearly, I did not.” Bruce couldn’t help but hiss out. “Had I known I had another son—”

“He isn’t your son.” Damian shot him a look.

Bruce pressed down on the brakes a little harder than normal at the red light. Enough for Peter to lurch himself forward exaggeratedly. “Oof!” He laughed at the motion.

“Explain,” Bruce ordered.

“Mother adopted him in when he was a newborn,” Damian explained at last with an exasperated sigh. “From a woman that used a spider alias, she fought.”

Gears were already spinning in his head.

“And his father?” Bruce asked, though he was sure he knew the answer.

“Grayson.”

Bruce nodded absentmindedly. “Dick.”

“Language!” Peter piped up from the backseat.

Damian whipped around in his seat. “It is a name, Peter.”

The boy nodded with all the looks of a serious child. Bruce pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose.

Of course.

Of course the universe would choose tax season to unveil the existence of a secret grandson.

“Does Dick know?” Bruce asked.

“I assumed he knew.”

Bruce took the next turn automatically, Gotham Academy appearing before them.

“I’ll tell him today then.” Bruce nodded to himself.

Damian shrugged. “He’s on a mission. I doubt he’ll be here in time for dinner.”

“And… has he been training with the League?”

Damian nodded. “Yes. But he takes the iPad from his guards, and Mother is oftentimes too lenient with him. That is why he is…” He briefly looked over his shoulder and saw Peter breathing on the windows and drawing stick figures in the condensation. “…The way he is.” 

Before Bruce could continue any further, they pulled up in front of the school, and Damian hurriedly jumped out of the car. 

Though, before running off, Damian looked back at Peter, who waved at him. 

“He is adequate with numbers. Give him a spreadsheet or something.” Damian advised. “It will keep him busy.”

“Wait, Damian,” Peter called after him. “How about the escape room?”

Bruce could see the way his son’s shoulders momentarily slumped. “I have exams right now, Peter. Father will give you puzzles instead.”

Peter sank back in his seat, puffing his chest out and crossing his arms. “…Good luck.” He grumbled despite refusing to look at him any longer.

“Thanks,” Damian sighed before shutting the car door.

Now it was just them.

Bruce started the car back up again. 

He watched just long enough to make sure his son entered the building before pulling away from the curb.

The office was surprisingly quiet when he walked through the doors. Typically there’d be at least some office chatter as people rushed to get work done before the end of the day—phones ringing, printers jamming in protest, someone whisper-yelling about a decimal point.

Today, it was strangely muted as he crossed the lobby and stepped into the elevator.

It probably had something to do with the fact Peter trailed behind him waving at every employee they passed.

Not a polite, restrained wave either.

A full-arm, enthusiastic, pageant-float-level greeting.

“Hi!” Peter chirped to a woman who had frozen mid-stride with a stack of folders. “I like your glasses!”

“Th—thank you,” she managed faintly.

“Hi!” Peter continued, pivoting to a security guard. “Your badge is shiny!”

The guard, a man who had survived a Killer Croc attack, looked like he might pass out. “Thank you, sir.”

Bruce heard it ripple through the lobby in real time.

Sir.

Oh no.

Peter beamed, pleased with the responses he was getting, and hurried to catch up before the elevator doors closed.

Bruce pressed the button for the executive floor and felt about two hundred sets of eyes on him.

The whispers started the second the doors slid shut.

Peter spun in a slow circle, taking everything in. The mirrored walls. The soft lights. The faint hum of elevator music.

“This is tall,” he breathed.

“It is,” Bruce agreed.

“Do you work here every day?”

“Most days.”

Peter studied him with enormous seriousness. “That sounds like a lot.”

Bruce huffed a quiet laugh. “It is.”

Peter nodded, as if Bruce had just confessed to something heroic.

The elevator chimed.

The doors opened.

And just like he expected, chaos exploded. Though not explosive chaos like most would associate with the word. It was more like silent chaos.

The entire executive bullpen had the strained stillness of people who were absolutely pretending they were not staring. Heads ducked with theatrical speed. Screens were suddenly super fascinating. Coffee became urgently important.

Bruce walked forward like this happened to him every Tuesday.

Peter stayed glued to his side for exactly three seconds before whispering. “Are you, like, the boss here?”

“Something like that,” Bruce replied smoothly.

“Cool.”

Fox’s assistant was waiting by the doors to the boardroom with the expression of someone handed seventeen emergencies and had calmly triaged them into a colour-coded nightmare.

“Mr. Wayne,” she began, relief already in her voice. “Legal is ready, and Lucius has been asking if—”

She saw Peter.

“And who is this?” she asked carefully.

Peter stuck out his hand immediately.

“I’m Peter!” He introduced himself. “I came on a plane in boxes.”

Meredith stared at the offered hand before shaking it.

“How… efficient,” she said with a smile.

Bruce stepped in before the story developed any further.

“Peter will be with me today,” he sighed, already steering them towards his office. “I need a tall chair brought to my office. And… crayons. If we have any.”

“Sir?”

“Lucious can come in.”

Meredith nodded automatically, likely still processing plane boxes.

Bruce got Peter inside his office and closed the door. Blessed silence.

Peter walked two steps in, then froze. Floor-to-ceiling windows. The city sprawled below like a toy set. The desk bigger than some apartments.

“Whoa,” he whispered.

He approached the glass, palms pressing flat against it before he gasped at the sight.

“They’re tiny!”

“Perks of heights,” Bruce sighed.

Peter turned in a slow circle.

“You’re rich rich,” he concluded.

Bruce rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose.”

“Damian told me Mother’s richer than you.”

“In his letters?”

Peter nodded excitedly. Then he moved towards the desk. His eyes lit up. Peter was already climbing into the chair Bruce usually had for guests.

The kid could barely look over the desk. His sneakers swung a mile above the floor.

“What are these?” Peter asked, reverent.

Bruce leaned over and noted the spreadsheets and tax forms still spread across his desk.

“Problems,” Bruce answered.

Peter grinned.

“I like problems.”

There was a knock before Lucius stepped in without waiting for any permission.

“Bruce, the meeting is all ready. I just need the—”

He saw Peter. And immediately stopped.

He looked at Bruce. Then looked back at Peter.

“…I’m going to need context,” Lucius finished.

Peter waved. “Hi! Do you work here too?”

Lucius blinked once. Then, with the calm of a man who had survived decades of Wayne-related surprises, he nodded.

“I do.”

“Me too now,” Peter informed proudly. “I’m helping with taxes.”

Lucius looked at Bruce over the kid’s head. Bruce simply shrugged. “I was told he’s good with numbers.”

Lucius looked back towards Peter again. The kid was already rummaging through his bag before taking out notebook after notebook.

Lucius sighed. “Well. It can’t possibly make things worse.”

Bruce leaned back against his desk, exhausted and oddly hopeful. Peter squinted at the paperwork.

“What’s a subsidiary?” he asked.

Bruce opened his mouth to answer. Lucious beat him to it. So he just watched Peter listen with his whole face. Watched his feet kick happily against the chair.

Somewhere in the building, Bruce was certain rumours were already spreading at the speed of light. There would be headlines in internal group chats. There would be bets. There would absolutely be a betting pool about whether the child was his.

Peter laughed suddenly.

“I get it!” He laughed, delighted. “It’s like when the League has baby groups!”

Bruce coughed into his fist to cover up a laugh. Then he turned back to Lucius.

“Let Legal know I’ll be there in a second. I need to call Dick.” He sighed.

Lucius looked back at him. “Got it. And should I have someone sent up to watch over Peter while you’re in the meeting?”

Bruce looked back towards the kid who was bent over the spreadsheets, brows pinched in concentration as if seeing something that didn’t fit.

“He’ll be fine in here.” Bruce nudged Peter’s shoulder to get his attention. Once his big doe eyes looked up at him, Bruce added. “Peter, I’ll be in a meeting. Don’t leave this room. I’ll be back soon.”

Peter nodded.

Bruce leant two things in the first twenty minutes of leaving the meeting.

One: Damian was right about Dick being unreachable at the moment. Bruce had left voicemail after voicemail. He had even called a handful of Dick’s teammates to try and have them pass the message along. But he managed to only reach a half-asleep Wally.

Two: Damian had dramatically understated Peter’s competence.

When he left that meeting, he found a new tall chair in his office and no Peter. Fortunately, he wasn’t hard to find. The kid was roaming around the desks of the office bullpen. In one second he was sharpening pencils for one worker. In another second, he is helping one of the office ladies carry a tray of coffee back to her desk.

When he decided to make himself known, Peter was looking over spreadsheets with two of the analysts.

“This one’s… delicate,” one of them warned.

Peter squinted. “Why?”

“Because if it’s wrong, the government notices.”

Peter nodded gravely. “Like ninjas.”

“… Yes,” the other analyst agreed. “Exactly like ninjas.”

Peter leaned closer.

A second later, he asked. “Why are you donating through three different channels?”

Bruce answered this one. “Visibility. Accountability. Looks less suspicious.”

And just like that, the herd parted.

Employees straightened. Papers shuffled. Several people pretended they had always been deeply invested in their monitors.

But Peter frowned. “But that makes it messy. No?”

“It does,” one of the analysts admitted shyly, avoiding eye contact with Bruce.

Peter clicked his tongue. “You could do it cleaner.”

“What would you suggest?” Bruce asked.

Peter rearranged columns. Grouped figures. Simplified reported paths. Bruce watched the movements. There was no hesitation. The kid wasn’t poking at buttons and hoping something helpful happened.

The analysts leaned in. A few more employees drifted closer with the subtlety of migrating wildlife. He hit a key, and the spreadsheets recalculated. The numbers lined up. Cleaner. Clear path. Same totals. Half the visual clutter gone.

The analyst on the left whispered. “I can actually read it.”

Peter sat back in his chair, pleased but not smug. His attention moved towards the hot chocolate one of the employees had given him.

“There,” he sighed. “Now if ninjas come, they won’t be confused.”

Bruce dragged a hand down his face.

Six. Nearly seven.

Of course.

Of course Damian would call this simply adequate.

“Peter,” Bruce called, waving his hand to beckon him to his side. “Let’s go back to my office.”

Peter nodded, satisfied with his work. He jumped down from his seat before racing to Bruce’s side.

Bruce guided him back to his office, Peter practically bouncing beside him. The silence in the bullpen had broken, replaced by a low hum of whispers. By the time Bruce closed the door, Peter had claimed the tall chair again, swinging his legs idly.

Lucius lingered just beside Bruce’s desk, hands behind his back.

“Well,” he said carefully, “It appears you have become friends with a number of employees.”

Peter’s face lit up. “Cool! Everyone’s so nice!”

“They are,” Bruce replied absentmindedly, already pulling out his phone to try Dick one more time.

“I can’t wait to tell Mother!”

Bruce watched as Peter played around with a few documents on his desk. Lucius left after a few more words. A moment later, a soft knock sounded at the door. It was one of the senior analysts, holding a small plate of cookies.

“One of the team members brought cookies to share in the office,” she said, glancing at Peter. “I brought some up for him.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Cookies? For me? Oh! Thank you!” He jumped down from the tall chair and grabbed the plate before wolfing one down.

Bruce suppressed a sigh. “Moderation, Peter.”

“But assassins eat fast.” Peter pointed out seriously, wiping crumbs from his chin.

Over the next hour, Bruce returned to his desk and spent a dedicated period of time focused on calling Dick again. Each attempt went straight to voicemail. Peter alternated his attention between sitting in the tall chair and wandering through the bullpen, helping where he wanted.

In the single hour, Bruce caught the elevator door opening on the floor more times than he has in the last week. Analysts, accounts, and legal staff from other floors wandered onto the floor and would pass by Bruce’s office in waves, either out of genuine curiosity or sheer fascination. Slowly, they began introducing him to their own processes. Peter would poke at spreadsheets, suggest tiny tweaks, and then dart back to his chair to inspect the next project.

By midday, Peter had become a sort of living mascot. Every time he solved a problem, someone in the office cheered quietly. He handed out pens, fetched documents, and even reminded one tired intern to hydrate.

Lucius, watching quietly from his corner, muttered. “Who knew tax season could be so joyful?”

Bruce, finally dialling his last attempt to Dick, glanced back at Peter. The kid had a pile of coloured pencils now, scribbling something in his numerous notebooks with a deep furrow in his brow.

“Hmm,” Bruce hummed.

He exhaled slowly, realising that despite the chaos, he didn’t mind. Peter wasn’t just helping with numbers, he was breaking down the barriers that had kept the office tense for weeks. He was, in a strange and perfect way, making people smile and think at the same time.

Peter looked up at Bruce suddenly. “I’m bored now. When’s Damian coming?”

Bruce sighed, putting his phone down on the desk and turning back to the stack of paperwork Peter deemed too boring to help with. “He’s still in school, Peter.”

Peter nodded sagely, as though he had expected the answer. “Did he really call Mother?”

“I believe so.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

Bruce nodded. “Of course.”

There was a period of silence. Long enough for Bruce to look up from his paperwork and find Peter pouting.

“Who do you keep calling?” He asked innocently enough.

He hesitated in his answer. “Dick Grayson. Your…”

“Father. I know.”

Bruce studied the way Peter pouted as he continued scribbling in his notebook. From his angle, he could see childish drawings of what looked to be people.

“Is he on his way too?” Peter asked softly.

“I hope so.” Bruce sighed.

He watched the way Peter’s curls covered his eyes. The way he poked his tongue out to show how concentrated he was. The way Peter just couldn’t seem to sit still without needing to fidget in some way.

“Do you like it where you live?” Bruce softly asked. “With the League? With Talia?”

Peter shrugged. His legs didn’t stop swinging, his head didn’t stop bouncing as if listening to music only he could hear, and the kid didn’t stop drawing. Finally, he answered with the innocence only a child could muster.

“It’s okay. Training is hard, but I like Mother. She finally let me use metal swords now instead of the wooden batons. And the guards let me use their iPads when I’ve done a good job. And Damian calls sometimes, which is always nice.”

Bruce kept his expression carefully neutral.

“I see,” Bruce hummed mildly.

Peter nodded, satisfied with the answer, and turned the page in his notebook. There were stick figures—one with long hair, one with very spiky hair, one small with curls. Over each head Peter had written names in big letters.

DAMIN. MOTHR. ME.

Bruce did not correct the spelling.

“Do you get to talk to many other kids?” Bruce asked.

Peter shrugged again. “Sometimes. Mostly I train. Mother says I have to be strong and smart and fast.” He brightened. “I’m really good at the smart part. And she says I’m really stretchy.”

Flexible, Bruce’s mind translated.

“Yes,” Bruce murmured. “You are very smart.”

Peter kicked his heels against the chair. “But they’re all busy a lot. Grown-ups are busy everywhere, I think.”

Bruce huffed a quiet laugh at that, because if that wasn’t the most accurate assessment of adulthood he’d ever heard—

Peter suddenly perked up.

“But today is fun!” He announced. “Everyone is very nice. I wish every day could be like today.”

Bruce smiled faintly. “Would you like that?”

“Like what?”

“For every day to be like today?”

Peter looked at him with stars in his eyes. As if he were asking the impossible.

“You can do that?”

Bruce nodded. “I can talk to your Mother about letting you live with me. Would you like that? You could live with me and Damian and meet your other siblings.”

“That sounds like fun!”

There was another knock at the door, softer this time. Bruce looked up to find a young man he vaguely recognised from forensic auditing hovering there, clutching a tablet like his life depended on it.

“Mr. Wayne? Sorry. I, uh—Peter said he might look at something?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow.

Peter gasped. “Oh yeah! The sideways numbers!”

Bruce looked between them. “… Sideways numbers.”

“They’re not wrong,” the auditor rushed to clarify. “They’re just—formatted in a way that makes my eye twitch.”

Peter slid off his chair with all the solemn dignity of someone heading to war.

“I can help,” he mumbled.

Bruce watched him go, watched the bullpen subtly light up the moment Peter re-entered it. Chairs rolled closer. Someone quietly offered him another drink. Another person pulled up a seat so he wouldn’t have to stand.

Lucius appeared at Bruce’s shoulder again, like a man summoned by corporate destiny.

“I believe they’ve started setting him up a workspace.” Lucius informed.

Bruce blinked. “They what?”

“Last I saw, there’s a rolling chair with a booster cushion.”

Bruce closed his eyes briefly. “I cannot believe I might have to put my grandson on the payroll.”

“Ooh. Grandson. Got it.”

Out in the bullpen, Peter pressed a key. A collective oh moved through the employees like a stadium wave.

Peter beamed and glanced up, catching Bruce watching. He waved both arms over his head like he’d just scored a touchdown.

Bruce, without thinking, waved back. Lucius stared at him.

Bruce cleared his throat and straightened in his seat. “I should call the school. See when Damian’s done.”

“Yes,” Lucius replied mildly. “Before they make Peter a company email.”

“… They wouldn’t.”

Lucius looked towards the bullpen, where three senior accountants that don’t even belong on this floor were asking Peter how he felt about colour-coding interdepartmental transfers.

“…Personally, I wouldn’t test them.”

Bruce exhaled.

He picked up the phone.

In the bullpen, Peter laughed again, delighted, adored, and entirely comfortable in the spotlight.

“Peter,” Bruce called loud enough from his office. “Damian’s on the phone.”

In an instant, Peter came bounding into his office with an excited grin on his face. He immediately shut the door and climbed into his tall chair as Bruce put the call on speaker.

“Hi Damian!” Peter greeted loudly, waving his hand to no one in particular.

“Peter. How are you faring?” Came Damian’s voice through the speaker.

“I am having so much fun!” Peter laughed. “The numbers here are so easy than back home. So so easy.”

Bruce leaned back in his chair and simply listened.

On the other end of the line there was the faint echo of hallway noise. Damian had probably stepped somewhere private, though Bruce doubted privacy truly existed around his son. Not when curiosity followed him like weather.

“I am pleased you are not causing Father undue trouble,” Damian continued.

Peter gasped, scandalised. “I am NOT trouble.”

“You commandeered an international flight.”

“No. You.”

Bruce shook his head at Peter’s pout.

Damian continued as if delivering a mission report. “Have you remained in Father’s office as instructed?”

Bruce watched the gears turn in Peter’s head in real time.

“…Mostly,” Peter admitted.

Damian went quiet in the way that meant judgement was occurring.

Peter hurried on. “But everyone is so nice, and they kept needing help! And they gave me hot chocolate and cookies and clapped when I backflipped and now there’s a drawer with my name on it—”

Bruce coughed.

Peter slapped a hand over his mouth.

“Peter—”

“Damian,” Peter quickly cut in, hoping to redirect. “I fixed the ninja problem. Did I tell you?’

“…Explain.”

“They had messy number paths,” Peter explained. “Now if the government ninjas come, they won’t get confused.”

Bruce heard Damian exhale slowly.

“Good,” he said at last.

There was shuffling on Damian’s end. A door opening, closing.

When he spoke again, his voice was a little quieter.

“I will be finished with exams in two hours.” Damian informed. “You are to remain with Father until then. Do not attempt to assist security, aviation, or use your webs indoors or outdoors.”

Peter frowned. “That’s not fair. I brought them to have fun.”

Bruce opened his mouth to voice his curiosity.

Damian beat him to it.

“No. If Mother allows you to stay the night, you may use them under my supervision as Robin.”

Bruce stared at the phone.

“…I’m hanging up,” he informed.

Peter pouted.

“Good luck on your tests!” He called out quickly.

There was the faintest hesitation.

“…Thank you,” Damian replied.

And then, softer, almost lost to the static—

“I am glad you arrived safely.”

Peter beamed so hard Bruce thought his face might split.

“Me too!” He chirped.

Silence settled in the office for a moment. Peter stayed in the tall chair, glowing and swinging his feet like they were powered by happiness.

“What did he mean by webs?” Bruce asked carefully.

“Oh!”

The kid immediately grabbed his bag and dug through whatever he packed. Bruce watched as he pulled out a sweater, a knife, a small Robin stuffie, even a small bag of foreign dog food.

Eventually, Peter pulled out two small mechanical gadgets that were attached to small vials of some kind of liquid. He slid them on both his wrists before showing them off to Bruce.

“Webs!” He excitedly declared. “Mother had them made for me!”

Bruce studied them as Peter waved his wrists in the air. When, out of nowhere, Peter aimed his wrists upwards and a thin line of…something…came out of the devices and stuck to the ceiling.

“What—”

He watched dumbfounded as Peter propelled himself from his seat and somehow stuck onto the ceiling. The kid waved at him from above him.

And Bruce did not scream.

He would like that noted for the record.

He did, however, freeze in a way that was usually reserved for serious vigilante related missions. Peter hung there like it was perfectly reasonable, sneakers planted against imported plaster, curls dangling towards the floor.

“Webs!”

Bruce blinked up at him.

“Webs.” He managed to repeat. Because apparently his vocabulary for the day remained catastrophically limited.

Peter waved one hand. He did not fall.

Peter noticed several things at once, because that was what he did in crisis situations.

The line was tensile. Clean dispersal. There was no immediate structural damage to the ceiling. The adhesion strength was impressive but not catastrophic. And Peter’s balance was unnaturally good. Though, that last one shouldn’t be super surprising considering his father.

“Peter,” Bruce said carefully. “I actually have a no-shoes-on-my-ceiling rule.”

Peter groaned.

“But it’s fun.”

“Please come down.”

Peter looked thoughtful. Then delighted.

“Okay!”

He let go.

Bruce moved before he consciously decided to, arms coming up automatically, ready to catch—

Peter didn’t fall.

He swung.

The web caught, redirected, and the kid arced neatly through the air before landing in Bruce’s guest chair like he had rehearsed it.

Perfect.

Stuck the landing.

And jazz hands. Goddamn it, the jazz hands.

Bruce remained half crouched in the middle of his office. Peter blinked at him.

“…You okay?”

Bruce straightened slowly.

“Yes,” he lied.

Bruce turned back to Peter. “Those.” He pointed to the devices. “Are extremely advanced.”

Peter puffed up. “I helped!”

“You did?”

“I picked the colour,” Peter clarified.

Bruce huffed a small laugh despite himself. He crouched in front of Peter now, bringing them eye level.

“Let’s listen to Damian’s advice for today,” Bruce said.

Peter leaned in, serious.

“No webs in the building.”

Peter deflated. “Aww.”

“Unless,” Bruce amended, because he was not completely heartless. “It is is an emergency.”

“Like the government ninjas?” Peter brightened a little.

“…Yes,” Bruce allowed. “Like the government... ninjas.”

Peter nodded, accepting the terms of this treaty. He twisted the mechanisms off and set them carefully on the desk, patting them once like he was comforting them.

There was a knock at the door again, followed by Fox’s assistant peeking in.

“Sir? I hate to interrupt, but Legal wanted to know if Peter is available.”

Bruce blinked.

“Why?”

“They’re interested to see what Peter could do,” she explained, already resigned to the absurdity of the sentence.

Peter perked up like a golden retriever hearing the word park.

“On it!” He declared, already racing out again.

Bruce watched him race towards the bullpen again. Watched people light up at his approach. Watched stress dissolve in his wake like he carried some kind of anti-anxiety field.

Lucius appeared at Bruce’s side once more.

“They’re timing how fast he fixes things,” Lucius explained.

“Of course they are.”

“Current record is three minutes,” Lucius added. “Set by Finance.”

Bruce rubbed his face again.

Two hours, he reminded himself.

He peeked out the door to look for Peter. He was kneeling in a swivel chair while three professionals listened to him like disciples at the world’s tiniest, loudest seminar.

For the first time in weeks, Bruce felt the crushing weight of tax season ease.

“…Maybe,” Bruce muttered. “Maybe we should get therapy dogs to visit next tax season.”

Lucius did not even blink.

“That and perhaps inviting Peter back more often,” he suggested.

The end of the day came with much more tears and reluctance than Bruce had ever expected. Largely because Peter insisted on hugging every single employee on the floor before they could get into the elevator.

“I’ll ask Mother if I can come back,” he promised the entire bullpen. “I’ll bring her too! She’s even smarter than me!”

There were a few startled laughs at that.

Bruce saw three analysts grow terrified at the idea of someone smarter than Peter descending upon them.

When Peter reached the interns, the whole thing dissolved. One of them actually teared up. Another crouched to Peter’s height and thanked him for helping fix a formula that had been ruining his entire week. Peter, horrified by his gratitude, hugged him twice.

Bruce waited by the elevator doors, arms crossed, watching his workforce treat Peter’s leaving like sending a soldier off to war.

Wait. Actually, he may have seen soldier departures that involved fewer emotions.

“Okay!” Peter announced at last. “I think that’s everybody!”

“It is not,” Bruce spoke up.

Peter spun on his heels. “Who did I miss?”

Bruce held out a hand.

Understanding dawned immediately. Peter barrelled toward him without hesitation and wrapped himself around Bruce’s middle in a hug so fierce Bruce felt it in his ribs.

There were audible coos.

The elevator arrived with a ding.

Peter pulled back but kept one of Bruce’s hands trapped in his own, waving wildly with the other as Bruce guided him into the elevator.

“Bye everybody! Good luck with the government!”

The doors slid closed on a chorus of goodbyes.

Silence settled.

Peter sniffed once, then twice, then immediately shook his head.

“Okay,” he declared, bouncing on his toes. “I am ready for dinner.”

Bruce huffed a quiet laugh. “That was fast.”

“I am brave.”

The elevator descended.

Bruce glanced down at the small hand still gripping his.

“I hope Mother lets me stay.”

“I hope so too.”

The elevator doors opened to the lobby. Peter swung their intertwined hands and marched forward with the confidence of someone who believed the world was full of future friends.

Bruce followed the boy, who grew increasingly similar to his first son.

He helped buckle Peter into the backseat before sliding himself into the driver’s seat. As soon as the car started and pulled out of the parking spot, Peter had already fallen asleep.

Damian didn’t say much when Bruce rolled up to Gotham Academy. Though Duke and Tim shared startled looks when they opened the car doors. Tim took the passenger seat while Damian took the seat between Peter and Duke.

“So… Who’s the kid—”

“Mother says she will arrive before Peter’s bedtime.” Damian announced.

“Okay, well, fuck me, I guess.”

“This is Peter. Talia is his adoptive Mother.” Bruce sighed as he explained.

Duke looked between Damian and Peter. “And his Dad?”

“Grayson,” Damian answered with a shrug.

“…He had a kid with your mom?”

“No, you idiot. Mother fought Peter’s birth mother and adopted him when she won.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Tim whistled. “Does Dick know he exists?”

Damian shrugged. “Given how surprised Father was when Peter arrived, I assume Grayson is unaware of Peter’s existence.”

Tim whistled again. “Bad time for him to be on a mission then, huh?”

Bruce pulled away from the curb before the conversation could spiral into something that would require several aspirin and at least one locked door.

In the rearview mirror, Peter hadn’t stirred once.

He was completely out. Mouth open, cheek smushed against Damian’s shoulder, and one fist still stubbornly twisted in the fabric of Bruce’s jacket from earlier.

Duke leaned a little closer, peering. “He’s tiny.”

“He is not,” Damian hissed immediately, offended on Peter’s behalf. “He is appropriately sized for his age.”

Tim twisted in his seat to look back at them, eyebrows high. “How old is that? Two?”

Damian ignored him. One hand had come up, hovering uncertainly near Peter’s back before finally settling there.

“He is much more competent with numbers than you led me to believe,” Bruce spoke, breaking the momentary quiet.

Damian shrugged. “He is six. There is still much he needs to learn.”

“Did he learn it all in the League?”

“The Finance ward is where he has a better chance of finding an unused iPad without parent protection locks. He sneaks there often.”

Peter made a small noise in his sleep, burrowing closer. Damian froze again, then adjusted minutely so that movement wouldn’t wake him.

After a few minutes, Tim spoke again, quieter this time.

“So Dick’s really got no idea?”

“No,” Bruce confirmed. “I couldn’t get through to his voicemail.”

There was a beat.

Tim winced. “Oof.”

They reached the Manor with minimal additional commentary. Which Bruce counted as a minor miracle. When he turned off the engine and Tim and Duke exited the car and headed inside, Damian waited patiently for Bruce to step out and open the back door. Peter stirred when Bruce slid an arm beneath him, but he didn’t wake. Instead, he instinctively curled in closer, face tucking into Bruce’s shoulder.

Damian helped close the door quietly.

Inside, the Manor lights were warm against the dark. Alfred was already waiting at the entrance, because of course he was.

“Master Bruce. Master Damian,” he greeted softly. His gaze fell to Peter, and something in his expression gentled even further. “I take it the young master has had an eventful day.”

“Very,” Bruce sighed. “Though I am sure he’ll be excited to recount it all over dinner.”

Alfred opened the door wider. “Miss Talia called. She is en route and has given a list of the young master’s allergies.”

Damian straightened, satisfied. “Good.”

Bruce adjusted Peter slightly in his arms.

“And I received an emergency call from one Master West. He sounded very out of sorts and asked about the seriousness of your previous phone call before, I presume, dashing off.” Alfred continued. “I informed him that yes, we have recently come into guardianship of Master Grayson’s son.”

Bruce nodded. But it was that exact moment Peter’s head snapped up from Bruce’s shoulder, and his still dazed eyes narrowed as he took in his surroundings.

His vision cleared as soon as he spotted Alfred.

“You look just like your picture,” he mumbled with such awe.

“Pete—”

It was too late. Peter had dug into a side pocket in his bag and taken out a carefully folded piece of paper. As he tried handing it to Alfred, Damian tried intercepting, only for Alfred to take the offered paper anyways.

Unfolding it, they were presented with a very well-done portrait sketch of Alfred’s face. 

Damian’s signature just below the sketch.

Bruce watched Alfred study the piece while Damian scowled in embarrassment.

“Master Damian,” Alfred said at last, very calm. “Is this your signature?”

Damian nodded. “Yes.”

Peter grinned from his place still in Bruce’s arms. “He sent me pictures of everyone important I should know.”

Alfred blinked once. Then he folded the paper again, though with far more care than Peter had.

“I am deeply honoured,” Alfred sighed. “Thank you for the delivery and the portrait.”

Peter beamed. Damian nodded once.

“Alright,” Bruce said, adjusting Peter in his arms yet again. “Dinner. Before Peter’s bedtime.”

“A wise suggestion,” Alfred agreed. He tucked the drawing into his breast pocket. Not the inside jacket. Specifically the breast pocket.

Dinner was… lively.

Peter had woken fully by the time they reached the table, which meant he was vibrating with remembered experiences.

“And then—!” Peter kicked his feet under the chair. “They clapped!”

“Yes, we heard,” Tim sighed. “You did a backflip. Corporate morale skyrocketed. Stock prices trembled.”

Peter gasped. “Really?”

“No,” Bruce and Damian said together.

“… Okay.”

Alfred had placed him between Bruce and Damian, which meant Peter had access to both of them at all times and intended to use that privilege irresponsibly.

He leaned into Bruce to talk.

Then to Damian.

Then back again. Like a particularly enthusiastic pendulum. Even Duke listened on open fascination.

“So you just walked into Wayne Enterprises and started fixing stuff?” he asked.

“They were doing it messy.” Peter nodded.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose.

“They were doing it inefficiently,” Peter amended, glancing over at Bruce like he’d learnt that word today.

“That is correct.” Bruce nodded.

Peter perked up. Damian nodded once, approving of the correction.

“I told them about the ninjas,” Peter continued.

“Government oversight,” Bruce translated.

“Ninjas.”

“Close enough,” Tim muttered.

Peter kicked his legs happily.

“And they have a drawer for me.” He added.

“Do you now?”

Peter leaned closer to Damian, whispering loudly. “I did not even have to kill anyone today.”

“I am proud of your restraint,” Damian replied gravely.

Bruce inhaled slowly through his nose.

He was going to have to get in touch with Dick immediately.

Halfway through dessert, headlights swept across the windows. And Damian straightened instantly. Even Peter froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth.

“Mother,” they said together.

Alfred moved smoothly. “I shall show her in.”

Peter’s entire body wiggled.

Bruce had exactly three seconds of peace before Peter launched himself out of his chair and sprinted for the foyer. Damian was right behind him.

Tim leaned back, whistling under his breath. “Oh, this is going to be something.”

Bruce stood.

Because yes. Yes, it was.

He was about to negotiate his grandson’s housing situation with only half a day of preparation. Bruce moved toward the hall just in time to see the front doors open.

Peter ran into Talia’s legs like a missile. She caught him without effort. Of course she did.

“Beloved,” she greeted, running her hands through his hair.

“I got a job!” Peter announced immediately. 

“And you snuck away from your guards to do so,” Talia replied calmly. Peter buried his face further into her legs to avoid her gaze.

Her eyes lifted and met Bruce’s. Amusement flickered between them, though Bruce folded his arms.

They had so much to discuss.

Behind him, Tim whispered. “I’m gonna bet 50-50 custody.”

Duke shook his head. “Nope. Bruce is gonna get full.”

Damian, still at Talia’s side, looked entirely unbothered.

Bruce opened his mouth to speak. “Talia, I believe we have much to discuss regarding custody—”

The following happens all at once, so fast it becomes a blur…

The front door is kicked open, and Peter screams out before Talia picks him up and moves further into the Manor, and Damian instinctively moved in front of both his Mother and Peter as he crouched in a defensive stance.

And when the dust finally settled, Wally West stood at the doorway with none other than Dick Grayson in his arms. 

The two looked worse for wear.

Wally was panting, hair blown in every possible direction, civilian clothing scorched in places Bruce was certain were not meant to be scorched. He still held Dick like he weighed nothing, boots skidding slightly on the marble from having stopped too fast.

Dick, for his part, was still in his Nightwing gear. He looked like he’d gone three rounds with a collapsing building with how dirty and streaked he was.

“Hi,” Wally wheezed.

Bruce took a cautious step towards his eldest son, whose eyes scanned the entire foyer before landing on Peter. The kid had both fists in Talia’s collar, peeking over her shoulder with huge eyes.

“…B,” he croaked, voice wrecked. “I got your voicemails.”

“And I wasn’t asleep when you called,” Wally butted in. “Just super busy. You get it, right? But, yeah, I found Dick as fast as I could and then raced here before you said he would leave and I—”

“Okay,” Bruce sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We got it. Thank you, Wally.”

That was when Peter wiggled in Talia’s hold. He waved at the two newcomers enthusiastically.

“Hi there! I’m Peter!” He shouted. 

Dick stared. Peter simply beamed. And something must have broken, almost like a glass wall giving way, because Dick made a small, wounded sound.

Wally shifted him a little higher in his arms. “Okay, buddy, breathe. In through the nose—”

“You can let me down now,” Dick whispered.

“You sure? You’re still concussed and freshly stitched up.”

Dick wiggled his way out of Wally’s hold, feet wobbling a little when he touched ground.

Peter leaned over Talia’s arms to loudly mumble to Damian like he had no bones. “He looks like your drawings.”

Damian sighed, exasperated. “That is your Father, Peter.”

“Oh.”

Peter blinked at Dick again. Dick blinked at Peter. 

“Oh. OK!”