Work Text:
“... and so I said, of course that’s not copper, look where you got it from!”
Bruce forces a laugh, trying not to noticeably tighten his grip on his champagne flute.
It wouldn’t do, after all, for the Drakes to realize that he’d like to be anywhere else but here. Not when he’s put so much work into getting into their good graces.
He’s hated every minute of it, but it’s necessary. He’s managed to gather circumstantial evidence that Jack is involved in artifact smuggling through hacking their home security cameras, though he hasn’t managed to find anything on Janet.
Not yet, at least. Hopefully he’ll have evidence of that by the end of the night.
Still, for now he’s got to keep up appearances.
“So, doing anything fun soon?” He asks.
“Oh, we’ve got the trip to Egypt in April,” Janet says with a smile. “Three months at a dig, isn’t that wonderful?”
Bruce frowns.
“Isn’t Timothy’s birthday in July?”
“Well, we’ll be back by then. I’m sure he’ll have a lovely time with his nanny while we’re gone.”
“Mm,” Bruce says, thinking of how they made their housekeeper a de facto nanny just a few months ago. “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”
Jack and Janet both laugh, then launch into a discussion of what they’ll be doing on the dig. Bruce sips the watered down champagne, glancing away. His eyes catch on the door to the parlor.
Or, more specifically, the small child standing in it.
Tim Drake, for some reason, is staring right at him.
Bruce’s eyebrows rise a bit. He stares back for a second, trying to figure out what the protocol for making eye contact with a toddler spying on a party is.
Then, figuring it couldn’t hurt, he smiles and gives him a little wave.
Tim’s shoulders go rigid, and he quickly ducks out of the doorway.
Bruce purses his lips, wondering if he should do something. It’s around ten, so it’s obviously well past bedtime for anyone Tim’s age- he wouldn’t even let Jason stay up this late.
Then again, from what he’s observed over the past few months the Drakes aren’t exactly attentive parents. Nothing that would trigger anything more than a cursory investigation from Gotham’s overworked and underfunded CPS department, but certainly not the best care a child can get. The nannies have taken care of him, sure, but half the time what Bruce sees on those security camera feeds is Tim silently doing work given to him by various tutors, or playing alone with his Batman plush, or simply watching the news while eating dinner by himself.
This is no way to live, Bruce has thought to himself a hundred times now, not for a child.
He would know.
But there’s little he can do about it. The Drakes haven’t done anything actionable, strictly speaking- Tim has been left in the care of professionals, and compulsory education laws don’t cover children younger than kindergarten-age, though the fact that he’s being educated regardless might be a point in the Drakes’ favor depending on the social worker. They are, technically, doing everything they’re required to.
Tim’s Batman plush being the closest thing he has to a friend isn’t enough to put the Drakes on CPS’ radar.
Bruce bites back a sigh, then forces a smile.
“Say, Janet, could you tell me where I could powder my nose?” He asks.
“Oh, just down the hall, dear,” she tells him.
He thanks her, then strolls out of the parlor.
Tim is gone, which he expected, but still is still somewhat saddened by. He would have at least liked to say hello to the poor kid.
He sighs, then heads for one of the camera blind spots. Once there, he stops, then pulls his phone out of his pocket, quickly disabling the cameras all together.
“Read me, Agent A?” He murmurs into his comm.
“Loud and clear, sir. How was the party?”
“Uneventful,” he replies. “How long do I have?”
“Approximately thirty minutes. I suggest you get a move on.”
Bruce nods, then turns and starts walking down the hallway.
The halls of Drake Manor are long, filled with artifacts that Bruce can’t quite tell the authenticity of. Given their hobbies, though, it wouldn’t surprise him to know that they’re proudly displaying culturally significant items they stole in their home. They certainly wouldn’t be the only members of his social class to do so.
He heads upstairs, towards Jack and Janet’s studies. He walks towards Jack’s first- it’s more important that he finds definitive evidence on him than anything that implicates Janet-!
The Batwave goes off. Bruce frowns, looking down at his phone, then taps his comm.
“Agent A?”
“Working on it, sir.” He hears a few clicks. “Good lord.”
“What is it?”
“It appears that Cluemaster has attacked an all-night telethon being put on by a local station. He’s currently holding everyone there hostage.”
“Shit.” Bruce grits his teeth, glancing back at the door. “ETA for police?”
“Already en route, hostage negotiator is around twenty minutes away.” Another click. “Gordon has ordered the Batsignal to be lit.”
Bruce swears under his breath. He takes a breath, then exhales slowly.
“... abort recon mission,” he finally murmurs. “Switch all resources to hostage situation.”
“Yes sir. The suit will be ready when you return to the cave.”
Bruce exhales, glancing back at the door one last time before heading back down the hall, down the stairs, and back into the parlor. He walks over to Jack and Janet, plastering on a rueful expression.
“Jack, Janet, I’m so sorry, but I need to get going.”
“Oh, no, what happened?” Janet asks.
“Emergency at home, I’m afraid. My youngest just fell ill.”
“I’m sure that the help can handle it,” Jack says mildly.
Bruce tries not to let his smile go too tight.
“Alfred is helping, of course, but I’d prefer to be around for him. Part of being a parent, you know how it is.”
They don’t, of course, but they nod as if they do. Bruce has to put a lot of effort into not clenching his fist.
“Well, we’d love to have you over again,” Janet says. “We’re planning on having another gathering just before we leave for Egypt, actually, do you think you’ll be available?”
Bruce smiles.
“I’ll make sure I am,” he promises. He bids them goodbye, then starts walking out, checking his phone for updates on the situation.
As he passes the stars, his eyes catch on something blue. He looks up just in time to see Tim duck behind a wall, though the ears of his Batman doll are still plainly visible.
Bruce sighs, then turns away, guilt turning his stomach.
Within the next hour, Bruce arrives at the crime scene, a small studio backlot about ten minutes from Wayne Tower. It’s owned by a local station, mostly used for news and Gotham-specific programming. He pulls up behind the lot, a distance away from where GCPD has set up a perimeter, then sneaks over to where Gordon is standing.
“What’s the situation?” He asks, startling Gordon.
“How many times have I asked you not to do that?” Gordon grouses before sighing. “About twenty hostages between cast and crew. No demands thus far. He’s armed with some kinda weird glass pellet thing, caused an explosion with one already. No other obvious weaponry.”
Bruce nods.
“Tell your people to hang back, help anyone who comes through the front door,” he says before slipping away to find a way into the building. He scales the side of it, climbing up and breaking the lock on the roof access door.
Barely a few minutes later, he’s slinking around behind the soundstage. He holds his fingers to his lips to silence the crew, heading for the main stage.
Cluemaster is ranting directly to the camera when he slips onstage, therefore not noticing when Bruce starts helping people sneak out from behind the desk. Once the stage is empty, Bruce starts heading up toward him.
“... if you’d all done your fucking jobs, you wouldn’t be-!”
Bruce strikes him in the side, knocking him off balance. Cluemaster snarls, then tries to lunge at him. Bruce dodges, then punches him, somewhat shocked when Cluemaster takes it on the chin and returns the favor. He then grabs Bruce’s arm, pulling hard and kneeing him in the gut. His armor takes the brunt of the blow, but it’s enough to knock the breath out of him.
Cluemaster isn’t an entirely incompetent fighter, to Bruce’s surprise. He’s nowhere near Bruce’s level, but he’s scrappy- borderline feral in how viciously he fights. Were it not for the armor on his suit, Bruce would probably be sporting several bite marks. He holds his own for quite a while, long enough that Bruce has to crowd him near the desk just to limit his range of motion.
It doesn’t make much of a difference in the end, though. Bruce overpowers him, pining him down to the desk by his wrists. He lets go of one to punch him, only for Cluemaster to knee him in the gut again. It doesn’t hurt much, but it’s enough to distract Bruce into letting him go. He slips out from under him, and Bruce, without thinking, grabs for the ends of his mask.
With a single yank, it comes off, revealing Cluemaster’s unshaven face.
His facial recognition software immediately provides a name: Arthur Brown.
Before Bruce can do anything, Brown grabs something off his belt- a smoke bomb, as it turns out when he throws it at the floor. Bruce turns his head away, coughing as the smoke surrounds him and cursing himself for not thinking to bring his gas mask.
When the smoke clears, Brown is gone. Bruce grits his teeth, then looks over at the camera crew.
“Everyone, make your way to the front door,” he tells them.”
“We’ve got an injury,” the main camera operator tells him. Bruce nods, then walks over to help.
He looks back at the stage one more time before walking out with the injured crew member.
Bruce spends the next day looking into the life of Arthur Brown. There’s quite a bit to learn- much of his time is spent trawling through legal documents for both criminal and civil matters.
He loses track of time to the point that he’s surprised when Clark flies in, Conner in tow.
“Hey, sweetie,” Clark says, walking over to him and bending over to press a kiss to his temple. “Sorry we’re a little late, got stuck talking to a neighbor for a little while.”
Bruce snorts as Conner squeals, taking him out of Clark’s arms and holding him close.
“You were too polite and Midwestern to be firm again?”
“You make it sound like it happens all the time.”
“It does,” Bruce says with a shrug, “but I don’t exactly mind it. It can be cute.”
Clark huffs, then turns his head to look at the computer screen.
“What are you working on?”
“Cluemaster case.”
“Oh, he resurfaced?”
“Mm, last night. Had to abandon my recon mission at the Drakes.”
“Aw, that’s too bad.” Clark pauses, then clears his throat. “Did, uh… did you see Tim? I know it was late, but…”
“I did, actually. Caught him spying on the party.”
“Well, I’m glad you saw him. Did he seem… okay?”
“Besides it being well past a reasonable hour for a toddler to be awake, he seemed alright. I didn’t get a chance to talk to him, though.”
Clark hums.
“... I worry about that kid,” he admits. “I know you’ve been keeping an eye on him while you’re investigating the Drakes, but… I don’t like how alone he seems.”
Bruce sighs.
“Neither do I, Clark, but there’s not much we can do. You and I both know it would take extraordinary evidence of abuse or neglect to get action taken against the Drakes, and his physical needs are being taken care of.”
“But not emotionally. It’s not healthy for a two-year-old to be left alone like that. He should be in pre-school, or daycare, or something that would give him more social interaction than just nannies and tutors and sometimes Dick.”
Bruce breathes in, then out.
“We’ll figure something out, alright? Some way to help him.”
Clark doesn’t exactly look thrilled with the answer, but seems to accept it anyway, looking up at the computer again.
“Tell me what you’ve learned.”
“His name is Arthur Brown,” Bruce says, bringing up his arrest sheet and mug shot. “Thirty-four, former gameshow host on a local public access channel.”
“Says here he was arrested for assault.”
“Mm, around a year ago. Punched a contestant in the face during a live broadcast. Show was cancelled, and he was, for all intents and purposes, blacklisted. The people he’s gone after are almost exclusively those who would either have been involved in the decision to fire him and cancel the show, or would have rejected his auditions.”
“Guess we know what set him off,” Clark murmurs. “And why he chose that particular theming.”
Bruce grunts, then hesitates.
“I… believe I also figured out what caused him to go dark for a couple of weeks. And why he’s seemingly no longer hesitant to cross the line.”
Bruce types in a command, bringing up an Instagram post from one Crystal Brown. It’s a photo of her and a young girl, probably around three, with blonde hair getting ice cream, posted yesterday.
“This is his soon-to-be-ex-wife, Crystal, and their daughter, Stephanie.” He types in another command, bringing up the court documents. “Brown lost physical custody of Stephanie on Friday. Supervised visitation only.”
Clark’s face falls a little.
“I see. So he’s got nothing left to lose, then.”
“Seems like it.”
Clark takes a breath.
“Then he needs to be taken in before he does anything that can’t be undone,” he says firmly. “Including to himself.”
“I know. I just…”
Bruce exhales.
“It feels… unfair. Not to him,” he says before gesturing to Stephanie’s picture, “to her. Her entire life has been upended already, and now… she didn’t choose this, Clark. She’s just a kid.”
Bruce looks down at Conner, who smiles up at him.
“Just a kid,” he repeats.
Clark sighs.
“We both know that sometimes things just aren’t fair. Sometimes we just… have to make the best of a bad situation.” Clark puts a hand on his shoulder. “And if he’s really committed to doing what he’s doing, then Brown doesn’t need to be in Stephanie’s life.”
Bruce grimaces, but before he can say anything the computer beeps. He looks up just in time to see a map come up with a particular location marked.
“What’s that?”
“Cluemaster’s hideout. He didn’t leave any clues last night, but he left a few that helped me figure out where he’s been holed up.” Bruce exhales, then stands up. “I… should go get him. I’m sorry.”
“Hey, I get it,” Clark says. “I’ll tell the boys you’ll be late. We can hold on a while.”
“And by hold on, you mean let them beat you at whatever video game they’ve picked out?”
Clark pouts a little.
“It’s not my fault that the controllers aren’t ergonomic to Kryptonian bone structure.”
Bruce snorts, then hands Conner back to him. Conner whines, reaching out for him.
“I’ll be back soon,” Bruce promises, leaning over to kiss him on the forehead. He pecks Clark on the cheek. “See you soon.”
“Be safe,” Clark tells him before walking over to the elevator.
Bruce smiles, which drops as soon as he walks over to his suit.
He swallows, then gets to changing.
Brown’s latest hideout is an abandoned building near the docks. Not nearly as thematically appropriate as his first, but given that Bruce and Dick drove him out of there a while ago he’s not exactly spoiled for choices.
It shouldn’t be a difficult bust. Brown, while a competent fighter, isn’t a match for him. Should be easy to take him out and bring him in.
Bruce breathes in, then out, then straps on his gas mask just in case.
“It’s for the best,” he tells himself before he gets out of his car, strategically parked so as to not raise suspicion.
It’s easy to sneak into the building. Easy to figure out what part Brown’s in.
Easy to corner him without him even noticing.
He’s working on something. One of the pods that was strapped to his vest. Bruce isn’t sure what it’ll do, but he can’t imagine that it’ll be something good.
So, he drops in.
Brown startles. He’s wearing a gas mask of his own, obscuring the lower half of his face.
“You!” He shouts. He grabs the pod, throwing it right at Bruce’s feet. It explodes, covering the world in smoke for a brief moment. Bruce emerges from the cloud to chase him down, managing to block the exit before he can get out.
“I just want to talk.”
“Oh, bullshit, you think I’m gonna fall for that?”
Bruce grits his teeth, then takes a breath.
“Arthur.”
Brown freezes, then tightens his fists at his side.
“Of fucking course,” he mutters. He glares at Bruce. “So, you figured it out?”
“I did,” Bruce says calmly. “I also found out about your daughter.”
Brown jolts, then glares at him pure rage in his eyes.
“You stay the fuck away from her,” he all but growls. “She has nothing to do with this.”
“I think she does. Your lack of activity lines up with your court date for the custody hearing. You were likely too busy meeting with a lawyer and trying to get your act together to pull your stunts.” Bruce takes a step forward. “And now you’re angry, because the judge ruled in your ex-wife’s favor.”
Brown grits his teeth.
“What the fuck do you want?” He asks. “Cause I don’t think you’re just bringing this up to torture me.”
“Turn yourself in.”
Brown barks out a laugh.
“Like hell. I give up and what, go to Blackgate?”
“You and I both know the path you’re on doesn’t lead anywhere better,” Bruce says. “You keep going like this, you end up dead.”
“So what?” Brown spits. “I wasn’t living before this anyway. And I sure as hell don’t see a reason to keep trying.”
“There is, though: Stephanie. You turn yourself in, you still have a chance to be her father, someday.”
Brown scoffs.
“You think Crystal would allow that? That woman would never let me set eyes on my kid again if she had her way.” Brown glares at him. “There’s no way back for me, Batman.”
He turns to face him.
“And I don’t want it anyway.”
Brown lunges at him, but Bruce dodges him and grabs him by the shoulders. He drives his knee up into Brown’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him, then lets him fall to the ground. Without hesitating, he pulls a ziptie out of one of the pouches on his belt, getting it around Brown’s wrists.
“You motherfucker-!”
“Enough,” Bruce says. “If you know what’s good for you, then you’ll cooperate with the DA.”
Brown scoffs.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you’ll prove that you don’t deserve to see your daughter again.”
Brown grits his teeth, but doesn’t say anything. Bruce drags him up to his feet, then out of the hideout.
His stomach churns the entire time he’s turning him in.
The story breaks at around six the next morning. Arthur Brown’s mugshot is all over the news, with pundits discussing his downfall as if it were some big joke.
Bruce hears that the police took a statement from Crystal Brown around eleven AM. She denies having any knowledge of her ex-husband’s actions, and Bruce believes her.
By the time Bruce gets home from work, Brown has been arraigned and placed in prison pending trial after a risk assessment showed he was a flight risk. The media circus is in full swing at this point- Clark even texts him that someone from the Planet was assigned a piece on the case.
It’ll likely be the top story for a while. At least until something captures the public’s attention, and forgets all about Arthur Brown.
They’re not the ones who have to live with it, he thinks as he looks at Stephanie Brown’s picture again. He’s finishing up his report on the case, closing out Brown’s file.
He glances at it, making note of the listed address.
There’s a small park near where the Browns live. As far as Bruce can tell, Crystal and Stephanie still live there.
It’s a long shot, but…
Bruce sits back in his chair for a moment, then gets his phone out of his pocket.
sent/ 4:26 PM
This may be a strange question, but could I borrow Conner tomorrow?
“Soooo… why, exactly, are we at this park?”
Bruce looks down at Jason, raising an eyebrow behind his sunglasses.
“Do you not want to be?”
“I didn’t say that, I’m just wondering why this park. It’s not exactly close to where we live.”
“It’s good to get out of the neighborhood every once in a while,” Bruce answers.
“Okay, but like, I’m pretty sure the equipment at Robinson Park doesn’t have rust on the slide.”
Bruce grimaces.
“... maybe just stick to the monkey bars,” he says as they arrive at a nearby bench. “And stay where I can see you. And don’t climb on top of any of the equipment.”
Jason snorts.
“That’s your other kid.”
“The resemblance is oddly strong,” Bruce deadpans as he takes Conner out of his stroller. “Go have fun.”
Jason rolls his eyes, but runs off towards the playground all the same. Bruce huffs out a small laugh, then sits down, moving Conner so that he’s sitting in his lap. He grabs the rattle out of the small basket below the carrier, then starts shaking it. Conner coos, grabbing at it and giggling with delight as Bruce scopes out the area.
The park isn’t very crowded today. Likely due to the poorly kept playground more than anything else. Bruce is glad that he thought to bring a first aid kit, even if Clark had thought it was slightly overkill.
(“And they call me a boy scout,” Clark had teased.
“That’s because of your nature, not your preparedness,” Bruce replied.)
Still, part of Bruce is grateful for the emptiness. It’s much easier to find his target this way.
She’s not hard to find, though. She’s near the playground structure, happily bouncing a red ball against the wall.
If she’s sad at all about her father, Stephanie isn’t showing it. It could, of course, be that she doesn’t know- Bruce doesn’t envy Crystal for having to explain that not only is her father going to prison, but he’s also a costumed villain who held people hostage.
Crystal isn’t here, of course- it’s Monday, so she’s likely at work. Stephanie’s sitter’s eyes are on her phone, not her charge. Bruce purses his lips, then looks down when Conner grabs the rattle.
“Good job,” he tells him.
Conner gurgles, fully focused on trying to figure out how the rattle made that noise without allowing Bruce to shake it.
“That’s not going to work if you want the noise,” he tells him.
Conner huffs, then smacks his palm against the rattle, which does make a noise.
“... alright, I stand corrected.”
Conner giggles. Bruce opens his mouth to keep talking, but before he can something smacks into his leg. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to notice. He looks down to see a red ball by his feet. He frowns, shifting Conner around in his arms so that he can bend over and pick it up.
“Hey!”
Bruce stands and turns to see Stephanie running toward him, locks of blonde hair having somehow gotten out of her ponytail and whipping around her face.
“That’s mine!” She yells.
“Is it?”
“Yes! Give it back!” Stephanie demands, holding out her hand, then adding a “please” as if she just remembered to be polite.
Bruce huffs, then gets up from the bench and kneels down to her eye level.
“You know, you shouldn’t run up to strangers and yell at them,” he tells her.
“But you have my ball,” Stephanie says. “And I want it back. I can’t get it back if I don’t talk to you.”
“Hm. That is a bit of a conundrum, isn’t it?”
Stephanie blinks.
“What’s a con-um-drum?”
“A problem that’s hard to solve,” Bruce answers. “Tell you what, I’ll give you your ball, and you don’t talk to any other strangers, alright?”
“But what if they have a baby like you? Mommy says it’s okay to talk to strangers if they have babies.”
“That’s really only if you’re lost,” Bruce explains. “If you’re not lost, then you shouldn’t talk to any strangers.”
“What if I’m supposed to say thank you?”
“Well, yes, but…” Bruce hums. “How about this, don’t talk to a stranger who asks you for something. Find an adult you trust.”
“Okay!” Stephanie agrees, holding out her hand again. Bruce drops the ball into her open palm, and she closes it around it. “Thanks, mister!”
She turns to run back over towards her sitter, who hasn’t looked up from her phone the entire time.
Bruce clenches his jaw, then exhales and stands up before sitting back down on the bench. Conner gurgles, patting his shoulder.
“Mm? Hungry?”
Conner coos, resting his head on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce smiles, leaning over to kiss him on the forehead before grabbing the bottle from the back of the stroller. Conner latches on immediately, happily sucking down his formula.
He glances over at Stephanie again, still playing with her ball.
Maybe she’s oblivious to it all. Maybe Brown wasn’t a good father in the first place, and him being gone has no effect either way.
Maybe all this is just his own guilt talking, his own bad memories.
But either way, he knows she doesn’t deserve the fallout from this.
He can only hope her resilience lasts.