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Bruce stares down at the man standing in front of him, projecting displeasure clear enough that Jack Drake is visibly sweating under his gaze. The man is silent, having long run out of decent excuses for why he hadn't noticed the embezzling going on in the Drake Industries during the money laundering.
The heavy silence stretches between them, disturbed only by the drum of Bruce's fingers on the arm of his chair.
“I have a son, ten years old,” Jack suddenly says, a hint of desperation in his voice. Timothy, Bruce knows. He waits for him to continue, expecting the familiar song and dance of a struggling parent begging for his child not to become an orphan. “If you're… interested.”
Well. That certainly took a turn.
The funniest thing, Bruce muses, is that he wasn't even planning to kill the man. Leave him bankrupt and desolate, yes, but his transgressions were just light enough to let him live with the consequences of his poor choices, had the man shut up in a timely manner. With that, however, he's just signed his death warrant.
Bruce lets a smile show.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” he says, deceptively light. “I would like to see him first, you understand.”
Jack's face clears up in relief. “I will bring him tomorrow.”
Bruce dismisses him, and picks up his phone to call Dick. Arrangements need to be made.
-
The boy is tiny for his age. No way he is actually ten; Bruce wouldn't put it past Jack to tamper with the birth certificate. He's standing in front of the chair Bruce is sitting in, back straight and head held high, sharp in his tiny suit. He's trying to keep his pale face impassive rather admirably, but the panic in his eyes gives him away, as well as the minute tremble Bruce can see in his hands.
Bruce can feel Dick vibrating with barely concealed fury behind him.
“So, just to reiterate,” he says evenly. “You're giving me your son in exchange for your life.”
“Yes.” Jack doesn't even bother to look guilty, curt and business-like, no traces of regret either. Bruce, despite years of running a mob organization, still half-expected him to grab his son and at least try to leave the city, but no; his people reported the man had gone home, slept calmly, and then arrived with Timothy in tow as agreed.
“To do what?”
Jack is thrown off for a second, not expecting the question. Tim looks about to cry, but Bruce is not going to leave him with any illusions about what's happening. Not that he had many to begin with, it seems, judging by the grim acceptance on his face.
“Whatever you want to do with him,” Jack says, but it sounds more like a question.
“Excellent.” Bruce leans forward, focusing his attention on Tim. “Come here, bud.”
Tim flinches before walking towards him, movements wooden and stiff. Bruce raises up, and the moment Tim is close enough he picks him up, setting him on his hip. The kid yelps, gripping at his shirt before Bruce shifts his arms to hold him more securely. He weighs less than two grapes; Dick couldn't have been that small at that age.
“Dickie,” Bruce says softly, catching his eyes. He only calls him that in front of their immediate family. “You know what to do.”
Dick grins, bright and feral, and thoughtfully waits until Bruce leaves the study. Bruce almost makes it to the end of the hall when the first scream rings in the air.
Tim flinches in his arms, and Bruce raises his hand to pat his downy hair, quickening his pace.
“You're safe, buddy,” he says, low and soothing. Tim is still trembling a little, tense and rigid under his hand when Bruce rubs his bony shoulder; he can feel vertebrae under his fingertips. “It's going to be alright.”
He crosses the manor, walking into the family wing of the building. The air around them shifts, warmer and richer and smelling of home; Alfred is cooking something savory, the fragrance getting stronger the closer he gets to the main kitchen.
When he's close enough, he can hear Jason's voice chattering away with a few low, amused remarks from Alfred.
“-and it wasn't even due that day, so I just- hi, Bruce,” Jason says, bright and cheerful, turning around in his seat from where he was observing Alfred cook. Bruce takes a moment to appreciate how much he's changed after just a year with them. From a thin, wary kid he found sitting at his table to a lively, self assured teen; he's got taller, a promise of a stockier build visible in his frame now that he's well fed. Dick has started teaching him how to fight properly, so he can see muscles bulking up on his broadening shoulders.
“Hello,” Bruce says, and plops Tim on the chair next to him. “This is Tim.”
“Hi,” Jason says, softer this time. He was told about the situation yesterday, and was rather vocal in his opinions on what should be done with the older Drake. Dick, and by proxy Bruce, wholeheartedly agreed.
“Hi,” Tim whispers, barely audible. The trembling has mostly gone down, but when Bruce leans over to take a look at his face, he's still pallid. Bruce thinks about getting a shock blanket, but decides against it; the kitchen is overly warm as it is.
Bruce crouches on his knee to lower himself to Tim's eye level; behind him, Jason turns back around to watching Alfred, politely pretending he's not listening.
“You heard him say I could do what I wanted,” Bruce states, and Tim can't quite hide the grimace. “What I want is for you to be safe, and you're safe in my home.”
“Why?” Tim asks, eyes flashing with sudden defiance. A fierce little thing, Bruce thinks fondly.
“Because that man doesn't deserve to be called a father,” he says. Alfred puts a bowl of steaming broth in front of Tim, setting a spoon down with a soft clink. Tim takes a brief, calculating look at it before snapping his attention back to Bruce. “I do.”
“You're mine now,” Bruce says, knowing he's repeating Dick's words from a year ago. Tim looks at him with wide, mistrusting eyes, but Bruce hadn’t expected anything other than that; the boy is smart to stay alert. That's fine, they have plenty of time. “And I take care of what's mine.”