Chapter Text
It takes two days for the Drakes to return Bruce’s call.
It’s difficult to say whether that time gives his anger time to cool or to sharpen. In any case, he is calm, even as Jack Drake’s furious voice washes over him, in control in the way that only a man that knows he’s prepared to get what he wants at any cost can be.
“ - you think you can just blackmail us, you greedy son of a bitch -”
“Jack, why don’t you go ahead and put Janet on the phone,” Bruce says mildly, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I don’t think you’re in the right headspace for this conversation.”
From the other end of the line, he can hear snarled curses and a woman’s ice-sharp tones, before the phone is passed over. “Bruce,” Janet Drake says coolly. “I have to say, this is a… disappointing development.”
“I think that’s the very least you could say,” he responds. “But I think we both know asking you for more would be futile.”
“So what exactly are you asking for?” she says smoothly, ever the businesswoman.
“Custody.” His fingers tap slowly on his oak desk, a steady rhythm. “Signed over without any fight or fuss. As well as any related documents my lawyers will be sending you.”
She laughs, a pretty, tinkling laugh like shards of porcelain. “You must see how that’s a rather large ask. Timothy is still our son, after all.”
“In name only, and I plan on changing that too, provided Tim accepts.” He leans back in his chair, leather creaking. He can practically see her calculating gaze in his mind’s eye. “Listen to me, Janet,” he says, and there is little of Brucie Wayne in his voice at this moment. “You and I both know that there are two ways this can go. You can kick up a fuss, give my lawyers the runaround, hire your own. In which case the documentation I have of your neglect and abuse towards Tim will see the light of day, your name will be covered in so much mud even a pair of archeologists like yourself won’t be able to dig it out, and I will win.”
He lets that sit for a moment before continuing. “The other route is one which will be much kinder to both you and your husband and Tim, which is why it’s ultimately the one I would prefer, no matter how much I would enjoy ruining your name and your business.”
She is silent on the other end.
“If ever there were a part of you that wished you had it in you to care about the wellbeing of that child, tap into it now, Janet,” he says quietly. “I will take care of him, and you will return to your artifacts and digsites and never darken his life again. This is the closest thing to forgiveness you will ever see from me, and it is far more than I think either of us believe you deserve.”
A soft sound, a breath or a rustle of fabric. “Have your lawyers send the paperwork,” she says at last, her tone bored, though he suspects that’s as carefully constructed as Brucie Wayne’s joviality. “We’ll be out of cell service for a while, but they can email us.”
The line goes dead. There’s nothing more for either of them to say to each other.
Or at least, nothing more that would accomplish anything.
His knuckles are white as he sets the phone down, only the WayneTech case enclosing the slim device protecting it from snapping. He has to run through several of his breathing exercises before he feels prepared to stand up from his desk and leave his suddenly stifling home office.
It’s a success, but it doesn’t feel like a victory.
He follows the sound of the TV to one of the dens. Dick is sprawled on his back on the floor, legs draped over the low table in a way that will certainly get him scolded by Alfred if he gets caught. His fingers mash at the controller in his hands, focused on the game playing on the screen. Tim is sitting cross legged on the couch, one hand on his laptop and the other holding one of the cinnamon rolls Bruce smelled baking earlier, though his attention seems mostly fixed on giving Dick advice on how to play than on whatever he’s working on. Bruce takes a moment to lean against the doorframe and watch them, feeling some of the tension drain from his chest at the reassurance of seeing them both in front of him, happy and cared for.
Tim notices him, giving him a small, shy smile. He doesn’t tense up anymore like he’s expecting to be scolded at any moment, and the thought sends a sharp pang through Bruce’s heart even as he smiles in return.
For it to feel like a victory, the Drakes would need to understand exactly what it was they had lost, and they never will.
He comes up behind the couch, reaching down to tousle Tim’s hair. He’s used to the way Dick huffs in annoyance when he does that, remembers with a familiar sharp ache the way Jason would always wrinkle his nose and glare at him, but he’s not yet used to the way Tim looks up at him with wide eyes and something approaching awe. He lets his hand linger an extra beat, pretending not to notice how Tim leans into the touch like a flower towards the sun.
“What are you boys playing?” he asks.
“The new Assassin’s Creed game,” Dick answers, then bites off a curse.
Tim snorts. “You’re really bad at this.”
“Shut up,” Dick whines. “It’s easier in real life. Besides, I bet you can’t do any better.”
“After dinner,” Bruce cuts in before Tim can inevitably take him up on the challenge. “It’s almost seven, and Alfred is doing something with salmon.”
Dick pauses the game, gracefully undraping his legs and jumping to his feet. He grins at Tim as he offers him a hand. “Let’s go help him set the table, then.”
Bruce follows them out of the room, noticing the way Tim takes the bag of trail mix with him, rolling up the top so none will spill. Jason always used to keep food stashed in his room. Bruce even built him a compartment in his closet where he could keep cans of food and boxes of granola bars, locked with a keypad so no one could steal it. That food has probably passed its expiration date by now.
The memory sends another stab of pain, and this one ricochets as he realizes he might need to build something similar for Tim to feel safe.
Especially considering he has a terrible suspicion that this is not the first time this has happened. Tim’s tiny form, too small for his age, a delicacy which has always frightened him, now carries whispers of past pain and hunger that have given Bruce nightmares these past couple nights, and he expects plenty more to come.
The fact that two of his children know (knew) what it is to be hungry is bad enough. Jason’s was the product of an apathetic society, of numerous systems that failed him. Tim’s was the result of two people who chose to be cruel, chose to let a child in their care starve in an empty manor simply because they could.
Bruce honestly doesn’t know which is worse.
Dick is quizzing him about video games now, about which ones he might like to try next, after dinner. He’s taken a couple days off work to keep Tim company, to make sure there’s someone to spend time with him and keep him occupied while Bruce makes sure everything is taken care of, and the knowledge sends a spark of warmth through him.
He is so proud, so proud of all (both) his sons he doesn’t even have the words to express it, and so grateful he gets to see them grow and thrive.
Maybe that is victory enough.