Archive of Our Own ^beta

Alfred tells them that they will meet only one grandchild.

It is a safety concern, he says. The Bruce of this world is a major funding source for the Justice League; a connection which surprisingly intersects with his status as a registered foster parent. Most of the children he’s adopted were found in the care of supervillains or other dangerous criminal elements. The worry is that if the visiting Bruce – who is not involved with the Justice League – meets the children, he may try and find them upon his return to his dimension. And would surely get himself killed. 

"And for no reason," Alfred says firmly. "The timelines between our worlds are mostly aligned, which means the window within which you could have rescued the children has long passed. Either someone else was able to do so, or it is too late. If you went looking, you could get yourself killed for nothing." 

There is only one child who was not plucked from the belly of villainy and is therefore safe for them to see. Timothy will be the one staying in the manor with them, so as not to leave Alfred alone with inter-dimensional strangers wearing the faces of his deceased former employers.

Well, Alfred doesn’t say it like that of course. But the grief on his face, so much more wearied and wrinkled than their own Alfred, is clear enough for even Martha to see.

Their old friend who is not actually their old friend leads Martha, Thomas, and Bruce to one of Wayne Manor’s receiving rooms, where the young man who will be their host is waiting.

“It truly is a pleasure to make your acquaintances, though I apologize for the circumstances,” says Timothy, with a picture-perfect smile.

Martha positively beams.

A grandchild! Bruce's son! A beautiful boy! And honestly, for an ostensibly adopted child, he matches Bruce and Thomas’s colouring exactly. Black hair and blue eyes and pale skin. One has to wonder if the real reason Timothy is 'safe' for them to meet is because he is the one child that is Bruce's biologically, but through...indiscreet occurrences.

Well, it doesn't matter in the end, does it? Martha is simply delighted to meet him.

“Not at all, it should be us who apologize!” Martha responds, doing her best to keep enthusiasm corralled within the appropriate social dialogue. “We are, of course, the ones dropping in without warning. And the pleasure is ours, I assure you! I had quite given up on grandchildren, you understand.”

“Mother, please.” Bruce says, exasperated. 

Martha's smile broadens, stretching past what is generally acceptable for being a charming guest or a charming host. But Timothy doesn't seem to mind. Offers her a slightly warmer smile of his own.

“It is wonderful to have the opportunity to know a grandmother, even for a short while,” says Timothy. "And while I've been lucky enough to have a grandfather for years now, meeting the Thomas Wayne so highly praised by Bruce and Alfred is an overwhelming privilege." 

Thomas harrumphs his way through a response, gruff and sparing with his words as normal. But Timothy just seems amused when Bruce assures him that Thomas is happy to meet the boy, he's just gotten a little terse in his age. 

"I know much terser men who don't have the excuse of age," Timothy replies easily. "I'm...very experienced at interpreting one-word sentences and grunts." 

Timothy shows them to where they'll be staying; a room in the family wing. But not the Master Bedroom, out of respect for the Bruce of this world. The portal that pulled Martha's Bruce into this dimension – and Martha and Thomas along with him when they'd grabbed him – was apparently something used on this world's Bruce, due to his association with the Justice League. It switched them, meaning that Timothy's Bruce was sent to Martha's dimension and will remain there until the Justice League figures out how to swap them back. Which is all a bit frightening and confusing to think about, so Martha prefers not to.

What's important is that this world's Bruce isn't here, and while Timothy suspects his father would offer up the Master Bedroom if he were here, Timothy doesn't feel right doing so himself.

“And frankly, he’s a bit paranoid, considering the circumstances of many of his adoptions,” Timothy says wryly. “We are all quite certain there are booby traps in there.”

Martha laughs. Bruce chuckles. Thomas frowns.

“You’re not joking,” he says. A statement, not a question.

Timothy’s smile goes a bit strained at the corners.

Afterwards, Timothy states that he's going to give them a tour of the Manor, specifically to point out which areas they have free roam of, and which he politely requests they stay away from. Again, boundaries he doesn't want to overstep while his father isn't here.

Right from the start of the tour, it's evident that this Wayne Manor is nearly identical to the one Martha and her family call home. But in an almost uncanny way. The interior and colour palette and wall decorations the same, but slight differences in the detail. Same colour flooring but made of a different material. Same wallpaper, but much more brightly coloured, as if untouched by the fading of time.

Bruce asks about it, of course. Or rather, muses aloud, wondering why if the differences in their dimensions are certain key events, the Manor is so riddled with seemingly minor discrepancies and alterations.

Surprisingly, Timothy winces.

"There was a catastrophic earthquake a few years back,” he explains. “The Manor was actually completely reduced to rubble. What you see is what has been rebuilt to Bruce's specifications. It was important to him that it was rebuilt exactly the same. But of course, he couldn't always find the exact same materials that the original Manor was built with."

For some reason, both Bruce and Thomas seem discomfited by that. Just as Timothy seems uncomfortable saying it. Which Martha can't quite identify a reason for. Why wouldn't Bruce want to rebuild his home exactly the way it once had been? Change of any kind was disruptive and unpleasant, and if you could keep something the same, why wouldn't you?

"I see that no effort was made to accurately replace the Hungarian glass chandelier," Thomas finally comments, in the offhand tone Martha recognizes as him steering a conversation into safer waters. "I'll admit, I personally prefer installing something completely new than trying to install a replica of something that had been in the family for four generations. Better to start new than try and replicate the irreplaceable."

"Ah. Well." Timothy coughs. A smile peeking out from behind his sleeve. "I'm afraid the chandelier met its end many years before the earthquake. Or so I'm told. Apparently, it was one of Bruce's first lessons on the pains of parenthood. That heirloom glass pieces are no match for the destructive energy of a nine-year-old." 

And because this story deals with his siblings, those children Martha and Bruce and Thomas are not to know about, Timothy remains tight-lipped about the details.

As the tour continues, it becomes obvious that Timothy's Bruce's commitment to sameness extends specifically to the main areas of Wayne Manor. The side wings and lesser used rooms have seen considerable renovation. Several rooms adjacent to the ballroom have been removed in favour of a dance studio, complete with mirrors and ballet bars. The library been completely remodelled and has multiple floors now, and has cozy, cushioned alcoves set into the walls. The largest 2nd floor parlor has been converted into an art studio. One room in the basement has been repurposed into a dark room for photography. A much larger section of the basement has been converted into a theatre, but one without seats, only a cushioned floor. The most unused wing of the Manor (which has remained closed off since Thomas was a boy) has been turned into some kind of…obstacle course. Timothy seems reluctant to show them much of it, but at the mouth of the hallway, there are ledges and holds all along the walls, while the ground looks barely passable. And staring into the hallway, Martha is fairly certain she can see ropes and silks hanging from the ceiling further down.

“Bruce can be…enthusiastic, about supporting our interests,” Timothy says, smiled fixed at the edges. And simply continues on without offering more information.

Outside, the tennis court has been joined by a basketball court and a skateboard rink. Which makes Thomas take off his glasses and pinch the bridge of his nose for a moment. The gardens remain unchanged in size and location, but are home to much more herbal flora than the flowering plants and fragrant blooms of Martha's garden at home. However, a fountain is missing, replaced by a large pond. Filled with ducks. 

“Can’t something be done to shoo them off?” Thomas asks with a frown.

“One of my siblings would be quite upset if we were to do so,” Timothy replies with a rueful shake of his head. “He's very fond of animals. He’s taken most of them with him to the penthouse, but that's no place for a family of ducks. Not that Wayne Manor is a particularly great place for a family of ducks. But he's diligent about feeding them duck-appropriate food and is extremely proud of the fact that they've returned here to nest for the second year in a row. We all fear that he will eventually convince Bruce to open an honest-to-god animal sanctuary on the property.”

Genuine, unfiltered but fond exasperation bleeds into Timothy’s voice. Before he blinks it away and returns to his usual polite smile. 

But Martha is delighted. "Oh that's wonderful. Will you tell me more about him? Your sibling who's interested in animals?" 

Timothy’s smile falters. “The Justice League said–,"

"You don't have to share identifying details," Martha assures him, even as both her husband and her son give her somewhat pained, but resigned, looks. "But even something like...oh, what's his favourite animal? Is it one that he owns? Or one that he simply loves from afar? I love ostriches. But heavens, I certainly wouldn't own one!" 

That startles a laugh out of Timothy. He still hesitates though. For a moment that seems to stretch forever. 

But eventually, he begins to speak.

Timothy's youngest brother does not necessarily have a favourite animal, but seems to favour his cow ("Yes, a real, full-sized cow. Don't worry, it's not at the penthouse. We made alternative arrangements.") just slightly over his other pets. He is, predictably, a vegetarian, and has secured more donor support for the Gotham Zoo and wildlife rehabilitation centre in the past three years than any Gotham philanthropist before him.

From there, Timothy is willing to share a bit more about his other siblings. The four of them sit on some of the benches in the gardens (convincing replicas of the benches in Martha's own garden, but with much better back support), and Timothy tells them that his second oldest sibling, his only sister, dances ballet. The library is considered the domain of the third oldest. The art studio was created for the animal-loving youngest, who also loves art. The dark room is Timothy's, and the theatre, which doubles as a sensory room, is for the second youngest sibling who has sensitivities around light. The so-called "parkour hallway" leads to a gymnastics arena, favoured by the eldest sibling. But he has long moved out of the Manor and Gotham, so it has become more of a communal space in the past few years. 

"You're an adult, and you've got three siblings older than you," Thomas notes. "Are you all involved with the company?" 

"Thomas," Martha tuts. Because even she can hear the accusatory tone in his voice.

"It's perfectly alright, if you're not!" Bruce says brightly. Perhaps too loudly, because it seems to startle Timothy. "Goodness knows, Father practically had to drag me kicking and screaming into Wayne Enterprises. Timothy, you're only twenty, right? I was nearly thirty by the time I actually joined. And of course, if you've no desire to take up with the family business, that's perfectly fine as well!"

Timothy tilts his head. Stares at Bruce for, perhaps, a moment too long. Then blinks, and returns his attention to Thomas with that signature smile. 

"We're a bit of a family of free spirits," Timothy replies, sounding apologetic. "The two youngest are still in school of course, but my older siblings are mostly...pursuing their passions, and haven't found a career that's a good fit. Though the third eldest is very involved in community betterment projects. He lends his support to a lot of struggling families in Park Row and the Narrows." 

"Oh that's wonderful," Martha says. There is a picture being painted of this third eldest. The sibling with the claim to the library, who spends the bulk of his time with the less fortunate. A bookish young man with a big heart. He must be an absolute sweetheart. 

Nevertheless, Thomas's mouth bristles with disapproval. Which isn't surprising, as he's not particularly fond of jobless people. But Martha squeezes his knee, and he wisely keeps any scolding, judgmental comments to himself. 

Instead, he asks. "And yourself? You've got a look like you're about to say something you think is funny, and a habit of dramatic pauses. So I'm assuming you're about to say that you are, in fact, the one child who is involved with Wayne Enterprises?" 

Timothy looks caught-out for a second. His eyes momentarily flick to Bruce. But then he smiles. And to Martha's admittedly not-great-at-reading-the-room eyes, the smile seems warmer, brighter than all of his previous ones. 

"I'm having flashbacks to every time I've tried – and failed – to get something past my Bruce," Timothy answers with a laugh. "Yes sir, I assist with Wayne Enterprises' Research & Development Division, and occasionally attend shareholder meetings. According to Lucius Fox, our current CEO, they’re more scared of me than they are of Bruce.”

Hmmm....More evidence, perhaps, of the Timothy is Bruce's sole biological child theory? Though the idea that the Bruce of this world would in any way shut his adopted children out from the company is...uncomfortable. 

And perhaps her Bruce's thought process is similar, because he asks, "Sorry, I don't mean to make thinks awkward, but I've noticed that you usually refer to the me here as, well, 'Bruce'? Apologies if this is too personal a question, but..."

"Ah." Timothy looks more amused than anything. "I was adopted when I was sixteen. We're both still more comfortable with Bruce than anything else."

That is a surprise. One that Martha can see hits Thomas and Bruce as well. Sixteen years is quite a long time for an illegitimate child to have been out of the picture and then be integrated into the family.

Bruce recovers quickest. "And did you know your Bruce before that?" 

"Yes. My parents and I lived in Bristol for a time. Just down the road, actually! And I'm afraid I was a bit of a Wayne Family fanboy, so I semi-regularly made a nuisance of myself. I practically lived here part-time from the time I was 13." 

Well, that just about confirms it. Thomas, poor bedside manner as always, can’t help a small grimace as he also puts together that his alternate son definitely slept with the neighbour’s wife. Martha gives his knee another warning squeeze. They shouldn’t jump to conclusions and judgment. Perhaps Timothy’s mother and other father were just swingers!

She spares a quick glance towards Bruce. He’s staring very, very hard at Timothy.

“Timothy Drake?” he finally says.

Timothy blinks. Then chuckles a little. “Neighbours in your universe as well, I presume?”

“Yes. For a time.” Bruce is still staring. He looks…he looks a little pale.

“Timothy Drake,” Thomas repeats. And Martha is truly no good at reading people, but he's her husband, and she can tell that he's abruptly become quite shaken. 

And then she remembers who Timothy Drake is.

Timothy Drake. The only son of Jack and Janet Drake, who were kill in Haiti by fanatic cultists when the boy was 13. Timothy had no living relatives, and his custody situation became a bit of a bloodbath among the Gotham elite. A young heir to a fairly successful company, ripe for the taking. It didn’t matter that he was apparently a bit of a nightmare, constantly running away from the orphanage and being returned by the police. Several of the new money families sought to take him in, never mind that none of them were registered foster parents. The only reason money hadn't greased the wheels to get Timothy into one of their households was because so many households were throwing money at the foster agencies, trying to outbid each other. It was the reason he ended up in a state-run orphanage rather than a foster home; the bidding war for which home should get him was relentless. 

It hadn't lasted long. Less than a year later, several Drake Industries investments failed, shareholders began cutting deals to cut their own losses, and suddenly, the Drake fortune had dwindled to practically nothing, and interest in Timothy with it. Or rather, interest in adopting Timothy vanished. Interest in Timothy as a target of gossip had never been more popular. The tabloids and gala gossip was ruthless. The most desired boy in Gotham suddenly penniless. He had a trust fund still, but it couldn’t be accessed until he was 18, and thus, not of use to any potential guardian. Among Martha’s own circles of charity-minded socialites, she had heard that kids in the foster homes that Timothy was now being shuffled around between were also not kind about his reversal in status. Were in fact utterly vicious in their delight at his misfortune.

And then, shortly after his 15th birthday, Timothy Drake disappeared. His meagre belongings were found by the harbour with a note that simply read: Hell is empty, and all the Demons are here.

A miswrite of the phrase, all the devils are here, but the message nonetheless clear. Gotham was a city of devils, and Timothy Drake had killed himself.

Not an illegitimate child, but a dead one. 

“Oh,” Martha says, in a very small voice.

“You–,” Bruce swallows. “That is– we were neighbours but we didn’t know you.”

“Well, that’s the way of Bristol isn’t it?” Timothy says with an exceptionally casual shrug. "And you don't have kids in your universe, right? I say I was a Wayne Family fan, but it was really Bruce's sons that I idolized. You never adopted any children, so it's not surprising you and your Timothy never really crossed paths." 

"Right. Of course. Haha, makes sense!" Bruce seems to recover from the shock that Martha and Thomas are both reeling from. Or at least, is hiding it better. "Well, I do believe the atmosphere has become sufficiently awkward. Tell me Timothy, is talking about WE sanctioned by the Justice League? Because I would love to hear about your work in this dimension."

The boys decide that the best way to spend the rest of the afternoon is to pour over all sorts of complicated drawings and diagrams and spreadsheets in one of the Manor offices.

Martha convinces Timothy to let her head to the kitchen. She has no head for business, has always been happy to consider it a man's domain, and didn't bring any of the knitting or crochet projects that would allow her to sit in the office with them and not get a headache listening to them talk numbers. Timothy asks Thomas and Bruce to confirm that Martha's never set the kitchen on fire, which they all give a hearty laugh at. Though it takes Timothy a second to join in. Once assured that she hasn't, and once she's promised to stick to the areas he indicated were safe for her to roam through, he's happy to release her from his direct surveillance.

And off she goes. 

There is, of course, the overwhelming urge to investigate, to snoop. Martha isn't blind to the empty spaces on the walls where portraits have been removed. Where any clue to this dimension's Wayne family have been hidden. If the Bruce here truly did reconstruct Wayne Manor to near perfection, perhaps it has the same hidden holes as well. Places his children might have hidden the traces of themsleves, out of sight of their poor grandmother.

Nonetheless, Martha does not know where this world's Alfred is, and would hate for him to catch her snooping about. There are better times for that– namely, when he is out shopping, and the boys are distracted as they are now. For today, she will stick to her word and restrict herself to the kitchen–

Where a strange man is standing.

He is large, and scarred, and large. Muscles beneath a t-shirt, discoloured raised skin on biceps and on his neck. His hair is thick and black, with a curl of white too perfect and stark to be anything but a dye job. It cannot be overstated how large he is; he easily matches Bruce in size, but isn't wearing a suit tailored to hide his figure the way Bruce does. As such, he looks like he could pick Martha up with one hand with complete ease. He does not turn to look at her though. He is, with the utmost concentration, tossing a salad.

“Look, don’t tell Tim I was here, alright?” says the man, in a deep, rough voice that holds nothing of the Bristol accent and everything of the underbelly of Gotham proper. “I’m just here to help Alfred with dinner. He obviously wants to go all out for you guys, but he’s not as young as he used to be, and I usually help him if he’s doing something fancy and elaborate. Just pretend you didn’t see me, okay?”

“Are you,” Martha says breathlessly, stepping in closer, “a grandson?”

“Bruce isn’t my dad." But he grumbles it, in the grand tradition of ornery, disaffected youths everywhere. And moreover, he didn’t say no to her actual question.

“It’s so lovely to meet you,” Martha says, inching further into the kitchen. “And so lovely of you to help Alfred. I would be happy to assist!"

Finally, the young man turns to her, expression a little pinched. “Ma’am. We’re not supposed to interact. For your safety. And your Bruce’s safety. Etcetera etcetera, yada yada.”

"Oh, please call me Grandmother," Martha insists, clasping her hands together. "I understand we're from different dimensions, but I simply can't abide being called anything else. Not when I will likely never be called as such back home. I well and truly have given up on my dear, darling Bruce ever becoming a father. And also, the two of us have already interacted, so what's the harm in interacting a bit more? And also, business talk is so dreadfully boring, and if you ban me from the kitchen I will have to return to the study with Thomas and Bruce and Timothy, and the office is covered in schematics, which give me a headache. You would not relegate me there, would you? I've been quite good at respecting the need to not ask probing questions. I've only asked questions that are not probing and cannot lead me to the identities of the wonderful grandchildren I don't have in my dimension. And I walked all this way through the house to the kitchen to use it. I'm so terribly sorry for being inconvenient, but please?" 

It's a long string of words that would make Thomas sigh Martha, or that would make Thomas's mouth twitch in amusement, depending on the company they had. Her very large grandson seems neither exasperated or amused. His mouth opens and closes several times soundlessly, before he turns back to his salad.

"Jes– Jiminy Christmas," he mutters. "I don't even...I don't even know what to do with all of that. Look. Justice League orders aside, what level of kitchen access are you?”

“Level?”

“I’ve got free rein. Can be in here whenever, unsupervised. Bruce, Tim, and…C aren’t allowed to set foot in the kitchen, because they always set it on fire.”

“Really?" Martha presses a hand to her mouth. "I suppose I can understand Bruce…but Timothy? He seems like such a responsible young man!”

“Yeah, responsible for Bruce’s damn company and– and other things,” the young man says with a roll of his eyes. “He can’t pay attention to a stovetop or oven to save his life. To many other irons in the fire at any given time. Bruce is actually similar. Neither of them can slow down enough to actually pay attention to making food. C’s not as busy, but finds cooking boring and gets just as distracted.”

C. Martha files that away. “And the others? Do they also have unsupervised access?"

"Nah. Just me." Her grandson is smiling a little now, as he adds more washed lettuce to the mix. “Like I said, there are levels."

He explains, quite smugly actually, about the various levels of "kitchen permissions" set about by Alfred. Little D has "supervised access", and is allowed in the kitchen if Alfred is also there. Apparently, he's very attentive during prep, enjoys seasoning and other preparatory steps, but doesn't like to handle meat and is nearly as bad as Bruce and Timothy at watching a pot on the stove. Medium D and Big D have "probationary access". Medium D is a competent cook, but the kitchen is a mix of new Wayne appliances and ancient appliances Alfred refuses to go without, which combined require a bit of a learning curve. So Medium D is allowed in the kitchen alone, but Alfred will periodically swing by to check up on him. Big D, on the other hand, knows how everything works and is a pretty good cook, and moreover, has lived on his own for a decade now and definitely cooks for himself. However, somehow, he always gets a phone call while cooking in the manor that distracts him, leading to...mishaps. And so, he’s been at the probationary level for like 7 years and will probably never leave it.

Throughout it all, her grandson's voice is low, but the smile remains, something mischievous in his tone and words. It is not something Martha recognizes from her own maiden family, but something she has observed in the families of others. The glee of teasing or tattling on a sibling.

It truly is a peculiar feeling, knowing that the reason her Bruce doesn't get to experience a houseful of children with varying levels of kitchen access is...her being alive. Martha and Thomas living. A peculiar feeling indeed. 

“Alright, alright. Now you better skedaddle," her grandson says, setting the salad aside and turning on a stove burner that already has a pot of water. "Alfred will be back with the herbs from the garden any minute now. And he will tattle on me to Tim if he sees us talking. And then Tim will be a b– nightmare about it for weeks. Sorry. But the uh, library is a good place to get away if you're trying to avoid people. Or avoid schematics." 

"It's alright. I am a bit disappointed of course, but I understand." Martha also, however, has thought of something. "But...if it's not too much trouble...could you let me know, are you the grandchild who the library was expanded for? Is the library yours?" 

"It's communal!" he protests, but there's pink in his cheeks. And Martha smiles.

He certainly doesn't look like the third eldest Martha had in mind. But perhaps it makes sense that anyone doing work in the roughest parts of Gotham would need to have a bit of muscle to them. And Martha never considered that the grandchild who was involved in bettering the Narrows and Park Row might do so because he lived there before adoption. An oversight, she can admit. But it doesn't change her overall assumption about him; a bookish sweetheart. Who helps his aging grandfather-butler in the kitchen, and who softly shoos his grandmother away but offers her his favourite space in recompense. 

And the information he gave her is tremendously helpful.

Her bookish sweetheart is certainly older than Timothy, but can't be older than his mid-twenties. Big D must be older than him, because otherwise there's no way that Big D could have lived on his own for nearly 10 years. So he must be the eldest child who does gymnastics, as second eldest is the only girl. And that must be C, because during her bookish sweetheart's explanation, the pronoun 'he' was used for everyone but C. So C must be the one daughter, who does ballet. It seems strange that the only girl would be banned from the kitchen, but a fire hazard is a fire hazard! Little D doesn't like to handle meat, so he must be the youngest, who's a vegetarian and has an art room. Which leaves Medium D as be the second youngest who uses the theatre.

Oh, this conversation has gone very well. Martha Wayne feels like she finally knows things. Like her grandchildren are no longer mystery never to be solved, but strangers who might soon become family.

Tragically, no more grandchildren sneak onto the premises over the next few days.

Timothy is wonderful. He and Thomas get along like a house on fire, in the grumpy way old business men get along. From what Martha can understand - which isn’t much - Thomas doesn’t fully agree with some of the directions and innovations Wayne Enterprises is taking under Timothy, but is nevertheless impressed by his leadership and the company’s growth. Poor Bruce can feel himself actively being compared to a son that is not his.

(Though admittedly, Martha suspects the regretful expression that flits across Bruce’s face periodically is more due to the sense of loss. And guilt. They could have saved the Timothy in their world and had this brilliant boy in their family. The child just down the road, no Justice League involvement necessary. They could have done it. They could have saved him. But they didn't.) 

The days are not boring, exactly. Alfred lends Martha some knitting, so that she can sit in the office with her boys and maintain her sanity. But she still prefers to wander the grounds. Marvelling at similarities and differences. Looking for glimpses of more grandchildren. Staying away from every area Timothy politely asked them to keep out of.

And then an opportunity presents itself.

Alfred is out grocery shopping. The boys are either arguing over or working on some new invention drawing doohicky. And Martha is reminded of what her darling bookish sweetheart said, about Bruce and Tim being banned from the kitchen for being so easily distracted, pulled into their work. Clearly, it’s a trait three generations in the making. A convenient one, now that Alfred is out.

Martha hums to herself as she walks. She also lets herself flap her hands a bit. Both are habits she rarely gives into in her senior years, but the slight edge of nervousness twined with the familiar pleasure of misbehaviour has her indulging.

Humming also makes it easier, somewhat ironically, to isolate external sounds. Particularly the high pitched whine that electronics love to give off, which Martha has long since learned to tune out, to not fidget or close her ears to. A low reverberating hum in her throat somehow makes it much harder to tune out high-pitched electronic whines. And to that end, makes it easier to figure out where the whine is coming from.

It has proven an extremely effective method of finding cameras.

Of course, Martha has no idea what kind of camera setup is going on. Perhaps it only records footage that is reviewed later. Perhaps there is a hidden security guard that will raise an alarm if she strays. Perhaps it simply is a live feed that goes to that newfangled phone and watch Timothy wears, and he’ll know if she gets into something she shouldn’t. So many possibilities! Well, she’ll do her best to circumvent them. And if she fails, well.

Ask forgiveness not permission!

Martha makes her way to the old nursery. Back home in her world, she would often go into this room to sigh loudly until someone came looking for her, and she could bemoan the lack of grandchildren.

The room is locked now. There is a camera in this hallway, but Martha doesn’t know if it captures sound. So she makes a show of trying the door, then wringing her hands, palming a hairpin that had been hidden in her sleeve as she does. Returns to the door and subtly picks the lock, opens it. Lets her face light up with delight, clapping her hands in excitement at the apparent revelation that the door was not in fact as locked as she thought it was.

She can hear no cameras in the nursery, which she also expected. Nonetheless, Martha is a bit...startled by what she sees. 

The nursery has been swept, kept free of dust, but not…unpacked. And it’s clear that none of the current children have using it, because it is a startling recreation – or preservation – of Bruce’s childhood room. The one he kept until he was 10. It reminds Martha quite starkly of the unaltered main areas of the Manor.

This is grief, isn’t it? Martha realizes. The inability to move past what was lost.

Hm. Hopefully she gets a chance to meet him, this world’s Bruce. It will hurt him terribly, she understands. But maybe it’s the type of hurt he needs. Martha’s not any kind of psychiatrist, but she doesn’t think this is quite…healthy.

Ah. But now she’s the Wayne getting distracted.

Martha heads straight for the wall panel at the back of the closets. The electronic whine of an armed alarm is expected, and doesn't bother her unduly. This is one of Alfred’s super secret hidey-holes that his employers are not supposed to know about. Martha only knows about it because she came into the nursery with him to reminisce on his last day before he retired, bluntly missed the social cues and hints Alfred was giving about wanting to be left alone in the room, until he was forced to admit he had firearms stored in a secret compartment and wanted to make sure to remove them.

The nursery hadn't been used for fifteen years at that point, and the compartment was thoroughly hidden, alarmed (but only by sending a notification to Alfred's personal cell phone) and locked behind a scanner. But Martha has taken this world's Alfred’s hands numerous times over the visit, and has more than enough powder to get a usable recreation of his fingerprints off of her gloves. Easy-peasy to apply it to the hand scanner!

The compartment opens.

Alfred, somewhere in a high-end grocer, has doubtlessly been notified. He may immediately inform Timothy, or he may just rush back himself to avoid revealing his hiding spot. In either case, no one will arrive in time to stop Martha from claiming her prize.

Pictures.

It was simply the most logical place. Martha, Thomas, and Bruce live in a Wayne manor that is nearly identical to this one and have been given mostly free rein of the grounds. If Alfred and her grandchildren were trying to hide pictures it would have to be a Wayne Manor hiding spot unknown to the Waynes. So, one of Alfred's secret cubbies. There was a chance of course that the holes had moved, seeing as Bruce wouldn't have been able to recreate them if he didn't know about them. But Alfred's secret compartments were, one could say, home-made. Meaning it was perfectly reasonable to assume he'd rebuilt them in the new Manor, in the places he was already familiar with. And of those secret compartments, Martha is fairly certain the one that holds his shotguns would be the only one large enough to fit a family portrait.

And there they are.

The shotguns, yes. But also several framed photographs, including one huge portrait that's nearly as big as she is. A portrait of this world's Bruce, and this world's Alfred, and of–

Wait a moment. Martha's triumphant smile dims. This is the main family portrait...but there are only 4 grandchildren pictured. And not a single one of them is her bookish sweetheart. Something isn't right. 

She tilts her head. Starts to hum. 

Ah. Yes, there it is. The frame is making an annoying sound too. Annoying now, because she’s growing frustrated, and it’s harder to think of the whine of electronics as a fun clue on a scavenger hunt when she’s frustrated. But she is experienced at this sort of thing in her grand age, and with only a bit of a headache, makes herself focus.

Yes. The frame is whining too.

Another alarm? A hidden camera? Oh, this is fun again. Martha runs her fingers along the edges and bottom of the frame, until she finds a button. Pressing it doesn’t do anything. So she dons her Alfred-fingerprint gloves and tries again.

The surface of the photo ripples.

Not a printed photo, but in fact a digital screen. One that shifts now, to a new picture.

And Martha’s face splits open wide in delight.

When Martha returns to the office, Timothy and Bruce are still utterly engrossed in their fancy drawings. Thomas has retired to a chair as opposed to leaning over the table, eyes lidded but sharp, still clearly watching with interest. Only he turns as Martha reenters the room. His face relaxes in that minute way that only she notices, that special look of fondness that she gets whenever they reunite after time spent apart.

And then Thomas tenses. And gives her second special look. The look she gets when her husband notices that she’s clearly been having a bit of fun elsewhere, potentially in a way that will ruffle someone’s feathers.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” Martha says brightly. “But I would like very much to have a dinner with all of the grandchildren.”

Timothy does look up now, with a patient expression. “I know. But as the Justice League explained–,”

“Oh, I think we can disregard that. I mean, I happened to see that lovely family portrait you have, so I know what you all look like, so I imagine meeting you all in person won’t do any more harm will it?”

“Martha,” Thomas says. Which isn’t a reproach, but is a question. She moves over to him, and shows the picture she took on her phone. Timothy and Bruce also hurry over. And Timothy’s eyes go wide as he looks at the photo on her screen.

A family portrait. The real Wayne family portrait.

Sitting in the centre is Bruce, looking older and greyer than Martha's Bruce, despite being the same age. He is not quite smiling, but there is something relaxed in his posture. He does not take off his grief for anything, Martha thinks. But it weighs less when surrounded by the family he’s built for himself.

There are the people who were in the first, decoy portrait. Alfred, standing behind Bruce. And four children. Timothy, a young man perhaps in his late 20s or early 30s, a young woman, and an adolescent boy. The young man must be the ‘oldest’, who likes gymnastics and has probationary kitchen access. And the young woman is C. The young boy must be Little D, simply by virtue of being the youngest in the picture. 

And then there are people who were missing from the decoy portrait. There is her bookish sweetheart, standing on the other side of Alfred. There is a young African-American man who seems to fit the age range between Little D and Timothy, and so must be Medium D. And also, the only other young man in the photo is very much Lucian Fox's son. 

And then there are the young women who are not C. A grinning blonde girl leaning on the chair C is sitting on, Timothy’s hand on her shoulder. Barbara Gordon, in a wheelchair as she is in Martha’s world, with a small and secretive little smile. And then Katherine, Martha’s niece, who is similar to Bruce in her awkward not-quite smile, but otherwise seems at ease.

“Goodness gracious,” splutters Thomas. “I thought there were only six?”

“Um,” says Timothy.

“Is that Cousin Kate?” Bruce asks, baffled. Understandably so; they don’t speak to the Kanes at all. “And the Commissioner’s daughter? And Mr. Fox’s son?”

“Um,” says Timothy.

“With the exception of Kate, my guess is that they and that lively blonde are all romantic partners,” Martha deduces. “And it’s not so strange to think you’d be closer to Kate here, as your remaining family.”

“The Kanes?” Bruce says incredulous. Then winces, with the expression of someone who has just remembered that he has the benefit of two living parents and can afford to be more picky about the other family members who chooses to be close to.

Timothy offers no answers. Is looking down at his own phone. Grimaces for a moment. Potentially, he has just received a message from Alfred noting that an alarm has been triggered and a closet broken into.

“Oh, don’t blame Alfred,” Martha says quickly. “It is just that when our Alfred retired, he revealed to us all of his little hidey-holes and compartments since he would no longer be using them. Your Alfred had no reason to suspect I’d know where it is or how to open it.”

“…Right.” Timothy says. Though now he's staring at her like he’s never seen her before.

“In any case, what’s done is done,” says Thomas, brusque. “I daresay, we may as well proceed with this dinner, lest Martha escalate to whatever she had planned if this picture search didn’t work out.”

Martha beams at him, unrepentant.

Timothy seems at an utter loss for words. He looks at Bruce. Bruce grimaces apologetically. He looks at Thomas. Thomas stares back unapologetically, like a good husband. Finally, he looks again to Martha. 

"It's just..." She lets her smile fade, wringing her hands. "You've made it so very clear that we are not to look for any of your siblings when we return home. So this is the only chance I'll ever have to meet them! Oh Timothy, please? Please won't you let your grandmother have dinner with her grandchildren for the first and last time?"

Timothy, honestly, looks a little shell-shocked. "You...you're emotionally manipulating me?" 

Martha blinks her dewy eyes. "Is it working?" 

Timothy looks back at Bruce. This time, Bruce shrugs and holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. Timothy groans and buries his face in his hands.

"The problem is," he says, muffled, "now I really don't believe that you won't try to find everyone when you go back home. And Mrs. Wayne–," 

"Grandmother," she corrects immediately.

Timothy takes a breath. Lifts his face. "Grandmother. I don't want to be responsible for your deaths at the hands of assassins. Because it's with assassins that most of my siblings would be found, if they're still alive in your world. I don't know if the Justice League fully explained the extent of the danger–,"

"Oh, they kept it quite vague," Martha replies breezily. "I wish they had mentioned it was assassins. I could have cleared some of this up from the start! You don't have to worry about me handling myself with assassins dear."

Timothy opens his mouth to argue. Then shuts it. His brow knits. "What. What does that mean." 

He turns to Bruce, beseeching. "What does that mean."

Martha beams again. It's Bruce's turn to groan and bury his face in his hands

"Oh, I had to run off an awful assassin woman who was sniffing around Bruce some years back," Martha explains brightly. Then her eyes narrow. "A Miss al Ghul who was determined to get her claws into my darling boy. Well, I certainly set her straight." 

Timothy has returned to staring like he's never seen her before. "You– what do you mean you–," 

He turns accusingly towards Bruce. "You're not involved with the Justice League or any kind of– of– how did you catch an al Ghul’s attention?”

Bruce grimaces. “Some bad decisions while travelling abroad.”

“Who would have thought, being a directionless twenty-something-year-old with nebulous but abstract desires about ‘changing the world’ makes you susceptible to cults,” Thomas says dryly.

“Father can we please not have this lecture again.”

“My Bruce is a very smart boy, very good at making connections and uncovering clues, that sort of thing," Martha jumps in. "And made certain connections and uncovered certain clues that caught the attention of that al Ghul family. I don't know the details really, because Bruce was very clear that he wasn't going to be joining their little cult. That fellow calling himself a devil or a demon or whatever lost interest quickly. But that daughter of his. Well.”

Martha levels a cutting glare at her son. “She kept in contact with my son secretly.”

Bruce's shoulders creep up to his ears. "It wasn't– I mean– Mother." 

Martha huffs. “Eventually, Bruce realized she wasn’t a suitable match and broke it off. But apparently that just meant 'making it clear he couldn't marry her/be her assassin prince' and didn't mean 'not continuing to meet with her secretly for sordid little rendezvouses'. And since my darling son clearly wasn't making decisions with the right body part, I had no choice to but to end the relationship myself. So I ran her off."

Timothy slowly sinks down into one of the office chairs. "You...ran off Talia al Ghul?"

"Oh, you know who I'm talking about?" Hm, that's concerning. Martha makes a note to ask about that later. "And yes. I warned her off with words first, which of course she didn't heed. Then I started paying off security at the airport to ‘find’ things in her luggage so she wouldn’t be permitted entry into Gotham and be promptly sent back. Thomas believed this to be a potentially insensitive thing to do, considering her Miss al Ghul's ethnicity, and that I should find other methods of dissuasion. I accepted that criticism and instead funded a full renovation of the airport so that the section where private jets could land would be inoperable for the next 5-10 years. Which inconvenienced us, of course. But no longer taking private aircraft also lent credence to the Wayne environmental efforts, so no real harm done.”

"And that worked?" Timothy asks in disbelief.

"Heavens no! That woman wasn't so easily deterred. She took to flying into Bludhaven and boating or driving over. I soon realized that simply hindering her ability to get to Gotham wasn't really getting the message across to leave my boy alone, and recalled that violence was her preferred language. Goodness knows, half the time I caught her and Bruce together they were 'sparring' or 'sword fighting' or 'dodging throwing knives'".

“I...didn’t know you knew about all of that,” Bruce says, vaguely horrified.

"So much of my household budget that year went to paying informants to keep an eye out for you and that woman," Martha sighs. "That's why I kept putting off replacing all the linens. Well, no matter. What's important is that it seemed like violence was the only thing Miss al Ghul understood."

She frowns. Levels Timothy with a serious look. "Now. I don't believe a man should ever hit a woman, though I understand there are instances of self-defence or…courtship.”

Bruce, bright red, buries his face in his hands.

“And I certainly didn't want to hire any man who would take a contract to beat up a woman. So I found a positively fascinating young lady who claimed fighting as her profession of choice and hired her to, ah, keep Miss al Ghul busy anytime she appeared in Gotham.”

“And?” Thomas prompts, arching an eyebrow. 

"And...? Oh! Right, I also asked Miss Sandra to wear a shirt with my face printed on it. But that was just so Miss al Ghul knew who had hired her assailant!"

Timothy continues to look like he has no idea what's happening or what planet he's on. "You...you ordered a hit on Talia? And required the assassin to wear a shirt with your face on it?"

"Miss Sandra wasn't an assassin." Martha blinks. "Well, she might have been. But I didn't hire her to be an assassin. No, no. Miss Sandra’s task was simply to fight Miss al Ghul. She normally, by her own account, fought people to the death, but had some business dealings with the al Ghuls and so was happy to harass Miss al Ghul non-lethally. Miss Sandra was actually quite gleeful at being given the task of ensuring Miss al Ghul never had a moment's peace in Gotham."

"And by Miss Sandra..." Timothy is staring at the ceiling now. As if searching for salvation in the panels above. "...you mean Sandra Wu-San?"

"Oh, you've heard of her! Yes, that's right. As I said, she normally had some sort of alliance with the al Ghuls. But of course, Miss al Ghul snuck out to Gotham without her father's permission and so certainly wouldn't go tattling to him. Which meant that Miss Sandra could attack Miss al Ghul at my behest without compromising her relationship with that whole league assassin cult thing. So it worked out well for all of us really! Well. Except Miss al Ghul over course. She started going about with some ninja fellows, but then Miss Sandra started bringing her own ninja fellows and remained quite good at keeping Miss al Ghul busy."

"And that was enough? That ran Talia off?" 

"Sadly, no. Bruce," she shoots another glare at her sweet, beloved boy, "began meeting with Miss al Ghul outside of Gotham. And since physically impeding their efforts to meet didn't seem to be working, I turned to a much more potent weapon. Making my darling son aware of the fact that he was doing something his poor mother deeply disapproved of." 

Bruce reburies his face in his hands. 

"I kept a tight eye on their movements, and made sure they saw me everywhere," Martha continues smugly. "Billboards with my face. Advertisements on transit with my face. No matter what country or continent they ran to, every hotel they stayed in plastered with plaques bearing my name and picture, courtesy of recent generous donations. And then in every hotel room, I had hotel staff – or some friends of Miss Sandra's if I didn't have enough time to arrange an appropriate clandestine bribe - replace the regular sheets with sheets with my face, so Miss al Ghul would get a nasty surprise whenever she pulled back the covers. But really, I didn't want that awful woman to ever have a chance to recover, so I started employing the same tactics even when she wasn't with Bruce. Anytime I could successfully find her location, I made sure she saw me everywhere. Why, I even bought a blimp and had it park directly outside her window, with a digital screen on the side beaming my face directly into her room!"

Martha laughs, one hand over her mouth. 

"I'm not sure I even want to know the answer to this question," Timothy mutters, one arm over his face, "but how long did you spend antagonizing an assassin princess?" 

"Oh, the better part of a year!" 

Timothy groans again. 

"Well it was her fault for being so stubborn! Eventually, the blimp following her around started compromising those little assassin cult missions of hers, so Miss al Ghul tried a last Hail Mary. Kidnapped Bruce right from the penthouse! Took him to some cult compound, probably to conduct some nefarious ritual–,"

"No Mother, she just tried to convince me to join the League again," Bruce says, still looking like he wants to die from embarrassment. "This time with the caveat that it was literally the only way we could be together, considering the year she’d had.”

“In any case, I of course was having none of that. Marched right into Miss al Ghul's silly compound with some friends I’d made.”

“You got Harley Quinn and Pamela Isley released to do 'community service’ under you, bribed Catwoman with the codes to a museum you patronize, and turned on the old lady waterworks to guilt Black Canary into helping you.”

"Well, who else was I supposed to ask? Miss Sandra would never fight Miss al Ghul within an actual League compound. And as for hiring anyone else, I already made it clear I wanted nothing to do with any man who would take a job to fight a woman. So I went to the only women I knew were involved in all that, that violence and such."

Martha puts a hand on her cheek. Suddenly quite embarrassed herself. "I'm afraid I spent a good chunk of the plane ride trying to convince them all of the joys of motherhood and why they really should settle down and give up all this roughhousing. Fighting has always been a man's domain, after all."

“As opposed to the traditionally feminine art of cross-continental psychological warfare,” mutters Timothy.

"But my goodness, seeing how they handled themselves against those assassin fellows reminded me that a calling is a calling! While yes, for most women motherhood is probably the most fulfilling role, there are others for whom eviscerating their enemies is the true song that stirs the soul. Not for me, of course. I let those lovely young women handle all of the fisticuffs until they'd cleared a path and I could rescue my darling Bruce."

“I wasn’t going to join, I wasn’t in danger, it wasn’t a rescue, it was getting hauled home from a party by your mother,” Bruce says sullenly. “You dragged me out by my ear."

“To make a point, my love.”

“To embarrass me.”

“In front of Miss al Ghul and all her ninja friends,” Martha agrees proudly. “There was simply no hope of maintaining her credibility in her organization if she continued to court you after all those followers saw you dragged home by the ear by your mother. And so the day was won! Miss Quinn and Miss Isley and Miss Canary and Miss Kyle ensured we left the compound and returned to Gotham safely, and miss Miss al Ghul never darkened our door again.”

Timothy is back to staring at her. Stays staring for a long time.

"I'll arrange the dinner," he says.

They still do not tell her their names. 

But really, that seems like such a small thing in the face of everything Martha does learn.

She learns that for all his apparent distance from Gotham and despite the easy-going demeanour he presents, Big D is constantly deescalating, deflecting, and managing his siblings, all done with a dazzling smile.

She learns that C has no interest in cooking, motherhood, getting married, or household management and, according to her brothers, 'has the meanest right hook of all of them'. She also has trouble speaking, and watching her communicate with her family through sparse words, sign language and pointed looks and head tilts is fascinating.

She learns that her bookish sweetheart's identifying initial is J, that there's some friction between him and his siblings that might explain his absence from the main portrait, but that it's a friction they're all clearly working hard to mend, evident in every swallowed sharp remark. 

She learns that Timothy usually goes by Tim, that he started working in a Wayne Enterprises leadership role at seventeen, and that he shockingly is the one for whom the skateboard rink was built.

She learns that Middle D loves to watch movies and write poetry. That he's not completely at ease with the family yet, and requires prodding from either Little D or C to jump into a conversation, but is confident and charming once he gets going.

She learns that Little D appears to have inherited her husband's personality and perpetually knitted brows, that he clings to formality for comfort, that he constantly glances at Big D for signs of approval, and that he is definitely, absolutely, Bruce's biological son with Talia al Ghul. 

Well. If Martha wasn't around in this world to protect Bruce from that al Ghul woman, at least he got a lovely son out of it. And perhaps...perhaps Martha was a tad overprotective after all. As it seems Bruce was able to avoid getting pulled into that awful League without his mother's interference.

The dinner is wonderful. Martha learns about her grandchildren. And gets to share a little bit about herself. Pieces of history that either their Bruce never told them or never knew. About Thomas marrying her to keep her father and brother from institutionalizing her, about the love that had grown from that rescue. About some of her more scandalous bits of mischief at various galas and gatherings in her youth. About what Bruce was like as a baby. And while she's initially concerned about upsetting Little D, she's eventually convinced to once again tell the story of running off Talia al Ghul. 

“I fear Father has done you a disservice in description,” says Little D, grave. “I never knew what formidable presence my paternal grandmother was, to take on the Demon's heir and win.”

“It’s something any mother would do for their child,” Martha says with a breezy laugh. “Thomas and Bruce manage their company and I manage the household. Keeping my son safe is simply part of my duties as a home-maker." 

"And that's why hiring international informants fell under the household budget?" Timothy asks dryly.

"Yes, exactly!" 

There's laughter. And there's smiles. There's Thomas mostly silent, but solid gaze radiating approval at how clearly intelligent all of his grandchildren are, despite the rampant joblessness. There's Bruce trying to spend equal amounts of time speaking with all the children, noticing how startled they look when he smiles or laughs, and making sure to gift more of his unhidden joy to them. There's Alfred, who still looks far too old, quiet in a way that suggests he's a bit overwhelmed, but eyes shining in a way that suggests there's nowhere else he'd rather be. 

With family.

Superman comes to retrieve them the following afternoon. And as they say a tearful goodbye to Tim at the door to the Manor, Tim asks if there's any message they'd like passed on to his Bruce. 

Surprisingly, Thomas responds immediately. 

"I want to make it clear that you're not passing on a message from his father; his father is dead," Thomas says gruffly. "But if Bruce is willing to hear the advice of a dimensional traveller who's spent a week in his home...change the wallpaper. Change the carpet. Change the furniture. Don’t sequester your children into carefully plotted out sections of the property. Let their interests and opinions and preferences influence the entire house. Let them pick the carpet. The paint. The wallpaper. Let there be books on every surface and birdcages hanging from the ceiling and little photo booths in every other room. He shouldn’t be so focused on being a dutiful grieving son that he can’t be an indulgent Father to his own children. Doubt he’ll take my advice, but there it is.”

"It will be easier to change the decor if he has a partner to advise him," Martha jumps in. "Tell him to find a good woman to marry. As much as you want to be your best self for your children, children are also more inclined to take you as you are. But you always have to meet a spouse halfway. Always have to learn where and how to compromise, to grow as a person by growing as a pair. I'm not as good at understanding people as Thomas and my darling Bruce, but I get the sense that perhaps your Bruce hasn't had a force in his life encouraging his better traits and scolding his worst ones. So he should find a good woman– oh! I mean, any gender is fine, really."

She frowns. "Maybe a better option, actually. Bruce has absolutely terrible taste in women." 

"Mother," Bruce protests.

"And there's that handsome reporter you always flirt with whenever you’re in Metropolis–,”

“Mother–,”

“I’m just saying dear, he's a strapping young man who isn't an assassin or an art thief or an annoying redheaded busybody–,"

“You like Selina!”

“What does like have to do with it? I also like Baroque art; that doesn’t mean I want you to marry it.”

“I am making note of all of this,” Tim says, shooting a grin at Superman, who is waiting at the end of the walkway and looking amused. “Trust me. I'll make sure he gets the message.”

And then, lastly, he turns to Bruce. 

Bruce hesitates a moment. Then says: "We don't have the Joker in our world." 

Tim blinks, startled. "How do you– If you don't have the Joker in your world, how do you know about–,"

"There were some newspapers and files in the office we've been using. I mean, they were in a hidden, locked, booby-trapped compartment, and I apologize for snooping, but. Well. Apples and trees and all that." Bruce looks pointedly at Martha, who smiles back.

Tim opens his mouth. Shuts it. Sighs.

"I want your Bruce to know that our Gotham is very different without the Joker," Bruce continues. "We have criminals, and even supervillainous rogues, but without the Joker it seems like they haven't felt the need to...to escalate. To go from villainous to truly evil. Our Gotham is still quite a rough, crime-ridden city, but it does not have the mass casualty events that your Gotham seems to. Which is why the city is still standing, despite me, ah, not sharing the same...side-gig as your Bruce."

And then, bizarrely, Bruce makes a flapping motion with his hands, as if mimicking wings. 

Tim eyes narrow sharply. "There were not any files about that in the office. Did you hack the Wi-Fi network?" 

"That's not important. What's important is that your Bruce doesn't hear about me not having the same side-gig and start to wonder if he's even been needed in Gotham at all. He is. My Gotham doesn't have the Joker. It's different. That's what I want you to tell him."

It takes a long stretch of seconds. But eventually Tim relents.

"You're right," Tim says. And then with a sigh, says a little softer: "You're right. Bruce needs to know that. I'll make sure to tell him."

***

A car ride to one of those fancy Zeta tubes stashed within the city. A teleportation back up to the Watchtower. A step through a portal, and then–

Home. 

Wayne Manor. An office that still belongs to Thomas. Walls that have never contained a parkour hallway or a multi-level library or a ballet studio or a dark room or an art room or a sensory theatre. A house that feels starkly empty. 

"So uh, another confession," Bruce says sheepishly. "Tim was right; I did hack the Wi-Fi network. I had full internet access for most of the week. So...I know their names. The children, I mean. And I know it will be dangerous, but..."

"Oh, I'm sure just taking a peek won't hurt," Martha says immediately, grinning wide and already planning.

“And even if it does hurt,” Thomas adds, “they're worth looking for anyways.”