Chapter Text
Bruce jerked awake, heart thumping in his chest.
Eyes squinting upwards into darkness, he blinked the stars out of his eyes, trying to put together some half-finished thought. There was something, danger-
A series of groans froze him in place, frantic pleas beginning to register in his ears.
“I swear, I don’t know! He never told me!”
An interrogation.
And on his rooftop by the sound of it.
Bruce resisted the urge to swear, tilting his head slightly to try to get a view of the trespassers.
He inched his way into a sitting position, struggling to breathe as silently as he could. What were people doing up here? He’d specifically chosen this rooftop because it was so difficult to access. The building was condemned and the large signs beside every rotting entrance warning of asbestos contamination kept even the most desperate homeless away. Even if anyone dared to brave the inside of the building, the roof access was sturdily boarded up.
There were two options here: either remain where he was and hope he wasn’t found and killed as they went to leave... or risk being heard and killed as he tried to escape.
Racking his brain, Bruce tried to recall the layout of the rooftop, and where exactly lay that rusted pipe he’d used to climb up here. Other side of the rooftop. Great. He let his head thump back silently, chewing desperately on his lip.
Ah, screw it. It was cold and he was tired. His corner was dark and out of the way, someone would have to walk straight into him to notice his little cocoon of threadbare cloth. He’d just stay quiet and eventually they’d leave him be.
He’d settled back into his sleeping bag, making sure he was still covered in shadow, when the interrogator finally spoke, gravelly voice booming across the dark rooftop.
“I’m only going to ask once more, who was Johnson working for?”
Bruce choked on his breath, a cold flush washing over him. There was no mistaking that voice.
Out of all the despicable characters in this rotten city, there was only one whose presence commanded so much authority, so much terror.
Batman was here.
The man was begging again, protesting that he didn’t know, but Bruce wasn’t listening anymore.
Batman was here. On his rooftop. Just a few feet away.
Staying was no longer an option. Batman had eyes and ears everywhere.
Bruce shivered, screwing his eyes shut as pieces of the terrible stories he’d heard floated back to him. Stories whispered in dingy alleyways, around the can fires, through the ranks of even the most feared crime lords, legends of a being of terror.
There was no way Batman would miss the fact that there was another person occupying this roof. A witness to his crimes.
Bruce’ heart was pounding now, beating against his ribs.
Maybe, just maybe... he could escape while the interrogation was still going on, pray that Batman would be too preoccupied to go after a kid.
“You’re starting to get heavy.” the voice growled, and the other man let out a yelp. “Better start talking.”
Flinching, Bruce resisted the urge to clamp his hands over his ears.
He couldn’t wait.
Throwing the hood of his sweatshirt up, he scrambled out of his stolen sleeping bag and snatched up his backpack, darting for the edge of the roof. Behind him, there was a rustle of cloth, movement in his direction, and he forced his legs even faster, footsteps pounding again the metal roofing.
There. The edge of the roof, rusting pipe glinting slightly in the moonlight. He was so close -
There was a quiet whoosh and a black-suited figure careened out of the darkness above him, landing gracefully in his path, the roof taking his weight without a sound.
“Who’s this?”
Bruce stumbled to a halt, sleeping bag slipping out of his grasp as he registered the blue bat symbol adorning the other’s chest. Of course there had to be more than one tonight. Okay. Blue-spandex-bat in front of him, Batman somewhere in the darkness behind him... Bruce began inching to the left, eyeing the edge of the rooftop.
The man clucked and shifted to the side as well, blocking his way. “Looks like we have an eavesdropper.”
The teen stilled at the young, almost playful tone of the figure. The man was rocking lightly back and forth on the balls of his feet, hands set on his hips as he surveyed Bruce up and down.
The sounds of the interrogation had ceased, and he tried not to think about the implications of that as there came a faint rustle of fabric behind him.
Immediately stiffening, Bruce' body rocked forward and away involuntarily, but that only took him closer to the other vigilante, who help up a warning hand.
"Stay where you are. We have some questions for you." the man said lightly, eyes flickering to something beyond him.
Wait - we?
“Who are you?” the voice of terror growled from behind him, and Bruce couldn’t stop himself from spinning around, his hood falling back at the force of the motion.
Batman towered over him, seemingly melting out of the shadows themselves, pointed ears like a monster, black cape blocking out of light.
And suddenly Bruce was back there, trapped alone with stone walls all around him, the swarming black cloud clawing at his face and his eyes, their deafening shrieks echoing in his ears.
He wasn’t aware that he had been stumbling backwards until he smacked into the younger man’s chest and in a panic, he began flailing, shoving himself away.
Distantly, he heard blue-spandex bat say, “He’s just a kid,” but Batman was still towering there, a monstrous shadow, and Bruce couldn’t breath- he had to get away and suddenly, his feet were tripping over something and he was falling into empty air with a sharp scream.
The wind rushed in his ears, the dark pavement rising up to meet him like a tidal wave, stomach rising into his throat-
And suddenly, someone was there. A strong arm wrapped itself around his chest and with a swooping sensation, he wasn’t falling anymore, he was swinging . Desperately clasping the arm clamped around him, Bruce craned his neck upwards and caught a glimpse of pointed ears.
He snapped his eyes shut, breath catching in his ears as their swing came to an end and he was set softly down on a rooftop. Going limp, Bruce slid out of the other’s arm and huddled on the rooftop in an unsteady lump, keeping his eyes tightly shut as he tried to recover his breathing.
All was silent for several moments, before Batman’s voice growled, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Bruce took in a sharp breath. She would be ashamed. He was better than this.
He forced himself to stand on shaking legs, plunging his hands into his pockets and fumbling for his only weapons. The crisp Gotham wind brushed against him, slipping easily through his thin sweatshirt, but he set his shoulders, refusing to shiver.
He couldn't show any weakness here.
He sent his best glare in Batman’s direction, only to have his breath catch at the sight of the imposing figure, the pointed ears. He looked away again.
A lithe ball rolled into the roof and unfolded into the younger man, who strolled up to stand next to the other vigilante.
“What’s your name, kid?” Batman growled in a slightly quieter tone than before, taking a step forward.
Bruce took an identical step back, his eyes flickering over the new rooftop.
He couldn't let them take him. He wouldn't let them take him. There was a promising looking fire escape on an apartment building bordering this one. All it would take was a leap of a few feet. Bruce had made further jumps, that wasn't the issue. With their grappling equipment the two vigilantes would definitely catch up before he could scramble his way down the fire escape to the ground.
Sirens rose up in the distance and the two men’s heads turned in that direction. Bruce shifted slightly, ready to take the chance anyway and run for it, but immediately the two's eyes snapped back to him. Bruce caught a hint of a quiet whispered conversation before the Batman looked him over once more, and vanished back into the shadows.
“He’s gone.” the younger man told him, watching Bruce casually, seemingly unbothered by the distrusting look the boy shot him. “What’s your name?”
It took him a moment to decipher this question. He was supposed to be Silas, now. He had to be. She’d called him by another name, told him that was the only title he’d ever need, tried to get him to forget his own. But even before that, it had been something else.
His name had been Bruce. Bruce Thomas Wayne. And he was lost in the wrong world.
“Kid? You alright?” the man repeated, and oh, great, he looked concerned. It was never a good expression to see on adults. Concern led to them wanting to help, and they always ended up making things worse.
Bruce folded his arms tightly over his chest, trying his best to look like he was doing it to be tough and not to ward off the frigid wind.
“What’s your name?” he snapped back, eyeing the other man carefully.
The man, to his surprise, rocked back on his heels and chuckled. “Fair enough, kid. I'm Nightwing.”
“Night Wing.” Bruce repeated, with a slight huff. “Alright Mr. Wing-”
The man winced. “It’s one word actually-”
“- I’m sorry for interrupting your interrogation thing, but I really should be getting home.” He turned to leave, trying to analyze how much momentum he would need to make it to the fire escape, when Nightwing stepped in front of him again. How was the man so fast?
“Just wait a minute, kid.” Nightwing took a deep breath. "We can help you."
Stiffening, Bruce glared at the other man and shoved his hand into his pockets so the shaking wouldn’t show. No one was going to trick him like that ever again.
“I don’t need your help.” he hissed, taking several steps back.
Nightwing held up his hands, placatingly, but didn't move to follow. “You’re not with a gang yet, are you?"
Was that a trick question?
After a second, Bruce shook his head, still watching the other warily.
"Kids don’t last long on the streets alone here. I know some people, good people, who might be able to sponsor you, get you through school. Give you a chance at a real life, not a criminal record.”
Heart beginning to hammer in his chest, Bruce shook his head stiffly. No, having a guardian meant medical tests and searching for records and surely someone somewhere would discover if a random street orphan turned up with billionaire Bruce Wayne’s exact DNA.
Not to mention the rest of it...
Yeah, he didn’t fancy being locked up in Arkham for the rest of his miserable life.
The thought of that place sent a violent shiver down his spine and he drew himself up, regarding the other man coldly.
“Let me rephrase. I don’t want your help.”
“Gotham’s a dangerous place.”
Bruce couldn’t hold back a snort at that understatement, but Nightwing wasn’t giving up yet. “Odd are, you’re going to be forced to join a gang to survive. We both know where that leads. Is that really the future you want?"
Too late, Bruce couldn’t help but think.
Drawing on every ounce of socialite haughtiness he’d observed from his classmates and his parents friend's over the years, he spat back. “With all due respect, the last person who should lecture me on the law is the vigilante who functions outside of it.”
He held his chin up high. “So unless you’re here to serve your so called justice on me for some crime I’ve committed, leave me alone.”
The man regarded him for a long moment, before he waved his arms at the rooftop around them.
“Well, technically trespassing is a crime.”
Bruce glared at him.
“But I think I’ll let it slide.” The man’s face softened slightly. “You have a place to stay at night?”
The teenager shrugged, hiking his ragged backpack higher on his shoulders. “Penthouse at the Ritz. Only has five bedrooms and the champagne’s no Dom Pérignon but I guess I’ll make due.”
That comment earned another huff of a laugh, before Nightwing tilted his head and said to someone else in a low voice. “Copy that, Oracle.”
A moment later he was scribbling something on a scrap of paper. He held it out to Bruce, who took a step backwards. The man sighed.
"It's a list of the shelters in the city that are actually good. Ones that will help, no questions asked."
Bruce didn't move.
Nightwing sucked in a breath, but whatever he was about to say was interrupted by a faint sound from his comms. The vigilante's eyes went wide and he turned sharply to look out over the rooftops.
"Robin did what? No, tell him to wait. I'm on my way... I don't care if he says it's not deep, the last time he said that he almost bled out on ride home. I'll be there in five."
Nightwing set the paper down on the ground and moved to the corner of the rooftop, turning to give Bruce one last, searching look.
"Take care of yourself, kid."
And then the vigilante was gone, vanishing silently over the edge. A few moment later, Bruce caught sight of him swinging between buildings a few blocks down, a fleeting shadow barely visible against the darkness.
He stood there frozen there for a solid minute, trying to calm his racing heart. Batman and Nightwing, they'd just… let him go free. He couldn't quite wrap his head around it.
Bruce approached the piece of paper carefully, eyeing it suspiciously. It fluttered slightly in the cold wind and the teen hunched into his sweatshirt, wishing he was still innocently asleep on his condemned rooftop.
Ah, damn, he was going to have to go back to the other roof for his sleeping bag. It was too cold to sleep without it. Not that the threadbare thing was going to do much when it started to snow on him in a few months.
He chewed on his lip for a moment and bent down to pick up the list.
He’d scope them out… just in case.
Bruce spent the rest of the night winding through alleyways and deserted streets until he was sure that no one, human or bat, was following him. He found a place to sleep next to a haphazardly stacked pile of wooden crates on top of a 24/7 laundromat, but the adrenaline was still thumping in his veins and every time he closed his eyes, the Batman was looming over him, coming to drag him off to Arkham.
Groaning loudly as the sun began to peek between the slats of the crates, lighting the sky as the city began to awake around them, he pushed himself upright. He shoved a crate over his stuff and climbed down the access ladder, jumping the last few feet and making his way to the gas station down the block.
Locking the bathroom door behind him, he carefully washed his face and hair under the grimy faucet, trying to ignore the suspicious stains on the walls.
Suddenly miserable, he dropped his elbows into the edge of the sink and stared at his reflection, blinking as the water dripped off his hair and into his eyes. He tugged angrily at the damp locks, vibrant red staring back at him instead of his natural black.
He’d tried everything to get rid of it, dish soap, baking soda, vinegar, bleach. He’d even defied her, stolen an electric razor and a pair of scissors one night and shaved his own head. The backlash from that rebellion hadn’t been worth it, not at all, because a few weeks later, his hair had grown back red.
Someone banged on the door and Bruce tore his gaze away from the stranger in the mirror, grabbing his things and slipping past the impatient woman outside the door.
He waited until he’d made it into a safer part of town before he stepped into a small alleyway and slipped out of his ratty sweatshirt. Dusting off his pants, he pulled on a maroon sweater he’d swiped off a rich kid in the mall who hadn’t been paying attention to his belongings.
With a little bit of hair gel he’d stolen from a corner store, his facade was complete and he stepped back into the street with a jaunty, self-absorbed spring in his step.
Eight year old Bruce Wayne could never have imagined becoming a petty thief, pickpocketing just to survive. He would have been dismayed at even the idea of breaking the law. All that justice shit. What a joke.
Eight year old Bruce Wayne had parents and Alfred and money and a life that belonged to him. Bruce had what? A day old tuna sandwich and a sweatshirt three sizes too big from the local shelter’s donations box.
Bruce jogged up the wide stone steps of the Gotham Public Library, coming to a stop in the warm foyer to peer around the corner.
Here’s where it got tricky. The college student who usually covered morning Tuesdays and Thursdays didn’t care if he stayed for hours. The guy was too busy scowling at his textbooks to keep track of who was going in and out in the first place. But the other librarian...
Bruce grimaced as he caught a glimpse of the straight-backed woman peering suspiciously over at the children’s section where two kids were giggling over a picture book.
The giggling turned into laughter and Bruce ducked back behind the corner, counting in his head. At ten seconds, he heard the creak of a chair and the clacking of sensible mary-janes on the marble floor. Leaning forward, he could see a blonde head bobbing in the children’s section and held back a grin. He slipped off his shoes and darted forward, slipping and sliding silently across the floor until he could crouch low behind the bookcases in the medical research section.
From then he could weave his way to his favorite alcove in one of the mostly-forgotten back corners without coming in sight of the desk. As long as he listened for her shoes, he should be fine for awhile.
He spent about three hours engrossed in a book titled Wanye Enterprises: The Past 50 Years, before the noise level in the library rose slightly, indicating the woman had finally gone on lunch break. Which gave Bruce access to the computer lab.
He had just begun checking the news for recent stories on Batman when someone cleared their throat.
“Hey, kid.”
Bruce caught the reflection of a blue uniform in his monitor and stiffened.
Shit, shit, shit.
He pasted on his best smile and swiveled to face the police officer standing next to the table, arms crossed over the tac vest on his chest. The female librarian was hovering in the background, frowning deeply at him.
“Yes, officer?” he said, making his eyes widen slightly in surprise.
“You should be in school.”
“I’m homeschooled.” Bruce said, smile tightening, and reached one hand down to grasp his backpack on the floor.
“Yeah sure, kid.” the officer sighed. “I’m going to need you to come with me.”
Taking a deep breath, Bruce’s eyes flickered over the lack of any exits and he cursed his own impatience for not just waiting for the student’s shift.
He straightened up and slung his backpack on his back in one graceful movement, channeling his best high-society style narcissism.
The officer grabbed his arm and he barely kept the panic off his face, snarling instead, “Like hell I’m going anywhere with you. Release my arm, right now. One word from me and my father will call the police commissioner's private cell and tell him one of his officers was manhandling his son.” Bruce made a show of noting the man’s name tag. “Is that what you want, Officer Quency? ”
The grip loosened slightly as the man seemed to waver. “Who’s your father?”
Bruce took that opportunity to yank his arm out of the man’s grip and smooth his jacket, hoping no one could hear his heart thumping in his chest. “Otis Dentham the Third.”
“The Dentham’s don’t have a son.” the librarian broke in. Because of course she spent all her time reading plant almanacs yet somehow also had a detailed knowledge of the city’s elites. Probably was so tired of keeping up the show at work that she read nothing but gossip magazines at home.
Bruce rolled his eyes in her direction and crossed his arms. “Gee, I don’t remember saying that I was the Dentham’s son, just that I was Otis Dentham’s son. Why do you think I’m homeschooled, genius? Gosh, one child out of wedlock and the press explodes.”
The officer’s jaw worked up and down and he sent a helpless look towards the librarian.
“You spend several days a week here, without adult supervision, the librarian was concerned.” he finally said.
“My tutor comes in the mornings and I spend the afternoon here doing my homework so I can have access to the library’s resources. We can’t fit books on everything in the manor.”
He gave the officer a bewildered shrug. “I don’t know why she’d be concerned. My chauffeur always picks me up before closing. I’m never any trouble, Officer.”
“I’ve never seen anyone pick him up.” the librarian cut in sharply. She looked around and lowered her voice, murmuring to the cop. “And he’s always in ratty clothes.”
“Are you all dumb?” Bruce scoffed, throwing his hands up like he was close to a tantrum. “I get picked up in the back to avoid the press. They’re like vultures, you know. And I’m the child of a millionaire, not an idiot. Dressing in Armani suits on the streets of Gotham is asking to be robbed.”
He tilted his head up. “So laisses moi tranquille. Despite the fact that vous avez le cervau d'un sandwich au fromage, surely you can get this through your head: my father wouldn’t even need five minutes to get you fired and in a holding cell. And he won’t be happy if word of his son leaks to the press because of your idiocracy.”
Bruce gave a final, relaxed shrug. “But it’s your call, Officer.”
The officer’s face had long since flushed red with a strange mixture of fear and fury.
Bruce just raised one eyebrow in response.
Finally, the man took a step back and spat out a vicious. “My apologies. It won’t happen again.”
“It better not.” Bruce retorted, pulling his backpack on and striding away before any of them could change their minds. He forced himself to walk slowly, heart thudding in his ears, until he made it to the foyer and picked up his pace.
How the hell did that work?
He had almost made it out the double doors when a hand reached out and grabbed the silver handle, holding it in place.
“Excuse me.” Bruce pushed on the door. It didn’t budge.
He didn't have time for this.
“If you could move…” He leaned on the door again, a bit of panic kicking up in his chest.
The hand, which was attached to a short, black-haired child, didn’t twitch. The kid stared at him, expressionless, dark eyes flickering over Bruce.
“You’re not Otis Dentham’s son.”
Bruce forced himself to scoff, eyeing the street outside that promised freedom. “What would you know about it?”
“Your shoes give you away.”
He looked down at his faded sneakers, the small hole where his socked pinky toe showed through, and shrugged. “Gross, I know. But there’s no way I’m risking my custom Berluti’s on the streets of this town.”
The boy just looked at him, expression unchanged. “Your verbal deception skills are passable. However, your overall deception is sub-par. Your outfit and appearance clearly give you away.”
What the hell? Who was this kid?
“The adults in there believe me.” Bruce said quickly, tugging on the door to no avail.
“Adults are idiots.”
Bruce stilled, suddenly feeling a sense of familiarity as he stared at the kid’s young face.
“Have we met?” he asked slowly.
The kid tilted his head, sharp eyes studying him. “I would remember. I am Damian Wayne.”
Damian... Wayne?
“Wayne?” Bruce choked out, stumbling a step back. “Like Bruce Wayne?”
The boy tilted his head in agreement. “He is my father.”
For a moment, Bruce couldn’t seem to get a breath. His son. As in his biological offspring.
Damian was frowning at him. “It is customary for you to offer your own name in reply. Unless you have something to hide.”
“Silas. Silas Reed.” he finally replied, unable to tear his eyes off Damian's face- his son’s- face?
So that's where he knew him from. Damian looked like a slightly younger him, or what Bruce was supposed to look like if she hadn't interfered.
A slight sliver of jealousy shot through Bruce but he shoved it back down. He was talking to his son. Who couldn’t be more than a handful of years younger than him. They weren’t even close to identical, with a considerable difference in skin tone, but the resemblance to how he used to look was uncanny.
“You seem...surprised.”
Swallowing his shock, Bruce managed a shrug. “I just wouldn’t have expected to run into a Wayne in a public library. Don’t you guys have...” he trailed off before accidentally mentioning the library, something a random street kid wouldn’t know about Wayne Manor. “... servants for that?”
“We just have Pennyworth, actually. He’s a butler. But your surprise... it’s more than that.” The kid cocked his head, watching him like a wolf.
Bruce blinked, tears springing up in his eyes. Alfred was still alive and with the family. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to go home, home to the Manor and throw himself into the butler's arms.
But he couldn’t.
This wasn’t his world, and this wasn’t his Alfred.
The man wouldn’t even recognize him.
The thought made more tears spring up and he ducked his head to hide them from the younger boy.
“I have to go.” Bruce said harshly, shoving at the door again. This time, the kid let him pass.
He made it nearly three blocks before he had to duck into an alley, his legs turning to jelly beneath him as he slid down to sit on the curb.
Bruce had just met his son... but it wasn’t his son, not really. It was Bruce Wayne’s son. Thirty-something-year-old playboy Bruce Wayne. The Bruce Wayne who’d been picked up by the police next to his parents' dead bodies. Who’d gone back home to the Manor and to Alfred and had grown up in his own home.
Who hadn’t been “rescued” by her.
His hands shoved deep into his pockets and clutched at the small items there, leaving imprints in his palms.
He wasn’t really Bruce Wayne, not anymore. Bruce had children, Alfred, a manor, Wayne Enterprises.
All he had were fading memories.
So no, he wasn’t Bruce Wayne. Not here.
Maybe one day he could forget he’d ever been.