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The members of Gotham’s high society liked to pretend they were above the lower echelons when it came to crime and corruption. They were well-bred, they didn’t dirty their hands with gunshot residue or allow blood spatters to stain their perfectly pressed suits. No, they soiled their hands with evasion and avoidance and fraud – hiding ill-gotten gains with a few gentle taps on a keyboard. To them, it didn’t even compare; keeping their grifted billions to themselves was light years away from doing something so undignified as physical violence.
They were wrong of course, refusing to funnel their money back into the city kept it from developing, kept it mired in colossal crime rates, with the poor turning to crime and violence just to put food on the table or heat their homes during Gotham’s frigid winters. The desperation of the lower classes only fuelled the rise of supervillains, and well, whole essays could and had been written on the topic. Poverty and crime were inextricably intertwined, twisted and wound around each other in a sickening knot.
Over the years, Batman’s mission had changed; he’d started off beating up every criminal he came across, no matter their circumstance, leaving them anywhere from a little bruised to unable to work for long periods of time, sending them further down into debt. Aside from being unethical, it was inefficient; in the first year or two of the Bat’s reign, crime only increased. To be Gotham’s hero, he had to fight with the city and its citizens, not against them.
The Bat mellowed with the appearance of Robin and the pair grew to be more of a friend to those only trying to survive rather than their greatest tormentors. The transition to fighting corruption happened relatively quickly after that, with the Bat and all his associates (whether Batman was Robin’s father was a well-debated topic and everyone had their own opinions, a consensus was yet to be reached, and all doubted it would ever happen) using a frightening amount of state-of-the-art technology to wade through the slogs of financial crime and bribery that were Gotham’s government and benefactors.
Batman’s connections as Bruce Wayne, the richest man in the city, were invaluable resources. He could slip unseen through the smog and get to the centre of the maze. Brucie Wayne may be a little air-headed among journalists and fickle socialites, but those who faced him in the boardroom knew of the secret, ruthless side he held. Naturally, they assumed he was also involved in tax evasion or money laundering or whatever else they did, how else could Wayne keep his immense fortunes? Again, they were wrong, but who was Bruce to correct them? He knew their secrets and they thought they knew his. To them, there were mutually assured benefits, and destruction if he stepped out of line. To him, it was a direct line to those with fingers in the muck, and a guarantee that ‘Brucie’ was all the public would ever see from him.
This did not mean his sons had to follow suit. Timothy Drake was, famously, a shark in the business world, having been raised by the fearsome Janet Drake. And, despite the collapse of Drake Inc. after his parents’ untimely passing, his brief stint as CEO of Wayne Enterprises and his continued work in its many different departments, solidified him as a force to be reckoned with. Jason Todd, on the other hand, was an enigma. His death and subsequent return several years later stirred up a lot of gossip amongst Gotham’s elite, and probably more in the Crime Alley area where he’d spent most of his youth. Since his resurrection, he’d thrown himself into charity work, and could often be seen handing out care packages to kids on the street or volunteering (and no doubt funding) soup kitchens and other resources. Damian was too new and too young to have a reputation other than a few gala appearances – at which he’d mostly been silent, standing stoically by Bruce’s side for the whole event.
Richard Grayson was another entirely different character. As the first child of the generally reclusive billionaire, he had the most experience with gossip columns spreading twisted rumours about him. No matter what the latest headline had proclaimed, Dick Grayson had let it roll off him like water off a duck’s back. He was a performer; whatever was said about him, however hurtful those words were, he plastered a pleasant smile on his face, making himself seem above it all. Navigating high society was the trickiest kind of undercover mission – a permanent one.
As such, the press didn’t know much about him, and, eventually, stopped printing speculation when they realised it never got them any engagement. The early days had been tough, with article after article being written about Bruce’s ‘circus freak pet project’ but Dick Grayson had grown into this ethereal, almost mythological, figure in elite circles. He was seen in public the least out of all his family members, having grown tired of performing as he aged, preferring to remain in the shadows. Bruce always made sure to explain his absences with vague comments about his various different trips, for both pleasure, expected given the family’s frankly ridiculous amounts of wealth, and humanitarian reasons, keeping in line with the Waynes’ long history of charity work. In reality, Dick spent most of his time with the Titans as Nightwing, a figure caught by fewer cameras than Batman – his, of course, were all part of the mythos of the Bat, a good percentage of them taken by Tim and then leaked to the press. Nightwing existed as only rumour. He liked it that way; sometimes an effective reputation was not built on the known and seen, but on the absence of data, the mystery.
That night, at the annual gala for the Martha and Thomas Wayne Foundation, Dick made one of his rare appearances. It was one of the only nights of the year his location would be guaranteed. Call it paranoia, or the compulsion to wander instilled in him by the circus he grew up in, but the fact was, he no longer held the family record for most times being kidnapped – Tim now begrudgingly held that title.
He made his entrance around an hour into the proceedings, gliding gracefully into the ballroom. This caused Jason to roll his eyes from his position next to an elderly woman who, even at his ripe old age of 21, liked to pinch his cheeks – she was his new health clinic’s biggest benefactor, he’d tolerate a light red dusting of blush across his cheekbones for the money it provided him. Dick swanned across the room like he owned the place, which wasn’t all that far off, greeting Bruce’s associates with gracious nods. Other guests tried to catch his gaze, craning their necks for even just a glance of acknowledgement. He was a crown prince entering his father’s kingdom, suitors vying for his attention.
His choice of outfit, as usual, caused many heads to turn in his direction. He wore a double-breasted navy suit, the cut flattering his lithe build, broadening his shoulders and accentuating his slim waist. The tailoring impeccably hid hard, lean muscle beneath cashmere, similar to how Clark and his ill-fitting suits hid Superman. Dick, however, was rather smaller and would never be caught dead in anything less than perfectly fitted in public; nothing against Clark, of course, his disguise was equally as effective. Gotham’s wealthy were generally conservative, opting to go for black single-breasted suits, forming a monochromatic sea. Dick was looking to make a statement, without making his peacocking too obnoxious. A burgundy bow tie finished off his look, the splash of colour meant to draw eyes to him.
Of course, they had their intended effect, Dick planned everything that could potentially be in any view of a camera with the utmost precision. The dark navy brightened his already vibrant cerulean eyes, the burgundy evoked power and wealth and sophistication. He was spellbinding and he knew it.
‘Bruce.’
‘Richard.’ His father acknowledged him before continuing his conversation with his companions – two investors whom he felt no need to waste ‘Brucie’ on.
Richard. Not Dick. Not for events like galas. Bruce didn’t care either way, but Dick had been insistent. Richard was for galas, for public appearances. Dick was the warmer, softer, more real side of him reserved for his friends and family, and, well, most of Gotham’s ordinary citizens. Richard was reserved for anyone who tried to use him for his money or his status, and/or had produced a snide comment or two about his upbringing – an ill-bred ruffian if one was to use polite terms, which was a surprising rarity for those who claimed to be better. Essentially, Richard was for the majority of people sharing a room with him at that moment.
Bruce continued to talk away with his investors, Dick lending half an ear to the conversation, humming in the correct places as he scanned the ballroom. His appearance wasn’t purely for social reasons – although Alfred had not so subtly pointed out that as a part of the Wayne family, he was required to show up to a few events each year; for family solidarity and to show unity in front of the rapid pack of wolves that were Gotham’s reporters. Fractured family dynamics among one of the five founding families was sure to make the front page of the gossip rags and this would trickle down through business circles where other companies vying for the Waynes’ spot in the city’s hierarchy would attempt to exploit them. It wouldn’t work but having to fend off unnecessary attacks would be an unwelcome distraction.
His appearance wasn’t even for securing more funding for the charities he supported. Make no mistake, charity work held a dear place in his heart, but the family had that in hand; what with Tim’s sharp, threatening smile daring them to refuse him and Jason’s roguish grin. Damian, despite his rough, violent edges, learned fast, and Dick was certain he would carve out his own persona, likely similar to the one he had created. Brucie, of course, was the city’s darling. People fell over themselves to hand him a cheque at the end of the night whether his countenance towards them was a thinly veiled command or just a little ditzy.
No, those were the assumptions people made. Dick was on the hunt for information. A new family had popped up in Gotham, an incredibly rare thing in the city so aloof from the rest of the country it was like a nation all its own. Only a brave few settled there, almost always for some kind of ulterior motive. It was that ulterior motive that he was investigating. The family were a couple around forty and their twenty-year-old son, reportedly as disgustingly wealthy as Gotham’s elite with a history of rumoured corruption to match. Of all the Waynes, Dick was in the best position to suss them out, and so he had easily accepted Bruce’s request to do some digging.
On Dick’s arrival, he had noted a complete lack of interest from them. His ego was in no way bruised, but he was curious. Did they not know who he was? Had they turned up to a Wayne function with so little research? He may not make public appearances often, but his existence was far from a secret. Knowledge and power were interlinked, you didn’t rise up the social hierarchy by being clueless.
Or was it arrogance? Were they so sure of their successes that they wouldn’t even partake in a little harmless grovelling? Dick hated the simpering sycophants with a burning passion, but a gala was a battleground of social etiquette, not even exchanging a polite greeting with your hosts, especially if they were a Wayne would do nothing for your standing. Whatever their motivations, it was a move. They’d moved the first pawn on the chessboard; time would tell if they’d challenge the king.
The couple were chatting with another in a corner, having slowly made their way across the ballroom, seemingly on a trajectory towards Bruce. They’d missed Tim and Jason, but Tim was intently conversing with a board member from Wayne Enterprises, and it wasn’t going well for them, if the gleam of malice in Tim’s eyes was anything to go by, and Jason had finished being assaulted by old biddies and was giving off very obvious warning signals to stay away.
Dick coughed lightly, interrupting the investor Bruce was talking to. Their discussion was all but over, a donation amount already agreed upon, with only the small talk (which his adoptive father thoroughly despised) remaining. The investor glanced at him and smiled politely, if a little strained, excusing himself.
‘A word, Bruce?’ Dick inquired, still gazing passively around the room.
‘Of course.’ The pair faced each other, shifting into a more intimate position, broadcasting clearly that they were not to be interrupted. ‘Is there something you need, son?’
‘The new couple, have you had any contact yet?’
‘No. And I can see that it’s driving half the room insane. They’re already getting glares from Mrs Crowne.’
Dick glanced over his shoulder, and sure enough, an elderly woman was staring at the couple with a look akin to having a bad smell under her nose. ‘Their power play isn’t going to work if they keep this up. You’d think they’d have the sense to at least pretend to kiss the ring by now.’
Bruce huffed a laugh, ‘Galas are always so boring, I think we all need some more entertainment now and again.’
At his words, the couple finished their conversation with the last group between them and the two eldest Waynes. Dick smiled amusedly, ‘I do believe it’s show time, dear father.’
‘I should have listened to Alfred. He told me adopting a child was a bad idea.’ Bruce mumbled, rolling his eyes fondly at his eldest’s antics.
Dick snorted inelegantly, ‘You love me.’
‘Keep telling yourself that, Richard.’ Bruce’s tone slipped ever so slightly. Their targets were in earshot.
‘Mr Wayne?’ Bruce turned at the call of his name, plastering a bland look on his face. His expression turned to a blinding smile as Brucie faux recognised his hailer.
‘Ah, Mr and Mrs Thompson, welcome! I hear you’re new in town.’
The couple’s pleasant masks flickered slightly. ‘It’s Thomason, actually,’ replied Mr Thomason, clearly struggling not to scowl.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Bruce waved dismissively, ‘May I introduce my eldest son, Richard?’
Dick held out his hand, ‘Richard Grayson, a pleasure.’ He laced his voice with honey sweetness, keeping his eyes intently on Mrs Thomason.
She blushed, ‘The pleasure is all ours, Richard,’ as he bent forward and placed a light kiss on her hand. His charm laid a balm over the abrasion left by Brucie’s slight, executing the routine they had perfected over the years with precision – offence by the dim father, deference by the son, almost apologetic in appearance.
‘Richard,’ grunted Mr Thomason, obviously not enjoying Dick’s attentions on his wife. The pair shook hands, down and up, once. Dick stared at Mr Thomason’s face intently, gauging his next move.
‘It was lovely to meet you both. Now, if you would excuse me, I have some pressing business to attend to.’ Dick swept off, stealing a glance over his shoulder at Mr Thomason, a flirty smile tugging at his lips. Flush stained Mr Thomason’s face, bashful at Dick’s attentions, uncomfortable at a man expressing any sort of attraction towards him.
Dick left Bruce and the couple to it, trusting his adoptive father to suitably distract, and extract more information than they intended, from them. His target was the son. As the only son and heir, he would have been groomed relentlessly for the role. Business was nepotistic, and his parents would no doubt only trust him to keep their legacy alive. But he was less experienced, likely to be the weak link in the chain.
The son had been descended on by a pair of older women, who had already started his interrogation. Dick held back a smirk, the old guard could hold their own against new blood, but this was his hunt.
He strode over in long, confident strides, the slight heels of his shoes made a rhythmic tap echo around him, purposefully announcing his presence. ‘Mrs Colby, Ms Wilson, it is absolutely wonderful to see you two again.’ He kept his focus on the pair of women, not even sparing a glance at Thomason Junior.
Upon hearing his voice, the women turned around, smiling proudly, subtly flaunting to the guests around them. They were the first guests Dick had sought out. They weren’t technically right, but some extra good never did any harm. ‘Oh, Richard,’ replied Mrs Colby, ‘you’ve returned from Tasmania!’
‘Tanzania, actually,’ Dick said, smothering a twinge of annoyance. He’d had to correct several reporters on that, and people still mixed them up.
Ms Wilson rolled her eyes, ‘Tasmania is a state in Australia, Celia. Richard was helping to build schools in Tanzania, in Africa.’
‘Of course, my mistake, Miriam. I do apologise, Richard,’ Mrs Colby simpered, a sharp gleam in her eye, contrasting the rest of her act. Dick had to hand it to them, they played off each other well. Celia Colby played the slightly dim wife of her rich husband, but Dick knew she quietly held a degree from Harvard. She was no fool. Miriam Wilson was a widow of seven years, her husband having passed in a boating accident on a trip with his associates. Miriam had been cleared of all wrongdoing as she had been in Gotham when it happened. The police department was all too happy to declare it an accident and move on – no doubt with a healthy amount of bribe money. That didn’t stop the whispered rumours of the couple’s strained marriage, the possible divorce proceedings, and the fact that Ms Wilson inherited every penny of her husband's vast fortune. In fact, she’d had multiple husbands over the years, each marriage ending suddenly with her always emerging in a stronger position than when she’d entered said marriage.
‘Ladies, as much as I would love to discuss my recent travels, I need to steal Mr Thomason from your delightful company. Is that alright?’
‘Of course, Richard,’ Mrs Colby replied. ‘I trust we will see you at my gala next month?’
‘I shall try my best to attend,’ Dick smiled. ‘Now, Mr Thomason, we have business to attend to.’ He finally turned his gaze on his target, his most charming smile on his face.
James Thomason stared back, his lips slightly parted, before he nodded. He cleared his throat hurriedly, ‘Yes, of course, Mr Grayson.’
Mr Grayson. That was certainly rare to hear during gala proceedings, most of the attendants having known him since he was a child. Calling him by anything other than Richard was unseemly unless it was someone younger, which James was. A vicious part of him rather enjoyed it; social politics were a strategy game mired in hierarchical power structures. At eight years old, he’d be thrown straight into a world where his every word mattered, having no choice but to learn to dominate or sink below the waves. Bruce was still young at the time, barely old enough to navigate high society alone, certainly not experienced enough to coach a child through it. Nevertheless, Dick had found a way. Despite all the prejudices against him, he’d learned how to get his way with a flick of his hand.
Dick led James over to an empty corner, picking up a flute of champagne as a waiter passed him. James copied his action. Mimic your opponent, keep yourself on even footing. Cute.
‘So, James, is it ok if I call you that?’
James nodded silently. His expression was of polite curiosity, but Dick noted a small twitch as he struggled to maintain it.
‘Good. I just wanted to pull you aside and welcome you to Gotham. What kind of host would I be if I neglected my duties?’
James opened his mouth but Dick steamrolled over him, ‘We so rarely get new families in Gotham, you’ll have to forgive us for our interest.’
‘Of course, Mr Grayson. My parents and I were grateful for the invitation.’ James was beginning to relax, his shoulders were loosening and the smile on his face was easier.
‘Richard, please. Mr Grayson makes me feel old and stuffy, not unlike some of our more distinguished guests.’ Dick winked. Getting informal and so discourteous so early was a risk, but if he had read his target correctly, it would pay off.
It did. James let out a surprised chuckle, ‘I wouldn’t think you were one to speak so coarsely of your guests.’
‘Oh, I would never,’ Dick smiled wickedly, conspiratorially. ‘I’m the perfect gentleman my father raised me to be.’ He flicked his eyes quickly to his target’s lips, keeping the action obvious but not obnoxious. Looking at someone’s lips could mean several things; from you wanting to kiss them to being too nervous to look them in the eye. From the context and the barest flash of heat in his eyes, James could only conclude that Dick Grayson was looking to score. He wasn’t interested in James, not at all, but he wasn’t above a little hint.
Unlike Bruce, Dick had never hooked up with anyone at a Gala, but that didn’t stop anyone from trying. There had been a close call or two, but no one had ever laid a hand on Richard Grayson that he didn’t explicitly allow. He had the uncanny, according to Jason, ability to twist away from any untoward touches, without so much as an offended look from the other party.
There had been hushed whispers many years ago, when he’d first come of age, about whose son or daughter Bruce would marry him off to, and how they could make it theirs. The thought of it still made him sick; he was surrounded by people who’d do anything for a single coin of Bruce’s vast wealth, not above seducing a sixteen-year-old.
Dick had responded by leaving. Leaving Gotham, leaving high society in general, leaving Robin. He rebranded himself as Nightwing, as Richard Grayson, both with their own respective mythologies. He and Bruce had agreed together that it was for the best. As good as Dick was at playing socialites, he’d grown weary of being so friendly around people who turned their noses up at him until he became desirable.
He didn’t simply vanish for all those years away. He and Bruce had used the Wayne name and its many connections (some from Bruce’s time training to become Batman) to have him spotted in the presence of princes and princesses, kings and queens, lords and ladies, duke and duchesses all across the globe. Dick’s departure had sparked wildfires of gossip, smothered only by the occasional shot of him at a gala, surrounded by the world’s one percent. There weren’t many, but there were enough that people talked.
By his next appearance, he was different, untouchable, alluring. He was above it all, and he let them know it. The next time someone tried to proposition him, during his first time back in Gotham in almost three years, he sent them away with a look, a stare so intense that it made them shiver. It didn’t take long for the elite of Gotham to learn that if you wanted a chance with Richard Grayson, he approached you.
He had approached James. More than a couple of people glanced their way; jealous, curious, frustrated, intrigued. Was an outsider going to steal their prince’s heart?
‘So, how are you finding Gotham?’ Dick swerved back to small talk rather ungraciously to disorientate his target.
‘Oh, uh, it’s certainly a change,’ James coughed, ‘but we’re settling in just fine.’ His eyes narrowed slightly, Dick could all but see the cogs spinning in his mind. Let them try to figure you out, watch them fail.
‘Had no trouble with the local supervillains yet I presume?’
James paled, ‘Not yet, no. Are they really as bad as everybody says?’
‘Well, I don’t know what you’ve heard from outsiders, but they always exaggerate. If you live out in Bristol, which I’m sure you do, they won’t bother you. Just be careful around the city. Wayne Enterprises has supplies and guides for what to do. We’ve lived here a long time, don’t you worry.’ Dick crooned, soothing his ruffled feathers. Safety, comfort, that’s how they open up.
‘Thank you, yes, I’ll talk to my parents about it.’ James replied gratefully.
‘Of course. It’s not the easiest to live here. It must be quite a shock to move from, where did you say?’ Small talk; inoffensive, easy.
‘I didn’t. We’re from New York. Less supervillains, but business is so much harder, you know?’ James replied. Dick could hear the wink in his tone. The nudge of shared camaraderie.
Bingo.
James spoke openly, falling for the trap that the Waynes were also corrupt. Rumours worked wonders sometimes.
Dick hummed in agreement, ‘One of the benefits of our fine city. The federal government are too scared to darken our streets.’ Oh, they had tried a time or seventy, but Gotham’s villains hated them almost as much as they loved wreaking havoc. You only had to flash an FBI badge and you’d be found dead in a gutter somewhere, or dumped outside the city limits, alive but traumatised depending on who found you – that wasn’t even limited to supervillains; a pissed-off Gothamite didn’t have any qualms based on affiliations to Uncle Sam, especially when he’d done nothing but let the city collapse in on itself.
The pair continued their conversation; completely innocent to a bystander, to James, but not to Dick, to Bruce, or any one of the family in attendance. Dick was reeling him in, pulling him into his orbit. Dick was magnetic. His appearances in his time away had not solely been to feed the vulturous masses. Bruce’s connections had taught him not just to dominate the social sphere but to rule it. Dick had taken to it far easier than his adoptive father, who smothered his emotions rather than controlling them. There was a difference.
Slowly, carefully, so that he was unaware it was even happening, Dick teased titbits and clues out of James, wrapping him in his web like a spider, like a black widow, Dick thought wryly. Only he wasn’t going to marry the guy and murder him for his fortune. No, he was going to steal all his secrets and send him off none the wiser – until Tim or Bruce used them against his family in the boardroom, and they would wonder just how the Waynes had collected such damning information. Corporate espionage, he mused, not what he expected to be doing when he first donned a cape, but if it fucked over the rich scumbags who lined their pockets with their spoils, the riches stolen from the city that desperately needed it, then who was he to complain? Capitalist Robin Hood. Maybe they should get Oliver Queen involved in their operation to really drive that symbolism home.
At the end of the night, Dick will sweep away from James, leaving him off-kilter and several secrets lighter. He will walk to Bruce, shoo away his company, and quietly discuss the bare bones of his intel. Bruce will ruffle his hair and Dick will allow it, a slight break in character to shake the oppressive mantle of Richard loose for just a moment. The gala will end and the Bats will retreat to the cave, ready to plan how to keep another family of piranhas out of Gotham’s delicate ecosystem. Because outsiders were indeed rare, and not just because the city was inhospitable. Quite often, outsiders were pushed.
The Thomasons will fail to integrate themselves, fail to comprehend the deadly dance of social politics in Gotham City. They will try, and maybe they will get some grace from high society, but Wayne Enterprises will overwhelm them with their past – financial crime, mob connections, even a brief foray into trafficking. They will scramble to stay afloat but will be unable to cut it in the most dangerous city in America. James, in a last-ditch effort, will appeal to Richard Grayson for reprieve, and Dick will smile genially and pat him sympathetically on the back before tearing his hopes to shreds. Yet, they will part as friends, or what James assumes to be friends because Dick never had any intention of that. He will never know who was the reason for his family’s downfall and neither will they. They will chalk it up to Gotham and her supernatural ruthlessness rather than the mysterious acquaintance of their son.
Gotham City is corrupt from the top down, the existing families too intertwined to be forced out, secured by decades of history and connections. New threats aren’t welcome, they are tossed out without prejudice, and the Thomasons will be determined as a threat. Bruce will grudgingly play nice with those already there if only to keep the city breathing, but also for a chessboard with players he recognises and knows from years of experience.
Dick Grayson will disappear once again, will miss Mrs Colby’s gala – he never had any desire to attend – with his deepest apologies and Gotham will wonder where he goes and who he associates with until another picture of him shaking hands with the mayor of New York two months later is printed in the paper. Nightwing will continue to lead the Titans, rumours of his existence continuing as mere whispers, and no one will connect the two. The Waynes and the rest of the elite will continue as usual, the memories of a new family forgotten as the Bats continue to fight corruption and crime. Soon enough, Dick Grayson will fade from the press until his next appearance, once again at one of Bruce’s galas and the cycle of obscurity and fame will begin again. Gotham City will wait for her prince to return.