Chapter Text
Your Train is Arriving Shortly. Please Make Your Way to the Platform.
10:50 am. Sunday, January 7th
Kings Cross Station, London, England
Tim’s fingers are typing dutifully on his phone as he trudges forward through the crowd. He’s writing a report on last night’s mission, and Bruce watches as he adds pictures, bullet points and sidebars on anything and everything he recalls. Tim’s reports are always detailed, intensely so. In the past, it’s been to the point of unreadability, but Bruce likes to think that his ward is improving at that. Since Jason’s return to the family, and subsequent horror at Tim’s report writing skills, he had been forcing tim to read more literature. Much to Tim’s chagrin, sure, but his sentence structure had improved. So. Small mercies.
One hand on the teen’s shoulder, Bruce guides Tim out of an oncoming pedestrian’s way, and watches as he yawns and blinks the sleep from his eyes. Bruce’s jaw strains as he tries hard not to follow suit. It had been a long night, and Bruce hadn’t slept a wink. He’d barely convinced Tim to doze for a few hours (an incredible feat, really. Alfred would be proud) with the promise of a coffee before their train in the morning.
Last night’s mission had been successful, but only in the most general sense of the word. They were already working with limited information ( basically just a single last name, thank you for the wealth of information, Captain Marvel), and Tim had obtained just a few bare slivers of information at the investors dinner last night. All from paper records, which was ridiculous. What business in their right mind kept stockholder records on paper anymore. Naturally, his own online records hunt had turned up dry as well. No photos, CCTV footage, death records, birth records, estate records…. Almost nothing. The only place the name had reliably cropped up in was in stockholder mailing lists for a wide ranging list of positively flourishing companies. Tim was convinced that they were playing the market somehow, and Bruce privately agreed. By all estimations, if they invested more capital their portfolio would be more profitable than his, and while Bruce wasn’t actually all that attached to his money, he was slightly flustered about the whole thing. He used top of the line algorithms to decide what companies to buy stock in, and he didn’t feel bad about that- most of his dividends went towards the cave or the watchtower anyways. That particular revelation had still thrown him for a bit of a loop.
Thanks to Tim’s 20 minute snoop through the nameless company’s servers (and, ugh , physical archives) while he’d played the “Brucie” role for British elites, Bruce now had another key shred of information. There wasn’t a lot, yet, but it was more than they had yesterday. All together, he just had this:
One. The Malfoys were a British family of Magicians.
Two. The Malfoys were suspected of directly funding a magical terrorist organization.
And Three, what Tim had retrieved last night: the Malfoys received investor update newsletters to one “Hardwick Hall” in Wiltshire.
And so, they were off to scout the property, and their train to the area was leaving at 11. Ordinarily, Bruce would prefer the jet, or a car rental, but Marvel had heavily suggested they stick to trains when traveling for long stretches. Once again with almost no explanation, and no clues except for a nervous look on his face.
Overall, Captain Marvel had been strangely skittish when asking Bruce to take the case, and had intentionally dodged most of the usual briefing questions. Usually Bruce dealt with megawatt smiles and case related word vomit from the man, but instead he had dealt with strangely measured words and clipped responses.
The Watchtower, 1 week prior
Marvel was fidgeting again. Bruce knew that he wasn’t telling him everything he knew about the mission he’d proposed, but he couldn’t figure out why . If he hadn’t just watched Marvel muscle a kraken back into the ocean with Aquaman an hour prior, Bruce might have suspected foul play. But no, this was still Marvel. He’d just never seen Marvel this nervous about a case before.
“And the terrorists' motives?” Batman pressured.
“They’ve mostly been attacking non-magical people.”
“mostly?”
“Um. They’re very…. prejudiced against them” he said, avoiding the obvious question of who else they would be attacking.
Giving in, Bruce accepted the misdirect for the umpteenth time in the last 10 minutes. “And why is that? Are they simply terrorists on a power trip?”
“I mean… Yes? But there's more to it than that?”
“Then tell me what else there is to it.”
“I…” Marvel looked pained, at this point. Bruce was sure that if the man had Clark’s heat vision, there’d be a hole in the floor where he’d been staring for the last 15 minutes. “I don’t think I can , Bats.”
Batman raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You can’t tell me more about the terrorists motives, even though you obviously have some idea of them?”
“Yes, I just. Um. They’re…..” Marvel lifted his gaze to the ceiling, still avoiding his eyes. Maybe wishing for an out.
Instead, the silence spread between them. Bruce pulled on as much of his parent-gained patience as he could, but it was beginning to become ridiculous.
Batman scowled, and his hand came up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “You’re not giving me a whole lot to work with, Captain.”
Marvel stopped fidgeting, and heaved a sigh. His nose scrunched up for a moment, considering, before finally meeting Bruce's eyes.“Listen, Batman, I’m sorry I can’t give you more. I promise that I would if I could, but I’m… magically bound from giving you all of the facts directly.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow at the implication. “Indirectly, though?”
He huffed a laugh, looking down again. “Indirectly, I’ve given you everything I can. Once you have boots on the ground, I’m sure you’ll figure out exactly what I'm keeping from you. I’m counting on it, actually! Just, until you figure it out yourself, my hands are tied.”
He looked back up at Bruce, eyes shining with sincerity “Once you do, reach out to me asap, and I can give you all of the details that I’m dancing around right now. I know it’s not ideal-” the large man looked back down at his thumbs, rubbing them against each other slowly “-But we… I need your expertise on this one. I’m no detective, and I definitely don’t have the knowledge or resources to take them down financially, or legally. Right now they’re very cloak and dagger, and I'm very… not.” he said, slouching.
Bruce frowned at the self depreciation, and Marvel shrunk back, just a bit. Bruce found himself frowning more deeply, the lines on his face deepening. He knew that underneath the wisdom of Solomon, the strength of Hercules and the courage of Achilles, that Captain Marvel was still Billy Batson, a young teenager with the (perceived) weight of the world on his back. He brought his hand up and clapped it on the hero’s shoulder, hoping the weight provided some comfort. His boys certainly appreciated physical reassurance, but he didn’t want to patronize Marvel by directly comparing them, even though he was certainly still pulling on his paternal instincts.
“I understand, Captain. Thank you for sharing what you can. And for your confidence in my abilities to help.” he reassured. “It’s important to ask for help, and I’m glad that you are.”
Marvel’s eyes were wide, and realizing that he may have overstepped, Bruce awkwardly released his grip and stepped back. “I’ll start looking into the family, Captain. Please message if you can give us any more information, and I'll message when we make a breakthrough on your mystery.”
With that, he turned on his heel and made for the zeta tubes. Bruce had worked through larger cases with less clues, but with the meagre information available, he had to act as if there was no time to lose. For all he knew, there wasn’t any.
10:53 am. Sunday, January 7th
Kings Cross Station, London, England
“Oh, that one’s fine. We have enough time, right B?” Tim is glancing up at Bruce and pointing to a Costa coffee about 20 feet away. The line isn’t too long, and they aren’t too far from platform ten, but their train leaves pretty soon. Bruce mentally shakes himself from his thoughts and feels the yawn he’s been holding back finally break free.
Slightly distracted, he responds. “Yes, but you’ll need to be quick. Train leaves soon, and we can’t miss it.” All he catches is Tim’s sly grin before the teen books it towards the shop. “Thanks B! I’ll be right back.” Bruce sighs, watching his son digs an obnoxiously large thermos out of his messenger bag while bounding away. God help those poor baristas.
He had considered saying no, but his earlier promise and his own drowsy logic won out. After all, at least one of them needs to stay awake while they’re on the train. Tim, with his 3 hours of sleep in him and a coffee, would probably stay functioning for another 48 hours, minimum. Christ, the joys of youth. Bruce can’t push himself that far anymore, try as he might. He hasn’t slept more than 2 hours in the last four days as it was, and so he will absolutely be sleeping on the train.
Tim, for his part, is a dedicated Alfred sleeper agent in disguise. Bruce is sure that he will be put to sleep by Tim today one way or another, on threat of decaf when the boy returns to Gotham.
He feels himself subtly shifting weight from foot to foot, still keeping both on the ground. He’s not swaying, but it’s a close thing. Far closer than he’d like. His eyelids are drooping, but he's schooled his face to stay otherwise neutral.
Tim bounds back to him moments later, ridiculously large multi-shot latte monstrosity in hand, but his gait slows and smile fades as he approaches Bruce.
“Something on my face, chum?”
Tim scrutinizes him, face scrunching up a bit. “Just your eye bags. I thought mine were bad, but maybe Alfred's right, and I did get mine from you.”
“Hnnn. Maybe” He focuses on not swaying. His son (in all but name) is still squinting at him, evaluating.
Their moment is interrupted abruptly by the station’s intercom announcement.
“The train at platform ten, formed of five coaches, is nearly ready to leave. Will passengers intending to travel on this service please join the train at platform ten now, as it is ready to leave.” A woman’s voice crackles out over the speakers.
The two barely glance at each other before bolting for their platform.