Chapter Text
Do not mess with the Waynes.
This guiding principle had been instilled in every true resident of Gotham from birth. A few decades ago, it had referred only to Martha and Thomas Wayne.
Now both were dead, and their son Bruce had proven that he was not to be trifled with.
He wasn't going to let himself be shot down like that.
And he wasn't alone.
No. He had five children. There were rumors and whispers about each of them, and at the end of the day, no one knew who was the most dangerous member of the Wayne family.
However, not everyone seemed to have gotten the message, because every now and then there was a petty criminal who wanted to play gangster boss. Unfortunately, there was only room for one in Gotham, and he didn't appreciate it when people pissed him off.
“He calls himself Black Mask, sir,” Alfred shared the unpleasant news at the dinner table.
“What a stupid name,” Damian grunted.
Damian Wayne was the youngest and only biological child of Bruce Wayne. The Blood Son. Naive people liked to assume that the nickname came from his bloodline. Anyone who had survived an encounter with him knew better. He did not hesitate to reach for his sword. A thoroughly old-fashioned weapon, but one that had broken even the toughest of men.
At thirteen years of age, he let his emotions guide him and enjoyed showing off the skills that had been drummed into him by the League of Assassins—which, coincidentally, was led by his maternal grandfather.
“Can I help you?” Alfred had opened the door and then realized who was standing in front of him.
Talia al Ghul.
"Excuse me, miss, but I'm pretty sure Master Bruce doesn't want you in his house or in his city.
“Good morning,” the woman replied coldly, “I'm sure my beloved doesn't want to see me. Our last encounter made that more than clear.”
Alfred raised an eyebrow.
“But I'm sure he wants to meet his son.”
With that, Damian stepped out of her shadow. His expression clearly looked down on the butler.
“Mother. Why are you letting that servant block your way?”
“He's a friend of your father's. He'll take care of you. I have to go.”
She put the same emotional meaning into every sentence. None. For her, every sentence was worthless.
Damian frowned and then simply walked past Alfred.
“I apologize and am happy to be here,” he muttered as his mother had long since disappeared.
Damian didn't know that a family was waiting for him. He only knew that his family had just left him.
“Is he a threat?” The head of the family did not respond to the remark and, like his only daughter, spread butter on his bread.
Cassandra Cain was a silent girl. Her biological father had never allowed her to speak. Now he was dead, murdered by her new and only father. Now she was allowed to speak, but preferred to eat or resort to sign language. She never interfered in such matters. She was even more dangerous than her younger brother. All her life—seventeen years—she had been trained to kill. Rumor had it that she could tell her opponents' weak points just by their posture. So if you were smart, you didn't take away any of the three things she loved: food, ballet, and her family.
Bruce had his differences with the League of Assassins. That was no secret. That's why he felt no remorse when David Cain lay dead before him.
This man had sworn allegiance to Ra's al Ghul and stood in Bruce's way. His death had been necessary. And perhaps too clean, considering that this man had hundreds of lives on his conscience.
“Father,” Bruce heard a voice behind him. He hadn't heard Cassandra approach him and hoped she hadn't seen the murder. He himself had seen his parents die, and no matter how cold-bloodedly he now ruled Gotham's Underworld, that one fact always managed to soften his heart. He took a step and blocked her view.
“Hello, little one,” he smiled, “What's your name?”
The girl looked at him helplessly and shrugged. She was at a loss for words, yet the gangster boss felt that he was no match for her because she knew all his faults.
“How about I take you to Gotham? Then we'll figure it out.”
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it wasn't right to take in a young girl whose father had just been shot. But when she forced a smile, he didn't care.
And Cassandra just wanted to get away from her father. She could never have imagined that this would give her a dad and brothers.
“Are you serious?” grinned the eldest across the table.
Richard “Dick” Grayson. The Golden Boy. Already twenty-three years old and still a child at heart, people often joked. The people who said that didn't understand him. He smiled and cracked jokes, but at the end of the day, you didn't want to be on his bad side. Dick grew up in the circus. On the evening he was supposed to perform as an acrobat for the first time, his parents fell to their deaths. He found the killer and killed him. When he didn't know what to do next, Bruce took him into his family, and now he would do anything to protect them.
It hadn't been difficult. It had been child's play, in fact.
Dick had only had to put a fake message from Bruce Wayne in Tony Zucco's mailbox, and the man had shown up on the roof of the cheap apartment building at the specified time.
“Of course he's late. Damn millionaire. Thinks he can boss everyone around and then show up late,” he had muttered angrily into the cold wind, lit a cigar, and stepped to the edge.
Dick had pushed him. The hardest part had been sneaking up on him. The push was easy. And Dick enjoyed the fear on his face when he looked up and saw the boy whose parents he had murdered. Gravity had never been his friend—it had prevented Dick from flying and caused his parents to fall—so it was only fair that it gave him something back and killed Zucco too.
The body hit the asphalt, and Dick was surprised he could still hear it from up here.
He smiled.
“I don't really like it when people misuse my name.”
The amused voice made him turn around. Dick recognized Bruce Wayne immediately and felt... not threatened. His parents had been avenged. Now he could actually rest in peace.
“It was necessary. Sorry,” he shrugged. He was only a little sorry because Bruce Wayne hadn't really done anything.
The man waved him off: “Since you've just solved my problem for me, wouldn't you at least like to tell me why?”
And he did. For whatever reason, Dick was then taken to Wayne Manor. And there he stayed, finding a new family that made life worth living.
“I take everything seriously until I'm sure I have no reason to,” Bruce said, allowing himself a brief lift of the corners of his mouth.
“There's no problem that can't be solved with a flamethrower,” Jason interjected helpfully.
Bruce frowned: “You don't have a flamethrower.”
“Why not?” his second eldest mimicked his expression.
Jason Peter Todd wasn't crazy, he just pretended to be. Every now and then, to throw everyone off balance. His tendency to throw tantrums and get into fistfights, on the other hand, was real. He had grown up on the streets after living with his parents hadn't worked out (to put it mildly). As a daredevil and a foolish child, he couldn't resist stealing Bruce Wayne's car tires, of all things. Taking the boy in instead of making him disappear surprised not only the entire underworld, but Jason himself. The twenty-one-year-old wasn't afraid of Bruce or anyone else, and that only made him all the more dangerous.
Jason didn't think much of it when he stole the tires from the Bentley. Not that he knew what kind of car it was at the time. He just knew it was expensive. In his eyes, any rich asshole who left his ride unattended in Crime Alley deserved an unpleasant surprise.
It wasn't until he got to the third tire that it occurred to Jason that whatever was in the car might be worth more money than the tires. In a way, he was right, even if he wouldn't realize it until much later.
The moment he looked inside the car, he was startled. There was a boy inside! He was only a few years older than him. And his shirt was stained with blood.
Without thinking twice, he wanted to smash the wheel wrench in his hand through the glass window. His wrist was grabbed firmly.
“And what exactly are you planning to do?” asked an ice-cold voice.
Jason was spun around and wanted to kick out, but the sight of the person standing in front of him made him freeze for a moment.
You didn't survive long as a street kid if you didn't know the most important faces. And everyone knew Bruce Wayne's face. Jason was as good as dead.
And then it dawned on Jason. If he was already done for, he might as well say what he was thinking.
“Crime Alley is no place for fancy cars. It attracts thieves. Everyone knows that, and besides,” he took another deep breath, “I'm certainly not going to stand idly by while some rich pervert lets a child bleed to death in his car!”
Bruce blinked and looked past him at the car.
The car door opened and a sleepy-eyed boy looked out: “What's going on here?”
“That's not his blood, and he's my son,” Bruce grumbled, and Jason realized what was going on. Well, he had come to the wrong conclusion. He would be damned if he apologized for it.
Meanwhile, Richard Grayson watched the scene and pieced together what he had missed. He was pretty sure he had put the pieces of the puzzle together correctly.
Dick beamed at his adoptive father: “Thanks, Bruce. Thanks. I thought you were just going to buy me a dog, but a little brother is sooo much better.”
Jason and Bruce stared at him as if he were crazy. But somehow, no one could refuse Richard Grayson anything. His puppy dog eyes were too cunning.
“Because we've seen what you can do with a lighter,” Dick grinned at him, and Cassandra backed him up with a gesture that looked suspiciously like “boom.”
“Black Mask is proceeding cautiously. He never takes too much and only gradually incites the underworld against us. A few men have defected, but the majority remain loyal and don't believe in him. However, if he proves himself, he could become a problem,” Tim brought the conversation back to where it started.
Timothy Drake-Wayne was the Chosen Son. This was very ironic because he had chosen the position himself and then worked his way up to it. No one could quite understand it, but the eighteen-year-old was smart and so similar to Bruce that he was already running most of the business. Strangely enough, only Damian seemed to have a problem with this, while the older siblings had never mentioned that the older ones actually had the right to the position.
“Can I help you?” Alfred blinked down at the young guest.
Timothy Drake looked up at him determinedly: “I'd like to speak to Bruce Wayne.”
And Alfred led him to Bruce, who looked at him with restrained interest.
“You're the Drake boy, aren't you? What can I do for you?” he asked with a friendly smile that Tim knew wasn't genuine.
“I have some pictures here that might interest you.”
The pictures were interesting. They showed him and his sons committing acts that could land them in prison for life.
Bruce's gaze was icy: “I don't think it's right for your parents to send their boy when they want to start blackmailing someone.”
“What?” Tim stared at him in horror, “No, it's not blackmail... or maybe it is.”
The boy seemed confused and took a few seconds to collect himself. Finally, he took a deep breath and looked Bruce straight in the face: “I took the pictures because I was interested in it. I like your business and had nothing better to do. The photos were not taken to harm you or your family. But circumstances have led to my parents dying, and I don't want to go to an orphanage.”
Bruce's eyes widened. For the first time in a long time, he couldn't hide his surprise. That was... a lot to take in.
But finally, he nodded: “All right. So what do you think I should do?”
Tim didn't hesitate: “Hide me from the authorities and I'll work for you. I know I'm young, but I'm smart and inconspicuous. I can be helpful!”
Jason and Dick rushed into the room, leaving no doubt that they had heard every word. They weren't ashamed of it, but Tim found the intense attention too much.
“What did I say about eavesdropping?” Bruce asked angrily.
His children ignored him. Instead, Dick looked at the photos and then smiled at one of Jason.
“These are really good. I can have them framed. I don't have any with Jason yet.”
Bruce pursed his lips while Jason was silent and looked at Tim. He looked at him closely.
“Is there something on my face?” the youngest asked, intimidated.
Jason put an arm around his shoulder and grinned at Bruce: “I thought you were just going to buy me a dog, but a little brother is so much better.”
The words were exactly those of his brother. Dick was immediately enthusiastic about the idea and also put his arm around little Tim.
Tim shook his head: “No. I didn't want that. I just don't want to go to the orphanage.”
Jason nodded: “Yes, of course. And you don't have to go to the orphanage because I'll never let you go again. You belong to me now.”
“You sound creepy, Jaybird!” Dick rebuked him, but made no move to remove his arm from Tim.
Bruce just leaned back and sighed. He couldn't stand up to his children, and besides, he saw the same thing in Tim that he saw in his other sons. Something special. He couldn't ignore that.
So Tim found a family he hadn't even been looking for.
“Thanks, Tim,” his father nodded to him.
What followed was not unusual. He looked around the room appraisingly, and everyone knew that he was about to decide who would be allowed to take care of the problem.
Tim knew the most, but he also had the most responsibilities. Dick had already set his mind on a task. Cassandra had a dance lesson today, and if she missed it, she would certainly be more than disappointed. Something Bruce would regret one way or another. That left only Damian and Jason. Both brutal and both knew what they were doing.
Who should he choose?
“Master Damian. We have to leave now if we want to get to class on time,” Alfred helped him as always.
Alfred was the family butler and everyone's point of contact. Sometimes it seemed as if he could read minds.
“Pennyworth,” Damian nodded and left. He sounded disappointed and angry, but he would never contradict Alfred in front of his family.
“Jason. Would you please pay Black Mask a visit?”
The children grimaced. It was phrased as a request, but it certainly wasn't one.
Jason grinned, “Can I have a flamethrower?”