Synopsis: SI-OC as Bruce Wayne's younger brother.
It's a truth universally acknowledged that a...
It's a truth universally acknowledged that a...
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The Wayne Brothers
- Thread starter LuceLucky
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Prologue: November 25th
LuceLucky
Getting some practice in, huh?
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2020
- Messages
- 9
- Likes received
- 217
Synopsis: SI-OC as Bruce Wayne's younger brother.
It's a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a crime-fighting gig. Luckily for Rhys Wayne, his parents did not write him in their will before biting the lead in Crime Alley. Not that he cares. He'd rather leave the literal ass-kicking to Bruce, who's an exhaustion coma waiting to happen.
Who would've thought the Batman needed so much handling?
...
Excerpt: Rhys exhales loudly and crosses his arms over his chest. "Pamela, you're a lesbian weed botanist. I don't want to hear your poor attempts at nuclear physics."
Childhood: YEAR 1
November 25th
Crime Alley
Bruce Wayne's childhood is ripped away in a matter of seconds.
The first gunshot takes away his father, who crumples to the ground. "Don't, please!" His mother's scream rips through the alley, and she turns away just as the second gunshot sounds. Her blood splatters across his cheek, where he's standing close, rooted by fear. The pearl necklace hits the ground at the same time as her, breaking apart. Beads scatter around twinkling like little stars in the dark. The murderer curses, and flees.
Seconds. It took mere seconds. He can hear the man's hurried footsteps fading away in the distance. He's fleeing, Bruce thinks although he's finding it hard to care under the awful numbness, he killed them and he's running away- Silence falls over the alley like an invisible shroud.
Bruce imagines this is what it feels like to live on the moon.
Then, a baby starts crying.
Baby, he thinks numbly, there's a baby in Mom's arms. Of course there is. It's his brother. His baby brother. Bruce forces his locked feet to move. He approaches his parents with slow, deliberate steps and drops to his knees between their bodies. A macabre parody of how he used to slip between them in bed when his own bed felt a little too big and too cold.
He doesn't even notice the blood seeping through his dress pants.
His father is on his back, blue eyes staring sightlessly at the night sky. There's a dark stain where his heart is, growing and growing until the whole front of his dress shirt is soaked red.
His mother lays on her side, arms wrapped around a delicate bundle. A moving, crying bundle. Rhys.
Bruce reaches out a trembling hand. He needs to take his brother. He promised them he'd take care of his brother. He should- he should-
A ragged breath escapes him. His cheeks feel wet and prickly in the cold November air. Dad. Mom. Please-
His mother's body is heavy, (a dead weight, he thinks through a half-hysterical sob) but it moves when he grabs her shoulder and tugs her away from his brother. Her eyes are closed, a trickle of blood seeping from the corner of her mouth. She does not look asleep, her brows are furrowed and her lips are twisted tight as if someone had snapped her picture in the middle of a flinch. Bruce dares a look down, even as every cell of his being revolts.
The lower front of the elegant, blue robe she'd chosen to wear to the Theatre, is turning dark red.
Swallowing harshly, Bruce forces his eyes away, and they land on the squirming crying bundle.
To his horror, his brother is also bleeding, his small, round face painted an angry red. Bruce scrambles to pick him up. His brother waves his little arms and legs beneath the shawl Mom's wrapped him in. Bruce grabs a far end of the cashmere and wipes Rhys's face, trying to find the source of all that blood. It turns out to be a horizontal cut underneath his left eye.
Bruce isn't sure, but he thinks Rhys was cut by a shard from a broken glass bottle. The ground is littered with trash, ripped newspapers, discarded beer packs, cigarette butts, (and lily-white pearls). It stinks of waste, stale beer, and rust, but maybe the metallic scent is from the blood. There's so much of it. Dad and Mom's bloo-
"It's alright," he croaks out, regaining use over his voice. He tugs his brother closer to his chest, rocking him gently in his arms. "It's alright, Rhys."
The baby's cries fade into quiet snuffling. In the distance, sirens can be heard, getting louder and shriller as they come closer. They might as well be coming from another planet. Bruce has never felt so alone- it's as if he and Rhys are outcasts on the moon.
Bruce stares at his parents. He stares and stares and stares, as he and horror mingle into one infinite night.
Little Rhys, barely a year old and weighing down Bruce's arms, sleeps fitfully.
...
Afterword: When I was seventeen years old and just discovering the numerous members of the Batfamily, I wondered what life with Bruce Wayne would be like, from the moment his world had crumbled around him to his current days as a middle-aged crime-fighting dark knight. Seven years down the line, I finally commit to posting it for public review. I've already written a good chunk of this fic, approximately 70k words, but mainly of ARC 4: Batman Begins. That's... still a ways of. There's still another 50k to write before we get there, so I suggest you'll buckle up because we're in for the long ride.
(Uhm, does anyone know how to change your name on QQ? I've decided to go by Naberriel on all websites.)
It's a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a crime-fighting gig. Luckily for Rhys Wayne, his parents did not write him in their will before biting the lead in Crime Alley. Not that he cares. He'd rather leave the literal ass-kicking to Bruce, who's an exhaustion coma waiting to happen.
Who would've thought the Batman needed so much handling?
...
Excerpt: Rhys exhales loudly and crosses his arms over his chest. "Pamela, you're a lesbian weed botanist. I don't want to hear your poor attempts at nuclear physics."
Childhood: YEAR 1
November 25th
Crime Alley
Bruce Wayne's childhood is ripped away in a matter of seconds.
The first gunshot takes away his father, who crumples to the ground. "Don't, please!" His mother's scream rips through the alley, and she turns away just as the second gunshot sounds. Her blood splatters across his cheek, where he's standing close, rooted by fear. The pearl necklace hits the ground at the same time as her, breaking apart. Beads scatter around twinkling like little stars in the dark. The murderer curses, and flees.
Seconds. It took mere seconds. He can hear the man's hurried footsteps fading away in the distance. He's fleeing, Bruce thinks although he's finding it hard to care under the awful numbness, he killed them and he's running away- Silence falls over the alley like an invisible shroud.
Bruce imagines this is what it feels like to live on the moon.
Then, a baby starts crying.
Baby, he thinks numbly, there's a baby in Mom's arms. Of course there is. It's his brother. His baby brother. Bruce forces his locked feet to move. He approaches his parents with slow, deliberate steps and drops to his knees between their bodies. A macabre parody of how he used to slip between them in bed when his own bed felt a little too big and too cold.
He doesn't even notice the blood seeping through his dress pants.
His father is on his back, blue eyes staring sightlessly at the night sky. There's a dark stain where his heart is, growing and growing until the whole front of his dress shirt is soaked red.
His mother lays on her side, arms wrapped around a delicate bundle. A moving, crying bundle. Rhys.
Bruce reaches out a trembling hand. He needs to take his brother. He promised them he'd take care of his brother. He should- he should-
A ragged breath escapes him. His cheeks feel wet and prickly in the cold November air. Dad. Mom. Please-
His mother's body is heavy, (a dead weight, he thinks through a half-hysterical sob) but it moves when he grabs her shoulder and tugs her away from his brother. Her eyes are closed, a trickle of blood seeping from the corner of her mouth. She does not look asleep, her brows are furrowed and her lips are twisted tight as if someone had snapped her picture in the middle of a flinch. Bruce dares a look down, even as every cell of his being revolts.
The lower front of the elegant, blue robe she'd chosen to wear to the Theatre, is turning dark red.
Swallowing harshly, Bruce forces his eyes away, and they land on the squirming crying bundle.
To his horror, his brother is also bleeding, his small, round face painted an angry red. Bruce scrambles to pick him up. His brother waves his little arms and legs beneath the shawl Mom's wrapped him in. Bruce grabs a far end of the cashmere and wipes Rhys's face, trying to find the source of all that blood. It turns out to be a horizontal cut underneath his left eye.
Bruce isn't sure, but he thinks Rhys was cut by a shard from a broken glass bottle. The ground is littered with trash, ripped newspapers, discarded beer packs, cigarette butts, (and lily-white pearls). It stinks of waste, stale beer, and rust, but maybe the metallic scent is from the blood. There's so much of it. Dad and Mom's bloo-
"It's alright," he croaks out, regaining use over his voice. He tugs his brother closer to his chest, rocking him gently in his arms. "It's alright, Rhys."
The baby's cries fade into quiet snuffling. In the distance, sirens can be heard, getting louder and shriller as they come closer. They might as well be coming from another planet. Bruce has never felt so alone- it's as if he and Rhys are outcasts on the moon.
Bruce stares at his parents. He stares and stares and stares, as he and horror mingle into one infinite night.
Little Rhys, barely a year old and weighing down Bruce's arms, sleeps fitfully.
...
Afterword: When I was seventeen years old and just discovering the numerous members of the Batfamily, I wondered what life with Bruce Wayne would be like, from the moment his world had crumbled around him to his current days as a middle-aged crime-fighting dark knight. Seven years down the line, I finally commit to posting it for public review. I've already written a good chunk of this fic, approximately 70k words, but mainly of ARC 4: Batman Begins. That's... still a ways of. There's still another 50k to write before we get there, so I suggest you'll buckle up because we're in for the long ride.
(Uhm, does anyone know how to change your name on QQ? I've decided to go by Naberriel on all websites.)
Arcs and Chapter List
Character Sheet
Funeral Black
LuceLucky
Getting some practice in, huh?
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2020
- Messages
- 9
- Likes received
- 217
November 30th
Wayne Manor
10:34 am
The funeral is an extravagant and somber affair. Jim shouldn't be surprised. The United States did not boast a royal family, but the Waynes are as good as, especially for Gotham and Bludhaven and any other fanatics residing in the state of New Jersey. Thomas and Martha Wayne have been Gotham's royalty, the crème de la crème, both rich and good-looking and charitable. Believed to be untouchable.
Until now.
Now, Gotham's top elite couple are being buried under an oak tree, a yard off from the Manor, upon their special request to not be put in the Wayne mausoleum in the Gotham Cemetery.
"Look at this mess," Bullock snorts, but Jim is not fooled. Despite his sarcastic tone, his senior partner supports eyebags as black as the funeral colors around them, and he appears even more ungroomed than usual, which is a feat in and of itself. Jim already suspected the man has never touched a razor in his life but he's sure he hasn't brushed his hair since the call from Park Row. Luckily that he's hiding that rat's nest underneath his fedora.
Bullock continues, sounding more bitter with every word. "The upper crust, the underworld, and the dirt poor, assembled here in one giant orgy of-"
Jim snaps, "Harvey." They are standing a ways from the crowd, far enough to have a good sight over the whole assembly, but close enough that words can be carried on the windy November wind.
"What?" Bullock spits, digging his hands deeper in his pockets, "You know it's true! There are those creepy Sionis bastards over there. The Goldens and the Kanes over there. Didn't they have a blood feud going on? Look, the Elliots deigned to give Zahir a second of their precious fucking time. And Zahir's a janitor at W.E. A fucking janitor, Jim. I know this because I used to work-"
"As Wayne Security," Jim says dryly, "Yes, you've already told me that tidbit of your life a dozen times already."
Bullock is silent for a long while. Jim winces. Too soon. They resume watching the funeral in silence: two men in trenchcoats, one mourning, the other trying to solve what will soon become one of the greatest mysteries of the twentieth century.
Bruce Wayne looks incredibly small and fragile next to the tall frame of Alfred Pennyworth, the family's butler. Jim studies the man. He doesn't know what he's looking for, exactly. What could a man possibly hide in his black penguin suit and side-part haircut, that a week of intensive and thorough police search hasn't revealed?
Still, he asks, "Pennyworth. He's got a strong alibi?"
Bullock's answer is immediate. "Iron-clad. He answered the landline ten minutes after we arrived on the scene. It's an hour-long drive between here and there. Why- ah, I know what you're gonna say," Bullock grimaces. "Alfred's innocent, Jim. He fought alongside Wayne in the war. Wayne is- was- He was a field medic and Alfred received an honorable discharge. They were a tight unit. Saved each other's asses plenty of times. Don't see why Alfred would kill his friend."
"They come back from the front," Jim muses out loud, "And suddenly nosy medic Wayne's a billionaire living in a huge mansion, with a beautiful wife and all the fame and respect most of us can only dream of. Meanwhile, purple star Pennyworth is relegated to being a nanny for his pampered kid. Not like the country's known for its good care of veterans, is it? Having to depend on someone like Wayne for a living, that's a lot of pride to swallow back," Jim straightens the collar of his coat, feeling the chill. "No reason to make a grab at all that fortune?"
Bullock has turned grey.
"You're talking outta your ass, Gordon," he growls.
Jim wisely drops the subject.
They resume watching the funeral in silence. Jim never understood rich people's compulsion to be buried in their backyards—whether those backyards span forty-two hectares of land is a moot point. Personally, when he dies, he'd rather not inconvenience anyone
He's not one to judge, usually, but just the thought of a kid like Bruce seeing his parents' grave every time he looked out the window… A shiver runs up his spine. Yeah, just seems in bad taste, to haunt the home you lived in, your ghost waving at those still breathing.
Jesus, all this depressing stuff is making him think like an old man. Jim's just hit his twenty-fourth birthday, thank you very much.
They should get to work; the Wayne case is going to be arduous, and there haven't been any real leads so far. The media, in absence of anyone to blame, have set their glares on the GCPD. Inept, incapable, useless—they've become both the scapegoat and the laughing stock.
Not that the GCPD had much to boast about before this, Jim thinks nastily. The police force is full of drunkards, wife-beaters, assholes who love throwing their weight around, no better than the dangerous raffle they deal with on the streets. There are a few good ones, brave men and women take their oaths seriously, but they're a shocking minority compared to the den of crooks that is the Gotham City Police Department.
It's not long before the silence becomes too awkward for Bullock, who Jim has learned is always quick to anger but quicker to forgive. The older man scratches the stubble on his jaw and says, "Heh, kinda reminds me of our first case. Remember Gator Boy?"
Jim grins, "The scales are hard to forget."
When Jim transferred from Chicago to Gotham. They assigned him to Harvey Bullock, more than a decade his senior and probably the grungiest man Jim will ever meet. Assigned to, Jim thinks amusedly, when dumped him with the detective would be more accurate, because the man had made his thoughts pretty clear on having a partner. Jim was unwanted, unneeded, a "wet-between-the-ears, bright-eyed punk from chi-town" that needed babysitting.
Not that he should take it personally, they'd assured Jim. Harvey Bullock's got unresolved issues. Something to do with his past partner.
Nevertheless, orders are orders, and Jim wasn't going anywhere, so Bullock had to deal with it.
The Jones case was a domestic violence that had turned into a third-degree murder. One night, Mr. Jones had drunk a little too much and tried to kill his son. While trying to protect him, Mrs. Jones had hit her husband with a frying pan. The first blow hadn't killed the man, merely knocked him out. The second blow had, when his head hit the counter of the dinner table.
The case was already wrapping up-Mrs. Jones won the court hearing on account of self-defense and involuntary manslaughter. He guessed Mr. Jones' long history of leaving bruises on wife and son helped hurry the case-when Bullock and Jim were tasked with their first mission: To find the Jones kid, who'd disappeared the night of his father's death.
The search didn't take long. Bullock suggested waiting at the cemetery, but not before letting Jim run around in circles looking for clues and coming up empty-handed. "Now, ya know how tight-lipped Gothamites are," was all he said. "Information is a form of currency, here. Money for money, Chi-town. You want them to spill their guts, you need to empty your wallet."
So, they set up watch at the Gotham Cemetery, lurking around Mr. Jones' grave disguised as visitors. The Jones kid showed up on the second day. Jim had wondered why a father would want to kill his own flesh and blood. Seeing the kid's face gave him a clue as to why.
Half the kid's face was overtaken by scales, like an alligator's. Jim had never seen a skin disease like that before.
They'd brought him back to his mother and witnessing her embrace her only child, Jim had had the silent grace to feel a little ashamed thinking that the Jones kid had a face only a mother could love.
("Sometimes you just wanna make sure," Bullock shrugged when Jim had asked him how he knew to wait there, taking a swig from a metal flask he carried everywhere.
Jim's brows furrowed. "Make sure of what?"
"That everything's buried, for real." Bullock wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Trust me, Chi-town, you don't want dead shit coming back to bite you in the arse.")
"Yeah, the scales," Bullock chuckles, "But I've seen weirder at the circus, and that wasn't make-up either! Ever been to Haley's, Chi-town?"
"Haley's?"
"Haley's Circus. Comes to town every two years. They've got quite a few crazy acts, though you can always trust the Flying Graysons to steal the show. It's a trio of brothers who do these insane trapeze stunts..."
As Bullock launches into a descriptive retelling of Haley's best acts, Jim's gaze involuntarily wanders back to the star of this show: Bruce Wayne. The sight of the little figure in black keeps getting overlaid by the scene in Park Row, that of a little kid holding his baby brother in his arms, in-between their parents' cooling corpses. He remembers the paramedics cleaning the blood (and the tears) on their faces with a wet wipe.
He also remembers passing a tombstone with an epitaph that had caught his eye and refused to leave his mind ever since.
You get to live after us, but not in peace.
Afterword: Proud to say that every name mentioned till now is a canon, with the exception of my oc Zahir. Jim Gordon and Harvey Bullock are heavily inspired by their show counterparts (I'm on episode 11 of Gotham, and I'm loving it!)
Umm, I feel like I'm forgetting to mention something... Maybe I'll come back later to edit the afterword when I remember what it was.
As always: only constructive criticism, please, no hate because I don't care.
Wayne Manor
10:34 am
The funeral is an extravagant and somber affair. Jim shouldn't be surprised. The United States did not boast a royal family, but the Waynes are as good as, especially for Gotham and Bludhaven and any other fanatics residing in the state of New Jersey. Thomas and Martha Wayne have been Gotham's royalty, the crème de la crème, both rich and good-looking and charitable. Believed to be untouchable.
Until now.
Now, Gotham's top elite couple are being buried under an oak tree, a yard off from the Manor, upon their special request to not be put in the Wayne mausoleum in the Gotham Cemetery.
"Look at this mess," Bullock snorts, but Jim is not fooled. Despite his sarcastic tone, his senior partner supports eyebags as black as the funeral colors around them, and he appears even more ungroomed than usual, which is a feat in and of itself. Jim already suspected the man has never touched a razor in his life but he's sure he hasn't brushed his hair since the call from Park Row. Luckily that he's hiding that rat's nest underneath his fedora.
Bullock continues, sounding more bitter with every word. "The upper crust, the underworld, and the dirt poor, assembled here in one giant orgy of-"
Jim snaps, "Harvey." They are standing a ways from the crowd, far enough to have a good sight over the whole assembly, but close enough that words can be carried on the windy November wind.
"What?" Bullock spits, digging his hands deeper in his pockets, "You know it's true! There are those creepy Sionis bastards over there. The Goldens and the Kanes over there. Didn't they have a blood feud going on? Look, the Elliots deigned to give Zahir a second of their precious fucking time. And Zahir's a janitor at W.E. A fucking janitor, Jim. I know this because I used to work-"
"As Wayne Security," Jim says dryly, "Yes, you've already told me that tidbit of your life a dozen times already."
Bullock is silent for a long while. Jim winces. Too soon. They resume watching the funeral in silence: two men in trenchcoats, one mourning, the other trying to solve what will soon become one of the greatest mysteries of the twentieth century.
Bruce Wayne looks incredibly small and fragile next to the tall frame of Alfred Pennyworth, the family's butler. Jim studies the man. He doesn't know what he's looking for, exactly. What could a man possibly hide in his black penguin suit and side-part haircut, that a week of intensive and thorough police search hasn't revealed?
Still, he asks, "Pennyworth. He's got a strong alibi?"
Bullock's answer is immediate. "Iron-clad. He answered the landline ten minutes after we arrived on the scene. It's an hour-long drive between here and there. Why- ah, I know what you're gonna say," Bullock grimaces. "Alfred's innocent, Jim. He fought alongside Wayne in the war. Wayne is- was- He was a field medic and Alfred received an honorable discharge. They were a tight unit. Saved each other's asses plenty of times. Don't see why Alfred would kill his friend."
"They come back from the front," Jim muses out loud, "And suddenly nosy medic Wayne's a billionaire living in a huge mansion, with a beautiful wife and all the fame and respect most of us can only dream of. Meanwhile, purple star Pennyworth is relegated to being a nanny for his pampered kid. Not like the country's known for its good care of veterans, is it? Having to depend on someone like Wayne for a living, that's a lot of pride to swallow back," Jim straightens the collar of his coat, feeling the chill. "No reason to make a grab at all that fortune?"
Bullock has turned grey.
"You're talking outta your ass, Gordon," he growls.
Jim wisely drops the subject.
They resume watching the funeral in silence. Jim never understood rich people's compulsion to be buried in their backyards—whether those backyards span forty-two hectares of land is a moot point. Personally, when he dies, he'd rather not inconvenience anyone
He's not one to judge, usually, but just the thought of a kid like Bruce seeing his parents' grave every time he looked out the window… A shiver runs up his spine. Yeah, just seems in bad taste, to haunt the home you lived in, your ghost waving at those still breathing.
Jesus, all this depressing stuff is making him think like an old man. Jim's just hit his twenty-fourth birthday, thank you very much.
They should get to work; the Wayne case is going to be arduous, and there haven't been any real leads so far. The media, in absence of anyone to blame, have set their glares on the GCPD. Inept, incapable, useless—they've become both the scapegoat and the laughing stock.
Not that the GCPD had much to boast about before this, Jim thinks nastily. The police force is full of drunkards, wife-beaters, assholes who love throwing their weight around, no better than the dangerous raffle they deal with on the streets. There are a few good ones, brave men and women take their oaths seriously, but they're a shocking minority compared to the den of crooks that is the Gotham City Police Department.
It's not long before the silence becomes too awkward for Bullock, who Jim has learned is always quick to anger but quicker to forgive. The older man scratches the stubble on his jaw and says, "Heh, kinda reminds me of our first case. Remember Gator Boy?"
Jim grins, "The scales are hard to forget."
When Jim transferred from Chicago to Gotham. They assigned him to Harvey Bullock, more than a decade his senior and probably the grungiest man Jim will ever meet. Assigned to, Jim thinks amusedly, when dumped him with the detective would be more accurate, because the man had made his thoughts pretty clear on having a partner. Jim was unwanted, unneeded, a "wet-between-the-ears, bright-eyed punk from chi-town" that needed babysitting.
Not that he should take it personally, they'd assured Jim. Harvey Bullock's got unresolved issues. Something to do with his past partner.
Nevertheless, orders are orders, and Jim wasn't going anywhere, so Bullock had to deal with it.
The Jones case was a domestic violence that had turned into a third-degree murder. One night, Mr. Jones had drunk a little too much and tried to kill his son. While trying to protect him, Mrs. Jones had hit her husband with a frying pan. The first blow hadn't killed the man, merely knocked him out. The second blow had, when his head hit the counter of the dinner table.
The case was already wrapping up-Mrs. Jones won the court hearing on account of self-defense and involuntary manslaughter. He guessed Mr. Jones' long history of leaving bruises on wife and son helped hurry the case-when Bullock and Jim were tasked with their first mission: To find the Jones kid, who'd disappeared the night of his father's death.
The search didn't take long. Bullock suggested waiting at the cemetery, but not before letting Jim run around in circles looking for clues and coming up empty-handed. "Now, ya know how tight-lipped Gothamites are," was all he said. "Information is a form of currency, here. Money for money, Chi-town. You want them to spill their guts, you need to empty your wallet."
So, they set up watch at the Gotham Cemetery, lurking around Mr. Jones' grave disguised as visitors. The Jones kid showed up on the second day. Jim had wondered why a father would want to kill his own flesh and blood. Seeing the kid's face gave him a clue as to why.
Half the kid's face was overtaken by scales, like an alligator's. Jim had never seen a skin disease like that before.
They'd brought him back to his mother and witnessing her embrace her only child, Jim had had the silent grace to feel a little ashamed thinking that the Jones kid had a face only a mother could love.
("Sometimes you just wanna make sure," Bullock shrugged when Jim had asked him how he knew to wait there, taking a swig from a metal flask he carried everywhere.
Jim's brows furrowed. "Make sure of what?"
"That everything's buried, for real." Bullock wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Trust me, Chi-town, you don't want dead shit coming back to bite you in the arse.")
"Yeah, the scales," Bullock chuckles, "But I've seen weirder at the circus, and that wasn't make-up either! Ever been to Haley's, Chi-town?"
"Haley's?"
"Haley's Circus. Comes to town every two years. They've got quite a few crazy acts, though you can always trust the Flying Graysons to steal the show. It's a trio of brothers who do these insane trapeze stunts..."
As Bullock launches into a descriptive retelling of Haley's best acts, Jim's gaze involuntarily wanders back to the star of this show: Bruce Wayne. The sight of the little figure in black keeps getting overlaid by the scene in Park Row, that of a little kid holding his baby brother in his arms, in-between their parents' cooling corpses. He remembers the paramedics cleaning the blood (and the tears) on their faces with a wet wipe.
He also remembers passing a tombstone with an epitaph that had caught his eye and refused to leave his mind ever since.
You get to live after us, but not in peace.
Afterword: Proud to say that every name mentioned till now is a canon, with the exception of my oc Zahir. Jim Gordon and Harvey Bullock are heavily inspired by their show counterparts (I'm on episode 11 of Gotham, and I'm loving it!)
Umm, I feel like I'm forgetting to mention something... Maybe I'll come back later to edit the afterword when I remember what it was.
As always: only constructive criticism, please, no hate because I don't care.
Will Reading
LuceLucky
Getting some practice in, huh?
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2020
- Messages
- 9
- Likes received
- 217
Wayne Manor
16:13 pm
Outside Wayne Manor, the wind has started picking up, blowing the flowers decorating the freshly dug grave of Thomas and Martha Wayne. The funeral guests have long since vacated the premises, either to attend the will reading or to leave for their own home.
"Let's never do that again," Bullock whispers harshly in Jim's ear on their way out of the door. They're the last to leave the room, having been preceded by a throng of (disappointed) people.
By 'that', he means the three hours-long will reading they've just survived. It has been truly one of those ordeals that make him wish he smoked or drank on the clock.
Jim agrees with his partner, even as his mind whirs with all he's learned today. He riffles through the observations he noted in his trusted notebook. While the funeral has unearthed a lot of revelations, it has also added more question marks to the growing mystery of the Wayne murder.
It had looked like the most somber Emmy awards for rich people, in there. Only a select number of people had been allowed in there. He'd written down the names of everyone the will had mentioned along with a few notes, like strange jewelry and tattoos, how nervous they acted, anything that caught his eye, really. He figures a lot of it is just extraneous—breadcrumbs that lead nowhere—but he's at that point in the investigation where any breadcrumb is better than no breadcrumb at all.
Their reactions to hearing Thomas Wayne's decisions were the most interesting-
"What's this?" Bullock plucks the notebook out of Jim's hands. Jim tries to take it back but Bullock is surprisingly quick for his size and equipped with great reflexes—which is totally unexpected from someone who complains about his back every other hour—evading his grabs. "Seen ya scribbling in this lil' thing since the Cobblepot fiasco two weeks ag-" Bullock's smirk slides right off his face when he reads the content of the notebook. "What the fuck, Jim?"
First name? That's how Jim knows Bullock's one hundred percent serious about this.
"Don't make it personal, Chi-town," Bullock warns.
Jim snatches the notebook back. His thumb rubs the hard leather cover: it's a small black notebook, barely the size of his palm. Very easy to slip into his pocket and pull out when needed. He thinks of two brothers in a dark and damp alley, smudged blood on their round faces. He thinks of cops who'd rather play bodyguards to a rich kid than patrol their assigned areas. Justice is always personal, is what he wants to say.
Bullock glowers. "Burn it."
"I'd appreciate it if you kept your paranoia to yourself." Jim glares right back.
"Officer James Gordon, right?" A voice says behind them, ending their little squabble. They turn around. It's a woman, brown-haired and brown-eyed, dressed in funeral black, and holding a baby in her arms. "Good morning, Detective Bullock."
Bullock perks up. "Ah, Les, good to see ya! You've heard of Jim? Jim, this is Leslie Thompkins. She's-" Bullock's face crumples for a millisecond before he grunts and continues, "She was Wayne's student. Intern? Whatever they call the fishies over on the medical side."
Her smile is quick and easy. "I was doing my residence under Thomas' tutelage, back at his clinic." She offers her hand, which Jim shakes. "Pleased to meet you, officer. Although I'd have liked for it to happen in pleasurable circumstances."
"Gordon is fine, and likewise, Dr. Thompkins," he nods and glances at the babe in her arms. There's only one baby around here who gets bundled in cashmere shawls. "Is he alright?"
"As good as new. No infection or damage to his eye, thankfully, but he'll scar. Nothing too obvious, though. And…" she hesitates, taking a moment to wrap the cashmere shawl tighter around the sleeping boy's head. Jim catches a glimpse of his face—cute as a button, even with the band-aid covering his left eye.
"And?" He encourages quietly.
Dr. Thompkins looks at him with red-rimmed eyes. "Frankly speaking, it's not Rhys I'm worried about."
She's about to say more when a new voice remarks in a thick British accent. "If the gentlemen and lady would head to the dining room," —it's the butler, Pennyworth, approaching them— "We've set a few snacks and refreshments for our guests."
Bullock, whose eyes haven't left Rhys' face, looks up, face brightening. "Alfred," he scrapes his throat, with all the awkward familiarity of meeting your former coworker. "Long time no see."
Jim knows from the file he has on him that Pennyworth has just hit his thirties. The man before them looks like he's aged fifteen years in the five days between that night, when Jim had met him for the first time, and now. His cheeks are gaunt. He's lost a lot of weight since then too.
"Aye, Harvey, it is good to see an old friend, although I...I wish it had been for more pleasurable circumstances."
"Yeah, we gotta work on that, pal." The joke falls flat but Pennyworth doesn't let it fester, smoothing Bullock's stumble with an easy, "Naturally." The butler's shoulders slump briefly before he bids them to follow him. "This way."
The dining room holds a long rectangular table. On it, a spread of coffee, milk, and tea, and plates full of biscuits and bread. Most guests have left, only a few lingering but mostly keeping to themselves or their little groups, finishing a much needed cup of coffee or tea before their trek home.
"How's Bruce?" Thompkins asks, and when Pennyworth shakes his head, she asks again, "What about you, Alfred? How are you holding up?"
"I will manage," Pennyworth says quietly, "I'm only glad this will soon all be over. The Mayor has asked me to attend the conference he'll be holding next week. He asked me to talk to the press
"You don't have to talk to the press, Alfred," Thompkins says, "We'll leave it to someone else."
Pennyworth goes to protest but Bullock claps him on the shoulder. "Seems like the best option, considering…" He waves vaguely at Pennyworth's exhausted form and coughs. "Yeah, this. But who in their right mind would accept to face those sharks?"
A new voice cuts in.
"I will."
...
Aftermath: this part was a bitch to write. Rather than keep rewriting it I decided to just post what I have and move on before I get writer's block. I'll probably come back to it and write a version that doesn't make me want to tear out my fingernails, muuuuch later when my skills have improved. Bear with this piece of shit writing for now. I wanna get to the good part as quickly as possible.
Don't think anyone can guess who the newcomer is. They're such an obscure character they might as well be my OC.
Also, fair warning: my SI-OC will stay a civilian. No caped vigilantism, heroism, or villainy. he also won't breach on any of Bruce's canon jobs (Wayne Enterprises) because I don't believe in that sort of SI trope (my si/oc can do a better job than [insert awesome canon character]. Rhys is gonna follow his own path, no stealing storylines from anyone. No romance until he hits puberty and even then it'll stay a subplot until adulthood. Don't bother throwing me suggestions for pairings, I've already decided on my endgame. It's a sloooooooooooooooow burn, baby, cuz I love to suffer.
16:13 pm
Outside Wayne Manor, the wind has started picking up, blowing the flowers decorating the freshly dug grave of Thomas and Martha Wayne. The funeral guests have long since vacated the premises, either to attend the will reading or to leave for their own home.
"Let's never do that again," Bullock whispers harshly in Jim's ear on their way out of the door. They're the last to leave the room, having been preceded by a throng of (disappointed) people.
By 'that', he means the three hours-long will reading they've just survived. It has been truly one of those ordeals that make him wish he smoked or drank on the clock.
Jim agrees with his partner, even as his mind whirs with all he's learned today. He riffles through the observations he noted in his trusted notebook. While the funeral has unearthed a lot of revelations, it has also added more question marks to the growing mystery of the Wayne murder.
It had looked like the most somber Emmy awards for rich people, in there. Only a select number of people had been allowed in there. He'd written down the names of everyone the will had mentioned along with a few notes, like strange jewelry and tattoos, how nervous they acted, anything that caught his eye, really. He figures a lot of it is just extraneous—breadcrumbs that lead nowhere—but he's at that point in the investigation where any breadcrumb is better than no breadcrumb at all.
Their reactions to hearing Thomas Wayne's decisions were the most interesting-
"What's this?" Bullock plucks the notebook out of Jim's hands. Jim tries to take it back but Bullock is surprisingly quick for his size and equipped with great reflexes—which is totally unexpected from someone who complains about his back every other hour—evading his grabs. "Seen ya scribbling in this lil' thing since the Cobblepot fiasco two weeks ag-" Bullock's smirk slides right off his face when he reads the content of the notebook. "What the fuck, Jim?"
First name? That's how Jim knows Bullock's one hundred percent serious about this.
"Don't make it personal, Chi-town," Bullock warns.
Jim snatches the notebook back. His thumb rubs the hard leather cover: it's a small black notebook, barely the size of his palm. Very easy to slip into his pocket and pull out when needed. He thinks of two brothers in a dark and damp alley, smudged blood on their round faces. He thinks of cops who'd rather play bodyguards to a rich kid than patrol their assigned areas. Justice is always personal, is what he wants to say.
Bullock glowers. "Burn it."
"I'd appreciate it if you kept your paranoia to yourself." Jim glares right back.
"Officer James Gordon, right?" A voice says behind them, ending their little squabble. They turn around. It's a woman, brown-haired and brown-eyed, dressed in funeral black, and holding a baby in her arms. "Good morning, Detective Bullock."
Bullock perks up. "Ah, Les, good to see ya! You've heard of Jim? Jim, this is Leslie Thompkins. She's-" Bullock's face crumples for a millisecond before he grunts and continues, "She was Wayne's student. Intern? Whatever they call the fishies over on the medical side."
Her smile is quick and easy. "I was doing my residence under Thomas' tutelage, back at his clinic." She offers her hand, which Jim shakes. "Pleased to meet you, officer. Although I'd have liked for it to happen in pleasurable circumstances."
"Gordon is fine, and likewise, Dr. Thompkins," he nods and glances at the babe in her arms. There's only one baby around here who gets bundled in cashmere shawls. "Is he alright?"
"As good as new. No infection or damage to his eye, thankfully, but he'll scar. Nothing too obvious, though. And…" she hesitates, taking a moment to wrap the cashmere shawl tighter around the sleeping boy's head. Jim catches a glimpse of his face—cute as a button, even with the band-aid covering his left eye.
"And?" He encourages quietly.
Dr. Thompkins looks at him with red-rimmed eyes. "Frankly speaking, it's not Rhys I'm worried about."
She's about to say more when a new voice remarks in a thick British accent. "If the gentlemen and lady would head to the dining room," —it's the butler, Pennyworth, approaching them— "We've set a few snacks and refreshments for our guests."
Bullock, whose eyes haven't left Rhys' face, looks up, face brightening. "Alfred," he scrapes his throat, with all the awkward familiarity of meeting your former coworker. "Long time no see."
Jim knows from the file he has on him that Pennyworth has just hit his thirties. The man before them looks like he's aged fifteen years in the five days between that night, when Jim had met him for the first time, and now. His cheeks are gaunt. He's lost a lot of weight since then too.
"Aye, Harvey, it is good to see an old friend, although I...I wish it had been for more pleasurable circumstances."
"Yeah, we gotta work on that, pal." The joke falls flat but Pennyworth doesn't let it fester, smoothing Bullock's stumble with an easy, "Naturally." The butler's shoulders slump briefly before he bids them to follow him. "This way."
The dining room holds a long rectangular table. On it, a spread of coffee, milk, and tea, and plates full of biscuits and bread. Most guests have left, only a few lingering but mostly keeping to themselves or their little groups, finishing a much needed cup of coffee or tea before their trek home.
"How's Bruce?" Thompkins asks, and when Pennyworth shakes his head, she asks again, "What about you, Alfred? How are you holding up?"
"I will manage," Pennyworth says quietly, "I'm only glad this will soon all be over. The Mayor has asked me to attend the conference he'll be holding next week. He asked me to talk to the press
"You don't have to talk to the press, Alfred," Thompkins says, "We'll leave it to someone else."
Pennyworth goes to protest but Bullock claps him on the shoulder. "Seems like the best option, considering…" He waves vaguely at Pennyworth's exhausted form and coughs. "Yeah, this. But who in their right mind would accept to face those sharks?"
A new voice cuts in.
"I will."
...
Aftermath: this part was a bitch to write. Rather than keep rewriting it I decided to just post what I have and move on before I get writer's block. I'll probably come back to it and write a version that doesn't make me want to tear out my fingernails, muuuuch later when my skills have improved. Bear with this piece of shit writing for now. I wanna get to the good part as quickly as possible.
Don't think anyone can guess who the newcomer is. They're such an obscure character they might as well be my OC.
Also, fair warning: my SI-OC will stay a civilian. No caped vigilantism, heroism, or villainy. he also won't breach on any of Bruce's canon jobs (Wayne Enterprises) because I don't believe in that sort of SI trope (my si/oc can do a better job than [insert awesome canon character]. Rhys is gonna follow his own path, no stealing storylines from anyone. No romance until he hits puberty and even then it'll stay a subplot until adulthood. Don't bother throwing me suggestions for pairings, I've already decided on my endgame. It's a sloooooooooooooooow burn, baby, cuz I love to suffer.
Will Reading: The Other Wayne
LuceLucky
Getting some practice in, huh?
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Wayne Manor
16:34pm
"I will."
Agatha Wayne isn't hard to miss—she is announced by the loud clacks of her tall designer heels on the floor of the room. Her long russet brown hair seems to shine in the lighting, but not as brightly as her sneer.
Jim's really glad he read up on the Waynes before coming here, otherwise he wouldn't have a clue as to who she is. If someone told him this is Thomas Wayne's older sister, he wouldn't believe them. There's no family resemblance between them, though that can be attributed to having different mothers.
More surprising than her unexpected appearance as an uninvited guest is, perhaps, her choice of dress.
She's wearing a burgundy dress. But it's not the color that catches his attention, it's the cut. It's off-shoulder and calf-length, with a thin belt cinched at the waist and made of rayon. He can bet it cost a half year's worth of his salary.
It's also the exact same dress Martha Wayne died in.
Pennyworth looks both resigned and wary. "Madame Wayne-"
"I must say," she cuts in, voice dripping velvet, "I felt quite distressed at not receiving an invitation to my own brother's funeral. And learning about it on the morning news? Truly dreadful."
"I- my sincerest apologies, Madame Wayne. We have tried to reach your old number, in vain, and-"
She waves her hand. "Nevermind that. Where's Ambrose? Still afraid of the big crowds?" She smirks before her eyes land on Thompkins, or rather, the bundle in her arms. "Is that the spare? Let me have a look at him. I heard he was injured."
Pennyworth steps forward, drawing Wayne's attention away from Rhys. "Miss Thompkins, would you please take Master Rhys back to his bedroom?"
Thompkins doesn't let him repeat himself. She slips away without saying a word.
Agatha Wayne fixes her hawkish eyes on Pennyworth. It reminds Jim of those nature documentaries Barbara and he like to watch, when the lionesses find their prey. The fact that those stilettos add a few more inches to the already five foot eight woman doesn't help.
Bullock steps forward, throwing a casual arm across Pennyworth's shoulders. "Alfred's the one who gets things rolling around here, now, Missy-"
"Missy?" echoes Agatha Wayne.
"-and what he says, goes." He proceeds to wave his finger at her, a little uselessly.
"What my partner means," —Jim pushes Bullock back with his elbow— "Is that Mr. Pennyworth is Bruce and Rhys' godfather. He has legal custody over the kids and is the trustee of the Wayne Estate."
"The butler?" She throws her head back and laughs, long and loud.
He thinks it prudent not to be the one to tell her that Rhys, the newest addition to the Wayne family, hasn't been written in the will. In fact, Rhys hasn't been brought up once. It's as if he doesn't exist. Officially, this means that Rhys is a ward of the state but it's not a big stretch to assume that he'll be entrusted to Pennyworth's care.
Bullock grabs the opportunity to step out of the bubble of tension between the two, a tactical retreat Jim approves of and follows.
The russet-haired woman cocks her head to the side when she calms down. "I don't suppose you feel the need to share the burden of making sure they grow up into resilient young men? I doubt a bachelor like you knows how to take care of a baby, nevermind a grief-stricken orphan."
Pennyworth's face is as white as a sheet, his lips a thin, straight line. "I thank you for the offer, Madame Wayne, but I'm certain I could learn no more from a childless widow than from the firsthand experience at childrearing."
Jim can't believe his ears. Bullock winces beside him.
Agatha Wayne's smile widens. "The little mouse has grown teeth since I last saw him."
"This little mouse has had the foresight to make a copy of Thomas Wayne's last will," Pennyworth says in the driest voice possible, fishing out an envelope and presenting it to the older woman.
Bullock leans close. "Are they fighting or flirting?"
Jim whispers back, "I'm as clueless as you are."
She crosses her arms, drawing Jim's attention to the shiny, high-brand watch on her left wrist. It looks familiar. "I could've easily learned this after the will's made public and the
sent me a copy of it."
Pennyworth looks primly triumphant for about two seconds. "The will has been sealed."
The beneficiaries of a will or the executor can ask the probate judge to 'seal' a will and probate records in certain circumstances. This prevents the public from reading the will and all other related court documents. Judges generally only grant a request to seal a will in rare situations, such as when the deceased is famous. And the Waynes have always been recurring front page news.
Seemingly admitting her small defeat, the Wayne lady takes the offered envelope.
She takes the letter inside, unfolds it, and begins reading.
There's a quiet tension while she reads, the air around them heavy with anticipation and barely hidden curiosity. From where he's standing, Jim can't see the contents of the letter, but he does get a front-row seat to Agatha Wayne's reaction.
Her face does something strange, at some point. It scrunches up, her eyebrows furrowing. For a moment Jim thinks she wants to cry, the next that she wants to shout. Instead, her expression smoothes back into that prideful gaze and she folds the letter back with crisp movements.
She says, derisively, "It seems the matter of my brother's inheritance could've been done by old-fashioned mail. What a waste of my time and money."
"My apologies for the inconvenience being an unexpected guest has brought you, Madame," Pennyworth says, cool and insincere, "We can arrange-"
"Alfred," Agatha Wayne smiles, lips bright red against white teeth, "You call me Madame Wayne, you even treat me as such, but we both know you do not mean either."
People might think it strange that Thomas's own sister didn't inherit anything from their late father, but it's actually pretty common for children born out of wedlock to be excluded from earning a part of the heritage. Sometimes, that heritage includes respect, acknowledgment, recognition.
She turns around abruptly and makes for the door and they hasten to follow her.
The hallways are empty, guests and personnel having vacated the premises a short time ago. The two detectives still move to flank Pennyworth, more out of habit than anything else, and Bullock leans close to ask in a casual tone, "So, who's Ambrose?"
"Madam Martha had… a unique sense of assigning names. Ambrose is, shall we say, Master Bruce's real name. It's what is written on his birth certificate. One would've thought that a detective assigned to this case would know of this." The way he glances at him is very pointed.
Bullock, taller than the butler, lifts his head to shoot Jim a nasty look. Jim shrugs as if to say, "Don't blame me. I actually read the files they give us."
"Uh, yeah, it was in his file… which I read. I mean, it just slipped my mind for a sec," Bullock coughs, "What about the wee one? What's his secret name?"
Pennyworth's mustache twitches. "Demetrius."
"That's… really fancy," says Bullock with a grimace.
"Madame Martha was a fancy woman."
"And a fool." It's Agatha Wayne who says that.
They've arrived at the entrance hall but she lingers at the door of the hallway, turning to look at them. The grand doors are still open, letting in an orange sunset light that haloed the woman, and the cold wind, ruffling her hair, her dress, the letter in her hand. She looks like she stepped straight out of a movie poster.
"I will deal with the press," she tells Pennyworth, "Take care of the Estate my brother has left in your hands. I won't tolerate it falling into disrepair or disregard.
Pennyworth acquiesces. "Of course, Madame Wayne."
She makes to leave but pauses when Pennyworth says, "Oh, Madame Wayne? They're not a burden."
She tilts her head in question.
"The children." Pennyworth stands tall and straight, looking her right in the eyes, unyielding. "They're not a burden, whether I share custody or not."
Agatha Wayne studies him silently for a few moments, before snorting. It's the first inelegant thing she's done and combined with the evening light softening her edges, "Of course, excuse my poor choice of words. I had a long plane ride and fatigue leads me to say things I don't mean. Ah, I left my contact information in the study. I trust you'll only use it for emergencies."
Pennyworth nods.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I've left my escort waiting for way too long." She turns away without a second glance at Bullock or Jim, as if they are beneath her notice.
Her escort turns out to be a bear of a man, standing at the entrance with his back turned to them and seemingly waiting for Agatha Wayne, which he wasn't there a minute ago. Even from where he's standing, Jim can see the built muscles of the man's back shifting under the immaculate suit. That suit must've cost a year of Jim's paycheck. No, he's not jealous.
The man turns around when Agatha reaches him.
Jim knows he'd compared the man to a bear before but now he actually thinks the man might have fought a bear. Three ragged scars bisected diagonally across his face, not deep enough to twist his broad features, but still an angry glaring red. And those are some impressive sideburns.
Agatha and he exchange a few words before she slips her arm through his and they walk out the doors of the Wayne Manor without a backward glance.
Bullock whistles under his breath. "If I'da known women like that go for guys in suits, I maybe I would have gone to business school after all."
"Believe me," Jim says, pulling out his notebook and quickly writing down everything he's just learned. "I don't think women like that go for guys like you, no matter what school you've gone to."
....
Afterword: Agatha Wayne is a canon character but, as I said before, she might as well be an oc because I know nothing about her aside from that she's Bruce's aunt. One observation: these chapters were written from Jim Gordon's pov, as such, he uses last names for everyone because that's how he is at 24. He'll lighten up with age. He calls Agatha by her full name because he's intimidated by (and in awe of) her.
Chapter not beta-ed. I'll come back later to fix mistakes. By the way, I've written two Chekov's gun thingies in the last two chapters, one more obvious than the other. Props if u can find them.
Who can guess who Agatha's 'escort' is?
Next chapter will have a time-skip. And small Bruce!!
16:34pm
"I will."
Agatha Wayne isn't hard to miss—she is announced by the loud clacks of her tall designer heels on the floor of the room. Her long russet brown hair seems to shine in the lighting, but not as brightly as her sneer.
Jim's really glad he read up on the Waynes before coming here, otherwise he wouldn't have a clue as to who she is. If someone told him this is Thomas Wayne's older sister, he wouldn't believe them. There's no family resemblance between them, though that can be attributed to having different mothers.
More surprising than her unexpected appearance as an uninvited guest is, perhaps, her choice of dress.
She's wearing a burgundy dress. But it's not the color that catches his attention, it's the cut. It's off-shoulder and calf-length, with a thin belt cinched at the waist and made of rayon. He can bet it cost a half year's worth of his salary.
It's also the exact same dress Martha Wayne died in.
Pennyworth looks both resigned and wary. "Madame Wayne-"
"I must say," she cuts in, voice dripping velvet, "I felt quite distressed at not receiving an invitation to my own brother's funeral. And learning about it on the morning news? Truly dreadful."
"I- my sincerest apologies, Madame Wayne. We have tried to reach your old number, in vain, and-"
She waves her hand. "Nevermind that. Where's Ambrose? Still afraid of the big crowds?" She smirks before her eyes land on Thompkins, or rather, the bundle in her arms. "Is that the spare? Let me have a look at him. I heard he was injured."
Pennyworth steps forward, drawing Wayne's attention away from Rhys. "Miss Thompkins, would you please take Master Rhys back to his bedroom?"
Thompkins doesn't let him repeat himself. She slips away without saying a word.
Agatha Wayne fixes her hawkish eyes on Pennyworth. It reminds Jim of those nature documentaries Barbara and he like to watch, when the lionesses find their prey. The fact that those stilettos add a few more inches to the already five foot eight woman doesn't help.
Bullock steps forward, throwing a casual arm across Pennyworth's shoulders. "Alfred's the one who gets things rolling around here, now, Missy-"
"Missy?" echoes Agatha Wayne.
"-and what he says, goes." He proceeds to wave his finger at her, a little uselessly.
"What my partner means," —Jim pushes Bullock back with his elbow— "Is that Mr. Pennyworth is Bruce and Rhys' godfather. He has legal custody over the kids and is the trustee of the Wayne Estate."
"The butler?" She throws her head back and laughs, long and loud.
He thinks it prudent not to be the one to tell her that Rhys, the newest addition to the Wayne family, hasn't been written in the will. In fact, Rhys hasn't been brought up once. It's as if he doesn't exist. Officially, this means that Rhys is a ward of the state but it's not a big stretch to assume that he'll be entrusted to Pennyworth's care.
Bullock grabs the opportunity to step out of the bubble of tension between the two, a tactical retreat Jim approves of and follows.
The russet-haired woman cocks her head to the side when she calms down. "I don't suppose you feel the need to share the burden of making sure they grow up into resilient young men? I doubt a bachelor like you knows how to take care of a baby, nevermind a grief-stricken orphan."
Pennyworth's face is as white as a sheet, his lips a thin, straight line. "I thank you for the offer, Madame Wayne, but I'm certain I could learn no more from a childless widow than from the firsthand experience at childrearing."
Jim can't believe his ears. Bullock winces beside him.
Agatha Wayne's smile widens. "The little mouse has grown teeth since I last saw him."
"This little mouse has had the foresight to make a copy of Thomas Wayne's last will," Pennyworth says in the driest voice possible, fishing out an envelope and presenting it to the older woman.
Bullock leans close. "Are they fighting or flirting?"
Jim whispers back, "I'm as clueless as you are."
She crosses her arms, drawing Jim's attention to the shiny, high-brand watch on her left wrist. It looks familiar. "I could've easily learned this after the will's made public and the
sent me a copy of it."
Pennyworth looks primly triumphant for about two seconds. "The will has been sealed."
The beneficiaries of a will or the executor can ask the probate judge to 'seal' a will and probate records in certain circumstances. This prevents the public from reading the will and all other related court documents. Judges generally only grant a request to seal a will in rare situations, such as when the deceased is famous. And the Waynes have always been recurring front page news.
Seemingly admitting her small defeat, the Wayne lady takes the offered envelope.
She takes the letter inside, unfolds it, and begins reading.
There's a quiet tension while she reads, the air around them heavy with anticipation and barely hidden curiosity. From where he's standing, Jim can't see the contents of the letter, but he does get a front-row seat to Agatha Wayne's reaction.
Her face does something strange, at some point. It scrunches up, her eyebrows furrowing. For a moment Jim thinks she wants to cry, the next that she wants to shout. Instead, her expression smoothes back into that prideful gaze and she folds the letter back with crisp movements.
She says, derisively, "It seems the matter of my brother's inheritance could've been done by old-fashioned mail. What a waste of my time and money."
"My apologies for the inconvenience being an unexpected guest has brought you, Madame," Pennyworth says, cool and insincere, "We can arrange-"
"Alfred," Agatha Wayne smiles, lips bright red against white teeth, "You call me Madame Wayne, you even treat me as such, but we both know you do not mean either."
People might think it strange that Thomas's own sister didn't inherit anything from their late father, but it's actually pretty common for children born out of wedlock to be excluded from earning a part of the heritage. Sometimes, that heritage includes respect, acknowledgment, recognition.
She turns around abruptly and makes for the door and they hasten to follow her.
The hallways are empty, guests and personnel having vacated the premises a short time ago. The two detectives still move to flank Pennyworth, more out of habit than anything else, and Bullock leans close to ask in a casual tone, "So, who's Ambrose?"
"Madam Martha had… a unique sense of assigning names. Ambrose is, shall we say, Master Bruce's real name. It's what is written on his birth certificate. One would've thought that a detective assigned to this case would know of this." The way he glances at him is very pointed.
Bullock, taller than the butler, lifts his head to shoot Jim a nasty look. Jim shrugs as if to say, "Don't blame me. I actually read the files they give us."
"Uh, yeah, it was in his file… which I read. I mean, it just slipped my mind for a sec," Bullock coughs, "What about the wee one? What's his secret name?"
Pennyworth's mustache twitches. "Demetrius."
"That's… really fancy," says Bullock with a grimace.
"Madame Martha was a fancy woman."
"And a fool." It's Agatha Wayne who says that.
They've arrived at the entrance hall but she lingers at the door of the hallway, turning to look at them. The grand doors are still open, letting in an orange sunset light that haloed the woman, and the cold wind, ruffling her hair, her dress, the letter in her hand. She looks like she stepped straight out of a movie poster.
"I will deal with the press," she tells Pennyworth, "Take care of the Estate my brother has left in your hands. I won't tolerate it falling into disrepair or disregard.
Pennyworth acquiesces. "Of course, Madame Wayne."
She makes to leave but pauses when Pennyworth says, "Oh, Madame Wayne? They're not a burden."
She tilts her head in question.
"The children." Pennyworth stands tall and straight, looking her right in the eyes, unyielding. "They're not a burden, whether I share custody or not."
Agatha Wayne studies him silently for a few moments, before snorting. It's the first inelegant thing she's done and combined with the evening light softening her edges, "Of course, excuse my poor choice of words. I had a long plane ride and fatigue leads me to say things I don't mean. Ah, I left my contact information in the study. I trust you'll only use it for emergencies."
Pennyworth nods.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I've left my escort waiting for way too long." She turns away without a second glance at Bullock or Jim, as if they are beneath her notice.
Her escort turns out to be a bear of a man, standing at the entrance with his back turned to them and seemingly waiting for Agatha Wayne, which he wasn't there a minute ago. Even from where he's standing, Jim can see the built muscles of the man's back shifting under the immaculate suit. That suit must've cost a year of Jim's paycheck. No, he's not jealous.
The man turns around when Agatha reaches him.
Jim knows he'd compared the man to a bear before but now he actually thinks the man might have fought a bear. Three ragged scars bisected diagonally across his face, not deep enough to twist his broad features, but still an angry glaring red. And those are some impressive sideburns.
Agatha and he exchange a few words before she slips her arm through his and they walk out the doors of the Wayne Manor without a backward glance.
Bullock whistles under his breath. "If I'da known women like that go for guys in suits, I maybe I would have gone to business school after all."
"Believe me," Jim says, pulling out his notebook and quickly writing down everything he's just learned. "I don't think women like that go for guys like you, no matter what school you've gone to."
....
Afterword: Agatha Wayne is a canon character but, as I said before, she might as well be an oc because I know nothing about her aside from that she's Bruce's aunt. One observation: these chapters were written from Jim Gordon's pov, as such, he uses last names for everyone because that's how he is at 24. He'll lighten up with age. He calls Agatha by her full name because he's intimidated by (and in awe of) her.
Chapter not beta-ed. I'll come back later to fix mistakes. By the way, I've written two Chekov's gun thingies in the last two chapters, one more obvious than the other. Props if u can find them.
Who can guess who Agatha's 'escort' is?
Next chapter will have a time-skip. And small Bruce!!