Chapter Text
Here is the truth: For nearly a decade, Bruce Wayne’s parents were his favorite people in the world.
Bruce loved them; he remembers that clearly. He cherished his father’s rumbling laughs and his mother’s unrestrained giggles. He adored the way his father would catch his mother’s arm as she walked by, just to lay a kiss on the back of her hand. He would watch them hold to each other with gentle care and sway to Clair de Lune, and think: One day I’ll get married and be just like them.
Here is the truth: Bruce Wayne did not get a chance to know his parents.
Bruce was scarcely eight years old before Thomas and Martha Wayne left him forever. His memories of them now are closer to smoke than something solid, weathered away by time and trauma both. Bruce can’t remember the smell of his father’s cologne, but he does recall how the metallic scent of Thomas Wayne’s blood sat in the back of his throat. Bruce cannot remember Martha Wayne’s favored jewelry piece, but he knows he’ll never forget how her necklace popped and rained down in a pearlescent barrage of hail. Bruce guards the precious few memories he has of them with the zealousness of a dragon, and if those memories are all positive? It’s because he was never allowed to see the bad.
Thomas and Martha Wayne were held suspended in the rose-tinted cast of martyrdom. Forever loved, forever mourned, and the driving force behind the fight that Bruce has sworn his life to. They were beyond reproach.
Bruce doesn’t know how to reconcile that Thomas Wayne was undeserving of such a status.
Here is the truth: Thomas Wayne was not a good husband. He might not have been a good father, either.
Thomas Wayne broke his vows to have an affair that ultimately ended the life of a woman he never should’ve known. He invited strife and chaos into his home, he hurt Bruce’s mother, just because of his own selfishness. Thomas Wayne held Bruce in his arms, knowing there was a little girl out there who deserved love from him all the same.
Dead men tell no tales, but Bruce would drive the shovel into his father’s grave himself if only the man would tell him why.
Bruce reread the same line on R&D’s newest quarterly report once, then twice, then three times before he sighed and raised his head, only to meet eyes with the portrait of his parents across his office. He looked so much like his father, he knew, but the shape of his lips and the slant of his chin came from Martha Kane. Is it the same for Sally? Does she look like Thomas, too? Or does she take after the dead woman who used her last moments to give her a name? Bruce wants to know, he needs to know, with an intensity that burns him from the inside out.
He wrote off the workday as a lost cause before striding to the elevator with a focus that Brucie Wayne usually lacks. No one stopped him, and he wouldn’t allow anyone to do so. His mind was made up, preparations were to be finalized. Bruce has waited long enough.
Tomorrow, he goes to Manhattan.
___
Sally quietly breathed out a sigh of relief as she sank into the couch. Estelle was changed, burped, well-fed, and taking a nap. She was a finicky little thing who preferred to be held at all times, and would let her rage be known to the entirety of New York if she had her way. Thankfully, Sally has done nothing to earn her ire, so she can take a well-earned rest in her favorite spot while Victor and Jack argue about some business deal as background noise.
Paul dropping a kiss on her head brought Sally out of her musings, and they smiled at each other in a way that would make Percy say “aaawww!” in that earnest-and-sarcastic tone of his. They may look like lovesick fools, but that’s okay, because Sally is one. Her son is starting his first year of university, she’s married to the love of her life, and her daughter is healthy and so wonderfully vibrant.
After living with the all but guaranteed knowledge that her child would die young, after Gabe, after the Olympians and all of their messes, Sally didn’t know if it was possible for her to be this happy. Now, in this present, she feels so much joy that she wouldn’t be shocked if it spilled out.
“The Beast is down,” Paul whispered theatrically. “Now’s your chance to get at least 45 minutes. Quick, before she senses weakness.”
“Where’s the blanket?” Sally hissed, scanning the family room for the gigantic throw.
“Caught in the line of fire,” Paul intoned sadly. “It sustained wounds from three barf attacks.”
“Damn,” Sally sighed. “Come here then. I need to steal your body warmth.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Paul assumed form to complete an enthusiastic swan dive over the back of the couch, but was interrupted by a crisp four-beat knock. Instantly, they silenced themselves and exchanged weary glances.
They were expecting no company: no demigods should be visiting in the middle of exam week, Paul’s family isn’t in town, and Sally’s friends from the book club just dropped off a casserole two days ago. The options of who it could be were minimal, and Sally is in no mood to entertain either deity or solicitor.
The knock echoed through their apartment again. Paul hesitantly walked to answer it, urged forward by his Midwest sensibilities and curiosity. Sally moved from her warm, comfortable spot to stand behind the wall just beyond the hallway, leaning in carefully to listen.
“May I help you?” Paul inquired, with his Teacher Voice powered to 75%.
“Yes, um,” The voice that responded was a deep baritone. It did not sound fit for hesitancy. “You must be Paul. Is Sally home?”
“Why are you asking?” A hard edge was creeping into Paul’s tone, and Sally could see his body language shift into something more grounded. “What is your business here?”
“I…” The unnamed man trailed, before clearing his throat. “My apologies, I’ve gotten ahead of myself. My name is Bruce, and I have reason to believe Sally Jackson and I are siblings.”
She was standing still, but Sally could hear her heartbeat in her ears.
She’s considered so many possibilities for her life, evaluated every path and choice like it were the difference between life and death. For over a decade, it was. But a… a brother, is something Sally never accounted for. Something she never thought she’d have to account for.
“Sally?” Paul called, alarmed. “Do you wanna take this over?”
Sally allowed herself five seconds more of panicking before she forced calm into her adrenaline-ridden brain. “Yeah.” She stepped around the corner into the hallway, no longer under the sanctuary of the wall. “Come in, Bruce. It seems as if we have some talking to do.”
Paul removed himself from his guard post and let the mystery man through the door. Bruce walked in with his head down and carefully toed his loafers off at the rack. Sally examined the way the tailored lines of his suit draped over his tall body. The watch on his wrist could be worth nothing less than ten thousand dollars, and the easy way he glides without a care speaks of a lifetime with money.
Sally’s weariness increases.
Bruce looked up, scanning the apartment with open curiosity. Finally, his eyes met Sally’s.
They both gasped like the air was ripped from their lungs.
Two times now, Sally has seen her own eyes reflected back at her; first, when Estelle was placed in her waiting arms a month ago. The second, when Bruce came and delivered life-changing news on her doorstep.
Sally never thought of herself as a sister, but it seems like now is the time to start.