Chapter Text
Bruce felt the beginnings of anxiety stir in his stomach as one of his sons made an offhand comment about the lack of kidnappings and robberies in Gotham. While it was good news, he couldn’t help but feel like saying it aloud was a bad omen, especially as they were due to make an appearance at a Star City gala tonight. Oliver Queen was hosting, and while Bruce trusted one of his oldest friends and teammate, he knew that the man cared a lot less about security than he did. His family called him paranoid, but his paranoia had saved them all multiple times; for the sake of their safety he would take all the teasing they threw at him.
Sometimes he liked playing the part of Brucie, it was a way to let loose while still maintaining control; but he also knew that it came with its fair share of risks. Being portrayed as rich, pretty, and dumb by the media put him at a disadvantage when it came to his own safety. It protected his identity, but at a cost.
There was no way anyone would associate Brucie Wayne, Gotham’s Prince, as being the terrifying and stoic Batman. So he went to the parties, made speeches, and fucked around.
“Dickhead, don’t jinx us, huh?” Jason was leaning back in his chair, which was, decidedly, not very appropriate for a gala. But he was still seen as a street rat by most of Gotham society, so he guessed it didn’t really matter. Still, Bruce admonished him just in case.
“Jason, please don’t call your brother that. In public.” Dick turned to his younger brother and stuck his tongue out. Jason returned the gesture with an unsubtle flipping of the bird, and Bruce sighed as he stood up. The corner table they sat in had a bright candlelight centerpiece that illuminated the steel gray tie and cuff links that Dick wore. Bruce glanced at his sons,
“And, keep the chair legs on the floor.” Jason popped his seat back down groaning dramatically,
“Ugh, how much longer do we have to be here?”
“At least a couple more hours. Please behave while I mingle.” Bruce had booked a hotel room for the night, but he was hard-pressed to let any of them go to the suite while there were still donations to be coaxed and appearances to be kept. Dick was being about as responsible as Bruce expected, only riling up his younger brother in slight increments. Jason always had fun coming to galas and being rude to the ignorant elites that dared engage him in discussion of work ethic and modern talking points that always circled around to the same nonsense: poor people just need to be more motivated or work harder or some other bullshit. Jason liked to act like he didn’t enjoy coming because he had to deal with this, but Bruce knew his son loved outsmarting them in debate and subsequently insulting their intelligence. He was honestly surprised Jason decided to come, but he also knew that Jason and Roy were good friends and were probably planning some kind of shenanigans that would make both Bruce and Ollie tear their hair out.
Bruce was content to let it all play out, until he got a sinking feeling in his stomach that precipitated danger. There was a shift in the air. Hearing a gasp and the sound of gunfire, he immediately made a beeline for Jason and Dick, who were springing up from their positions at the table, Jason’s chair tipping to the ground and making the teenager wince. Bruce made eye contact with his sons, only about five feet away from the table before he was tackled to the ground. His head made contact with the ground, a dizzying impact that faded when he heard the sound of the roof being riddled with bullets. He really hoped no one had wandered into the upper floor. He heard the unmistakable sound of his younger son cussing, and then the chiding whisper of the older. Behave. Bruce also felt like telling Jason to calm down, even though he couldn’t see him with the way his vision was blurring slightly and the angle he was at on the ground.
A rough hand grabbed the back of his neck, yanking him up into a kneeling position and making the faces of his sons’ spin. He grasped backwards at the hands on him and was shaken by the firm grip on his neck, his knees sliding on the sleek marble. There were five men surrounding him and holding guns on Jason and Dick, both of whom had their hands up. Bruce knew his sons well enough to see the poorly concealed fury in Jason’s eyes, and the subtle deep breathing technique that Dick was using to control his temper. A pistol was jammed into the side of neck. He felt the throbbing of his carotid against the cool metal.
“Wow, that was easy.” Bruce couldn’t see the man that held him at gunpoint, but he could hear the elation in the man’s voice and feel the muscular legs pressing into his backside. He struggled to balance with the way he was arched backwards.
“Got him!” He heard a hoot across the room and kept his eyes down, not wanting to provoke these dangerous men in what was clearly an organized mission of theirs.
He was about to start mimicking the breathing technique he had taught Dick so long ago when two men grabbed his sons’ arms and dragged them to the center of the now eerily quiet banquet hall. Women in thousand-dollar dresses and men in even more expensive suits had tears in their eyes, body language tense and anxiety pouring into the atmosphere; unnervingly similar to the way Scarecrow’s fear toxin would saturate a large space. Bruce could see more evidence that this was planned, because there were at least ten other men who had kept the crowd of fearful onlookers from moving or calling for help. Guns at the ready to deter any would be heroes.
Dust floated down from the bullet riddled ceiling and Bruce coughed lightly as he was dragged after his sons. While they were thrown to the ground in the center, Bruce was still being held at gunpoint by the largest man in the group.
It was time to play the part and see what these men wanted.
Bruce was disturbed by the display of manpower, especially since it seemed like the Waynes were the only target of…whatever this was. He furtively scanned the room for Oliver, and minutely untensed in relief when he saw that him and Roy were nowhere in sight. While Batman wasn’t available at the moment to save the poor Bruce Wayne and his darling children, Green Arrow was probably on the way. He just had to hold out until then.
A voice boomed behind him, and a woman stifled a sob in the echo of it, “Alright everyone, you know the drill. Hands where we can see them, and no one gets hurt.” The gun was moved from his neck and into the side of his ribs. Uncomfortable, but bearable. Showtime.
“Gentleman, I think we could—” Bruce’s negotiation was abruptly cut off by a screech and a gunshot. An older gentleman clutched the side of his arm which was now bleeding. He tumbled into the lady beside him, making her lose her footing and trip over her heels as she grabbed at his wound and continued to scream. Ice flooded Bruce’s stomach and he saw Dick’s face pale considerably. The gun, barrel still hot, was brought to the side of his head, singing the gelled hair and burning uncomfortably despite the small barrier between the weapon and his skin.
“SHUT THE FUCK UP.” The voice cracked at the edges, the sign of a clearly disturbed man in the throes of anger. The warning was clear: Talk again and someone gets hurt. He resolved to keep his mouth shut as rabid guilt chewed at his insides.
Bruce was thrown to the ground once again, Jason looked like he wanted to go to him, but he didn’t dare move with the threat of another civilian getting hurt. These guys were unstable, and Bruce hoped that the boys saw the warning in his eyes: Do not engage, wait for help.
Bruce didn’t say a word as the woman cried, but at least the man looked like he would survive the gunshot. He was still responsive, grunting in pain and clutching his bleeding arm, but that was a good sign as far as survival goes. Usually, hostage situations didn’t go this bad this fast, but Bruce knew this had to be more than that. He decided that he would keep his head down. Apparently, the leader of the group had other plans, he grabbed him by his hair, making his eyes water as his hands clutched at the painful grip. He was on his knees again, but the gun was no longer digging into his ribs or head.
“Brucie, Brucie, Brucie… you have a meeting to get to. I’m sure you’re used to all these boring meetings where you just bat your pretty lashes and make a disgrace of your parent’s generous legacy, but I’m going to cut you a break.” Bruce felt heat build in cheeks at the insult.
The man was now staring him straight into his eyes, the glare coupled painfully with the angle of his neck and made him feel more vulnerable than he had in a long time. “I’m not playing around, so you better tell your orphans to behave.” Bruce kept his mouth closed, which was not what the man wanted as he tugged at his hair more and swung the gun directly at Jason.
Jason, who had a twinkle of neon green in his eyes and his fists clenched so hard Bruce could see the stark white striping his knuckles. Anyone else wouldn’t be able to tell he was worried. But he knew to look for the downward twitch of his son’s lips and the small crease in his forehead that appeared whenever he was confused or scared.
Bruce quickly answered, “Boys, everything is going to be alright. Don’t do anything.” His hair was released, but he was backhanded with incredible force, the trigger guard of the pistol splitting his right eyebrow. The unexpected action confused him. Dazed, he looked up at the man who was mouthing something, but it took a second for Bruce to hear it over the ringing in his ears and the overstimulating sensation of warm blood dripping into his eye.
“That’s not what I said. I said tell your fucking ORPHANS to BEHAVE!” the emphasis put on the words made it clear what he wanted Bruce to say, but the blow made the words hard to articulate. His tongue felt thick.
“B-behave…orphans.” He was getting so tired.
Saying the last word made him sick, but it was obviously what the man wanted to hear if the sick smile on his face was anything to go by. His boys shot him forgiving looks, obviously more disturbed by the man hurting Bruce than by the words he made him say.
The situation was rapidly escalating, and despite the adrenaline running through his body, the multiple blows to his head were taking a toll. His eyelids felt heavy, the blood stung his eye and it made his skin itch, the fluid somehow seeming hotter than seconds before. It was only Jason’s sudden look of shock and Dick’s aborted movement that alerted him to what was coming next, but it was too late. He heard shouting and a sweet-smelling cloth was pushed up against his nose and mouth. He scratched at the hand and tried to hold his breath on instinct, but the combination of drugs and what was probably a minor concussion quickly made him slump into unconsciousness. He had one thought on his mind as darkness overcame him,
What the fuck is taking Ollie so long…