# Wayne Manor – Main Drawing Room – Three Days Later
The Wayne drawing room had always been designed for grandeur—tall windows that stretched toward cathedral ceilings, rich mahogany panels that gleamed like dark honey, portraits of ancestors who had all perfected the art of looking serious while owning half of Gotham. The oil paintings seemed to watch with disapproving eyes, as if the current crisis was somehow beneath their dignity. Today, though, Alfred had arranged the space with the same precision he might've brought to receiving a head of state preparing for war.
The flowers weren't just floral arrangements; they were subtle political statements from Gotham's elite families—orchids from the Kanes arranged with military precision, lilies from the Elliots that somehow managed to look both sympathetic and calculating, roses from the Cobblepots that Alfred had quietly shifted to a less prominent table near the window where their ostentatious display wouldn't dominate the room. The afternoon light filtered through tall windows, warm and golden, casting long shadows across Persian rugs that had witnessed generations of Wayne family meetings, celebrations, and now—crisis management.
Alfred Pennyworth moved with the calm efficiency of a man who had juggled battlefield triage and royal protocol, his silver hair immaculate despite the circumstances, his morning coat pressed within an inch of its life. Every step was measured, every gesture deliberate. Beneath the polite grace, though, his steel-gray eyes carried that particular glint—the one that suggested that if anyone in the room tried to take advantage of the Wayne family's vulnerability, Alfred would politely offer them tea, inquire about their families, and then bury them six feet under the rose garden without disturbing so much as a petal.
The double doors opened with a theatrical flourish, and in swept Robert Queen, all easy swagger and movie-star charisma that seemed to light up the room like a spotlight. His grin was the kind that could disarm a hostile takeover—or a hostile general—effortless and devastating in equal measure. He moved like a man who'd never once doubted whether a room belonged to him, his presence filling the space with that particular brand of confidence that came from being handsome, wealthy, and just dangerous enough to be interesting. At forty-two, he still carried the restless energy of someone who thrived on risk, his tailored charcoal suit sitting on him like it had been grown rather than sewn, every line emphasizing the kind of casual perfection that made other men hate him on sight.
"Alfred!" Robert called out, striding forward with arms spread wide, his voice smooth with that particular charm that made every word feel like it belonged in a dinner toast at the best restaurant in the city. "You magnificent bastard, you look like the only man in Gotham still capable of holding this godforsaken city together. Hell, you probably could run the whole East Coast from this drawing room and still have time for afternoon tea."
He paused dramatically, pointing a finger like he was delivering the punchline to the world's most expensive joke. "Now, tell me straight—and I mean it, Alfred—how are Thomas and Martha? Please, spare me the polished hospital bulletins that sound like they were written by campaign managers. You and I both know those read like diplomatic cables from countries that don't exist."
Alfred's expression barely shifted, though his left eyebrow did lift precisely one quarter of an inch—his version of a full belly laugh.
"Master Robert," he said, the old soldier's cadence softening just slightly into the warmth of long familiarity, "I'd venture to say you've not changed a whit since you were Master Oliver's age, causing havoc in these very halls. Still arriving with more confidence than the cavalry and demanding field reports as though you were General Wellington himself surveying Waterloo."
Robert threw back his head and laughed, the sound rich and unrestrained, echoing off the high ceilings. "Wellington would've envied this jawline, Alfred. You know it, I know it, and somewhere in his grave, he knows it too." He leaned in with conspiratorial ease, lowering his voice to that tone that suggested he was about to share state secrets. "But don't try to deflect me with flattery, you old war horse. How bad is it really? And I want the unvarnished truth, not the version you'd give to the board of directors."
Before Alfred could answer, the room's atmosphere shifted as Moira Queen glided in on her husband's arm, her presence transforming the space the way only someone born to command attention could manage. Moira didn't just enter a room; she conquered it, claimed it, made it hers by right of sheer force of personality. Her blonde hair was styled to perfection, not a strand out of place despite the journey from Star City, her emerald dress cut with the kind of effortless precision that made other women wonder if they'd ever truly understood fashion. But her eyes—those sharp, intelligent blue eyes—betrayed the woman beneath the glamour. They were calculating, maternal, and deadly serious, like a lioness surveying potential threats to her cubs.
Where Robert brought charm and swagger, the kind of easy magnetism that made people want to follow him into battle or at least buy him a drink, Moira brought steel wrapped in silk and sophistication that cut like a blade.
"Alfred, darling," she said, her voice rich and cultured, warm enough to melt marble but carrying a knife's edge beneath the honey tones, "I told Robert the very moment we heard the news: we must go. No excuses, no delays, no stopping for business meetings or photo opportunities." Her gaze swept the room with the precision of a general surveying a battlefield. "Martha needs me. And if I'm being completely honest—which I always am when it matters—those children need familiar faces around them. How are Bruce and Hadrian holding up? I worry most for them, you know. Children that age... they see everything, understand more than adults give them credit for, but they don't have the tools to process it."
Alfred inclined his head slightly, his voice taking on that particular gentleness he reserved for discussing the boys. "They are... as one might expect under such circumstances, madam. Children faced with the prospect of losing the world they've always known to be safe and certain. They are resilient, yes—remarkably so—but resilience does not erase pain, and courage does not eliminate fear. Master Bruce has withdrawn somewhat, spending hours in his father's study, reading financial reports as though they might contain the secrets of the universe. Master Hadrian insists upon maintaining a brave facade beyond his years, shouldering responsibilities that would challenge men twice his age. Both... will require considerable care and patience."
Before Moira could respond with what was clearly going to be a detailed plan involving child psychologists and therapeutic activities, a smaller voice cut through the careful adult conversation with the bluntness that only a child could deliver without causing a diplomatic incident.
"Alfred!"
Eight-year-old Oliver Queen stood at his parents' side, tugging impatiently at his stiff collar like it was an enemy combatant that had personally offended him. His blonde hair had been combed within an inch of its life by what was obviously his mother's iron will, his small shoes polished to a mirror shine, but his green eyes burned with the kind of restless energy that suggested he'd rather be anywhere else doing literally anything else. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, already hating the enforced stillness that formal sympathy calls demanded.
"Alfred," Oliver repeated, louder this time, skipping right past the pleasantries that adults seemed to love so much, "is Uncle Thomas actually gonna be okay? Because Bruce wrote that letter—you know, the one where he used all those fancy words that basically meant their parents were really, really hurt—and, no offense to all the grown-ups in the room, but adults lie. Like, a lot. Especially when they're trying to make kids feel better about terrible stuff."
He crossed his arms with the kind of determination that would have been impressive if it weren't slightly undermined by the way his perfectly pressed shirt was already coming untucked.
"So... is he? Really okay, I mean? Not the version you tell kids, but the actual truth?"
Robert chuckled under his breath, clearly torn between pride and the social obligation to pretend his son hadn't just called out every adult in the room. "That's my boy—straight for the throat. No diplomatic dancing, no small talk, just cut right to the heart of the matter." He ruffled Oliver's carefully styled hair, earning a glare that promised future rebellion. "Kid's got the Queen family gift for asking the questions nobody wants to answer."
Moira gave Robert a look that could have frozen the Atlantic Ocean, but she couldn't entirely hide the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Oliver," she said, her voice carrying that particular mix of maternal chastisement and barely concealed admiration, "must you interrogate poor Alfred the very moment we arrive? The man has enough on his plate without you conducting a cross-examination worthy of a war crimes tribunal."
Oliver shrugged, completely unrepentant, his eyes never leaving Alfred's face. "Somebody's gotta ask the real questions. Everyone else just talks in circles and uses words that don't mean anything. Adults are really good at that—making everything sound better than it actually is."
Alfred studied the boy for a long moment, then crouched down slightly so that his gaze met Oliver's head-on, his weathered hands resting on his knees. When he spoke, his voice was warm but deliberate, carrying the weight of hard-earned truth.
"Master Oliver, you are quite correct. Grown-ups do often... soften the edges of difficult truths, particularly when children are concerned. We tell ourselves it's kindness, but perhaps it's simply our own discomfort with reality." He paused, choosing his words with surgical care. "Your Uncle Thomas and Aunt Martha were indeed gravely injured. The attack was... brutal. Their recovery will be long and not without considerable difficulty. There will be setbacks, moments of fear, times when the outcome seems uncertain."
Oliver's eyes widened slightly, but he didn't look away.
"But," Alfred continued, his voice strengthening, "their condition improves each day. They are receiving care from the finest physicians money can secure and medicine can provide. More importantly, they have something that cannot be purchased—they have reasons to fight, reasons to heal. They have each other, and they have those boys upstairs who need them more than anything in this world."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice taking on the tone of a man sharing a military secret.
"We must have patience, Master Oliver. And hope. But most importantly, we must have faith in the strength of the Wayne family. They are... remarkably difficult to kill."
Oliver studied him with the kind of intense focus that suggested he wasn't just a child asking questions—he was a prosecutor testing a witness, weighing every word for truth or deception. After what felt like an eternity, he gave a sharp nod.
"Okay. I believe you. You don't lie to kids just to make them feel better." His expression shifted, taking on a fierce determination that was startling on such a young face. "But if they need anything—and I mean anything—I can help. I'm really good at climbing walls and sneaking out of boring grown-up stuff. I could probably get into the hospital and check on them myself if you needed me to."
Robert threw back his head and laughed, the sound rich and completely unrestrained, bouncing off the high ceilings like a celebration. "There you go, Alfred! Forget the medical specialists and the round-the-clock nursing staff—put Oliver in charge of recovery operations. He'll scale the hospital walls like some kind of eight-year-old commando and have Thomas back in board meetings by Tuesday, probably with a detailed report on hospital security vulnerabilities."
Alfred straightened slowly, his eyes twinkling with the kind of gentle humor that suggested he was genuinely fond of the chaos the Queen family brought wherever they went. "Somehow, Master Robert, that is precisely the scenario I was hoping to avoid. Master Oliver's talents for... creative problem-solving... are well documented, but I fear the hospital staff might not appreciate his particular approach to patient care."
Moira smiled with the kind of maternal pride that was both fierce and slightly terrifying, her hand closing around Oliver's shoulder with quiet possessiveness. "He means every word, Alfred. He always does. That's his father's stubbornness combined with—and I say this with complete self-awareness—my complete inability to accept defeat gracefully."
Robert spread his arms theatrically, grinning like he'd just been handed the keys to the kingdom. "Don't 'regrettably' me, Moira. The world could use a few more Queens willing to jump headfirst into the fire without asking permission or checking the insurance policy first."
Alfred's expression shifted to something that was almost a smile, dry as aged whiskey. "Indeed, sir. Though one would hope not quite so literally. The Wayne family has had quite enough excitement involving fire and violence for one lifetime."
---
The heavy oak doors opened with the kind of soft groan that spoke of centuries of use, and Malcolm Merlyn entered like a shadow given form and purpose. His presence didn't announce itself—it simply was, filling the room with the kind of quiet authority that made people straighten their shoulders and check their exits. He wore his usual armor of tailored precision, every line of his charcoal suit cut to emphasize the lean strength beneath, his dark hair styled with military precision. His smile, when it appeared, was sharp enough to draw blood but tempered by what might have been genuine concern if you knew where to look for it.
"Robert. Moira." His voice carried that particular blend of control and intimacy that came from years of shared history, inside jokes, and the kind of trust that only developed between people who'd seen each other at their absolute worst. "Thank God you're here. I was beginning to think I'd have to coordinate this entire operation myself, and we all know how that ends—with color-coded spreadsheets and everyone hating me."
He moved with predatory grace toward the center of the room, his dark eyes taking inventory of every detail with the thoroughness of a man accustomed to identifying threats and opportunities in equal measure.
"I was hoping we could coordinate this properly—support schedules, visitation rotations, condolence management, security protocols. The absolute last thing this family needs right now is a flood of well-meaning chaos from every social climber and political opportunist in Gotham showing up to pay their respects and angle for favors."
Robert Queen, who had been leaning with lazy confidence against the arm of an overstuffed leather chair that probably cost more than most people's cars, straightened with a grin that was both affectionate and mildly exasperated. "Well, well, Malcolm. Leave it to you to turn a family crisis into a military campaign. What's next—battle maps of the drawing room? Strategic positioning for maximum emotional impact?"
He pushed off from the chair with the kind of fluid movement that suggested he'd been an athlete in his youth and still remembered how to use his body as a weapon.
"Actually, scratch that. I know exactly what's next. You're going to pull out one of those leather-bound notebooks you carry everywhere and start assigning us all roles in your master plan. 'Robert, you handle charm offensive. Moira, you're on maternal support duty. Alfred, coordinate logistics.' Am I warm?"
Malcolm's smile sharpened, but there was genuine amusement beneath the calculated control. "You know me too well. Though I prefer 'comprehensive strategic planning' to 'military campaign.' It sounds less like I'm preparing to invade a small country."
"Are you?" Robert asked with mock seriousness. "Because if you are, I want advance notice. I need time to update my insurance policies."
Moira, who had been watching this exchange with the kind of patient tolerance that came from years of managing male egos, rolled her eyes with elegant precision. "Robert, darling, for once in your charmed life, maybe let Malcolm play commander without commentary from the peanut gallery. He's actually better at this sort of thing than you are."
Robert clutched his chest in an elaborate gesture of wounded pride. "Moira! You wound me. Truly. Here I am, offering my natural charisma and devastating good looks to this crisis, and you hand me back my ego diced up with garnish and served on a silver platter."
He turned to Malcolm with a conspiratorial wink. "She's absolutely right, of course. You are better at this. I'm better at looking good while other people solve problems. It's a division of labor that's served us well over the years."
Malcolm's expression softened almost imperceptibly, the kind of micro-expression that most people would miss but that spoke of genuine affection beneath all the sharp edges. "Charm doesn't keep families safe, Robert. Planning does. Preparation does. Having contingencies for contingencies does."
His voice took on that particular intensity that suggested he was speaking from hard-earned experience. "The Wayne family is vulnerable right now. Their enemies know it, their allies know it, and every opportunist in the city is calculating how to profit from their pain. We need to be better than that. We need to be their fortress."
Standing a few paces behind his father, Tommy Merlyn looked like a miniature version of Malcolm's controlled intensity, his dark hair perfectly parted, his small frame held with the kind of straight-backed posture that suggested military school or very strict parenting. When he spoke, it was in that careful, slightly rehearsed cadence that suggested he'd been practicing this conversation.
"Father is absolutely correct," Tommy said, his voice carrying the kind of serious tone that would have been endearing if it weren't slightly unnerving coming from someone so young. "Overlapping visitation schedules and insufficient educational continuity protocols could create destabilizing psychological effects for both Bruce and Hadrian's developmental trajectories."
The room fell silent for a moment as everyone processed what the eight-year-old had just said.
Robert blinked, then barked a laugh that was equal parts delighted and horrified. "Jesus Christ, Tommy! Did you just use 'developmental trajectories' in casual conversation? You sound like you swallowed one of my quarterly shareholder reports and regurgitated it with footnotes."
Tommy's expression didn't change, remaining perfectly serious. "Father says efficiency in communication demonstrates respect for everyone's time and intelligence. Imprecision leads to misunderstanding, and misunderstanding leads to failure."
Robert stared at him for a moment, then turned to Malcolm with something approaching awe. "Mal, what are you feeding this kid? Corporate strategy manuals? Sun Tzu? Please tell me he still knows how to play with toys and not just... I don't know, optimize his play patterns for maximum educational benefit."
"Father also says that comprehensive preparation prevents poor performance," Tommy continued, apparently unperturbed by the adult conversation swirling around him. "And that emotional responses should be channeled through logical frameworks to ensure optimal outcomes."
Robert threw up his hands in mock surrender. "That's it. I'm staging an intervention. Tommy, when this is all over, you're coming to Star City for a month, and I'm teaching you how to be inappropriately casual about everything. We're going to start with basic slacking techniques and work our way up to advanced procrastination."
Malcolm's lips twitched in what might have been suppressed laughter. "He'll resist. He's already more organized than my entire security team."
Before the banter could sharpen into something more pointed, Alfred Pennyworth cleared his throat with the precision of a man who could silence a battlefield with nothing more than a disapproving cough. The sound cut through the conversation like a blade through silk, immediate and absolute in its authority.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his voice carrying that particular combination of warmth and steel that made everyone in the room straighten unconsciously, "if I may venture to suggest that Master Bruce and Master Hadrian will benefit considerably less from symposiums on strategic planning methodologies and considerably more from the simple company of friends who can remind them that they are still children, despite the rather extraordinary circumstances they find themselves navigating."
His steel-gray eyes swept the room with the kind of gentle but implacable authority that suggested he'd been managing crises since before most of them were born.
"They have had quite enough of adults treating them like miniature executives. What they need now is the reminder that childhood—even under these conditions—still has room for laughter, for friendship, for the kinds of simple joys that make survival worthwhile."
The doorway filled with the arrival of the Wayne heirs, and the atmosphere in the room shifted like the barometric pressure before a storm.
Bruce Wayne, only nine years old but already standing like a general surveying a battlefield, entered with the kind of presence that made everyone in the room suddenly conscious of their posture. His shoulders were squared with military precision, his dark eyes sharp and assessing, cataloging every face, every expression, every detail with the thoroughness of someone much older. Every movement was deliberate, controlled, as though he'd already learned that showing weakness—even the natural weakness of childhood—was a luxury he couldn't afford.
He was dressed impeccably, his dark suit tailored to perfection, his hair combed with the kind of precision that suggested either Alfred's intervention or his own obsessive attention to detail. But beneath the formal presentation, there was something harder, colder than any nine-year-old should carry. His eyes held the kind of calculation that spoke of late nights spent learning lessons no child should need to know.
Behind him, Hadrian Wayne moved with a different kind of confidence—less coiled tension, more natural authority. Where Bruce radiated controlled intensity, Hadrian projected calm competence, his green eyes alive with a quiet depth that made him seem older than his years without the brittle hardness that marked his younger brother. He carried himself with an unhurried grace that suggested he'd found his center even in the midst of chaos.
Bruce inclined his head in that precise, deliberate way that was more diplomatic protocol than childhood greeting. "Uncle Robert. Aunt Moira." His voice carried layers—formality overlaying genuine warmth, control masking vulnerability. "Oliver. Tommy. Thank you for coming."
His gaze flickered across each face in turn, an evaluation more than a greeting, cataloging allies and potential threats with disturbing efficiency.
"We appreciate you taking the time away from your own responsibilities," he continued, each word chosen with surgical care. "I know Star City requires considerable attention, and your businesses don't run themselves."
Hadrian stepped forward smoothly, his presence serving to ground Bruce's intensity without diminishing it. When he spoke, his voice was even, resonant, carrying the kind of natural authority that didn't need to announce itself.
"It's genuinely good to see friendly faces," he said, his tone warm but controlled. "The past few weeks have been... challenging doesn't seem like a strong enough word. Transformative, perhaps. Educational in ways we never expected."
There was something in his eyes—not hardness like Bruce, but a kind of mature acceptance that was equally disturbing in someone so young.
Oliver Queen, never one to stand still when he could be moving, crossed the room in three long strides that scattered Persian rug fringes and nearly knocked over a priceless Ming vase. Without hesitation or regard for the formal atmosphere everyone else was maintaining, he threw his arms around both brothers in a fierce hug that was part greeting, part declaration of war against the careful distance everyone else was maintaining.
"Forget 'challenging,'" Oliver said, his young voice fierce with sincerity and barely contained emotion. "It's been complete hell, and anyone who says different is lying to make themselves feel better. I'm really, really sorry, guys. About everything. About your parents, about the whole mess, about how unfair all of this is."
He pulled back just far enough to look both brothers in the eyes, his own green gaze burning with the kind of intensity that suggested he'd been thinking about this conversation for days.
"But Uncle Thomas and Aunt Martha—they're going to pull through. Dad keeps saying it, and Mom keeps agreeing, and Alfred actually told me the truth instead of the kid-friendly version, so I believe it. They're tough. Tougher than whatever bastard tried to hurt them."
His voice dropped to something more private, more vulnerable. "And I know what it's like to feel completely useless when the people you love are hurt and there's nothing you can do about it except wait and hope and try not to scream. But you're not alone in this. You've got us, and we're not going anywhere."
Bruce stiffened slightly at the physical contact—not rejection, but the kind of careful control that suggested he wasn't entirely comfortable with demonstrations of affection, even from family. "We know," he said simply, but there was something in his voice that suggested Oliver's words had hit their mark.
Hadrian allowed himself a small smile, the first genuine expression of warmth he'd shown since entering the room. "Oliver, your complete inability to maintain social pretenses is... genuinely refreshing. Thank you."
Oliver grinned, unabashed and clearly taking that as the compliment it was intended to be. "Yeah, well, somebody around here has to say what everyone else is thinking. Adults get all weird about feelings and truth when kids are involved."
Tommy stepped forward then, his approach more measured, more carefully orchestrated. When he spoke, his tone carried the same careful precision that had marked his earlier comments.
"Bruce. Hadrian." He nodded to each in turn with the kind of formal acknowledgment that would have been appropriate in a boardroom. "I've been giving considerable thought to the impact of your parents' recovery timeline on your educational and developmental schedules. We should discuss arranging supplementary tutoring, structured activities, psychological support frameworks—comprehensive systems to ensure stability and continued growth despite the disruption to your normal routines."
Bruce arched one dark eyebrow, his expression shifting to something that might have been amusement if it weren't so carefully controlled. "You've been giving considerable thought to our education?"
"Proactive planning prevents suboptimal outcomes," Tommy replied with the kind of earnest seriousness that suggested he genuinely believed this was helpful. "Crisis management requires comprehensive strategy."
Robert chuckled, the sound warm with paternal pride even as he shook his head in exaggerated despair. "And there's Tommy, already filing the paperwork for CEO of Childhood Crisis Management Incorporated. Don't worry, boys—I'll make sure he schedules time for actual fun somewhere between the educational assessments and the psychological evaluations."
"Father says—" Tommy began.
"Father says a lot of things," Robert interrupted with a wink at Malcolm, "especially after his third scotch and his second cigar. Not all of them are suitable for implementation by eight-year-olds."
Malcolm shot him a look that promised future retaliation but couldn't entirely suppress what might have been amusement.
Moira, who had been watching this entire exchange with the kind of maternal assessment that missed nothing, stepped forward with the commanding presence that made her such a force in Star City politics. When she spoke, her voice carried the kind of warm authority that could reorganize entire social structures without anyone quite realizing what had happened.
"Darlings," she said, addressing Bruce and Hadrian directly, "what matters most—more than educational continuity or strategic planning or any of the very well-intentioned but ultimately secondary concerns—is that you don't have to weather this storm alone."
Her blue eyes swept over them both with the kind of fierce protectiveness that suggested she was already mentally adopting them into her own family structure.
"We've arranged for extended visits to Star City. We have everything you could possibly need—security that rivals Fort Knox, distractions ranging from world-class museums to go-kart tracks, and most importantly, enough distance from Gotham to let you breathe again without constantly looking over your shoulders."
She paused, her expression softening slightly. "You can be children there. Real children, not miniature adults managing a crisis. You can make noise, make messes, ask inappropriate questions, and generally behave like the remarkable young men you are without worrying about maintaining appearances for the benefit of Gotham's social vultures."
Bruce's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, the kind of micro-expression that suggested he was fighting his first instinct, which was probably to reject any suggestion that they needed rescue or protection. But Hadrian's hand brushed his brother's arm subtly, a grounding touch that seemed to steady him.
"That's incredibly generous," Hadrian said, his tone diplomatic but carefully noncommittal. "We'll definitely give it serious consideration. The change of scenery might be... beneficial."
Malcolm finally leaned forward, his dark eyes focusing with laser intensity on something beyond social niceties. When he spoke, his voice carried the kind of quiet menace that suggested he'd been thinking about more than just logistics and scheduling.
"Generosity aside," he said, his tone lower, more measured, carrying undertones that made everyone in the room suddenly remember that Malcolm Merlyn was not just a businessman but something considerably more dangerous, "there's the rather pressing matter of security. Someone made a very deliberate, very calculated attempt on this family. We should discuss comprehensive long-term safety enhancements before anyone travels anywhere."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees as the reality of the situation reasserted itself over the warm family gathering atmosphere they'd been maintaining.
Alfred's eyes took on that particular glint that suggested he was mentally reviewing defensive positions and weapon placements. "Rest assured, Mr. Merlyn, comprehensive measures have been implemented. Considerably more effective than simply locking the doors at night and hoping for the best."
His voice carried the kind of dry understatement that hinted at preparations that would make government security details seem casual by comparison.
Robert smirked, clearly enjoying the way Alfred could make ominous promises sound like offers of afternoon tea. "Translation: Alfred's got this entire situation locked down better than all of us combined, probably with backup plans that have backup plans, and quite possibly a tank in the garage for special occasions."
Alfred's expression didn't shift by so much as a millimeter. "Two tanks, Master Robert. But that information is strictly on a need-to-know basis, and at present, your clearance level doesn't quite qualify."
Oliver's eyes lit up like Christmas morning and his birthday had collided in the best possible way. "Wait—seriously? You actually have tanks? Like, real tanks? With big guns and everything?"
Bruce allowed the faintest flicker of what might have been a smile to cross his features. "Need-to-know basis, Oliver."
Hadrian's lips curved in something approaching genuine amusement. "And you, my curious friend, definitely don't need to know."
---
A soft knock at the door, barely audible but somehow carrying enough authority to cut through the layered conversations, broke the moment. Alfred raised one silver eyebrow, already moving toward the entrance before anyone else had even registered the sound.
Lucius Fox stepped inside, and the room's atmosphere shifted again, this time toward something more serious, more weighted with the kind of adult responsibilities that the presence of children had temporarily pushed aside. He moved with quiet authority, every line of his distinguished face carved with competence and steady resolve earned through decades of managing Wayne Enterprises through various crises, though none quite like this one.
His presence filled the room without fanfare or dramatics—no swagger like Robert, no calculated menace like Malcolm—just the solid, reassuring weight of a man who had spent years solving problems that other people couldn't even identify, let alone address.
"Alfred. Boys." His voice, warm yet deliberate, carried both the familiarity of extended family and the gravity of corporate leadership. "Forgive the intrusion. I know this is family time, and God knows you all deserve some peace. But there are matters that require discussion—business continuity, strategic planning, stakeholder management. Things that Thomas trusted me to handle specifically in circumstances like these."
He paused, his dark eyes moving around the room, taking inventory of everyone present with the thoroughness of a man accustomed to reading board rooms and identifying potential problems before they developed into crises.
"Time-sensitive matters, I'm afraid. The kind that don't wait for convenient moments or proper scheduling."
Robert Queen leaned back in his chair, whistling low with the kind of admiration reserved for professionals at the top of their game. "Well, well, if it isn't the man who keeps Wayne Enterprises standing upright when Thomas decides to go play cowboy philanthropist in Crime Alley. Lucius, you magnificent bastard, you've just saved us from Malcolm's fifteen-point crisis management seminar complete with PowerPoint presentation and audience participation."
He gestured broadly, grinning with the kind of easy charm that made even serious moments feel slightly less oppressive. "Seriously, you have perfect timing. Another ten minutes and Mal would have had us all assigned to committees with mission statements and quarterly performance reviews."
Malcolm shot him a look that promised future retaliation, but his smile carried genuine warmth. "Better comprehensive planning than your typical approach of improvising everything and hoping your charm offensive carries the day, Robert. Some of us prefer to have actual strategies instead of just relying on devastating good looks and questionable decision-making."
"Questionable?" Robert placed a hand over his heart in mock outrage. "My decision-making is flawless. It's the universe that occasionally fails to recognize my genius."
Moira, who had been watching this exchange with the kind of patient tolerance that came from years of managing competitive male egos, cut through the banter with silk-wrapped steel.
"Boys," she said, her voice carrying just enough edge to remind everyone that she could probably run both their companies better than they did while simultaneously organizing charity galas and managing international relations, "perhaps we could save the territorial chest-thumping for later and let Lucius explain why Wayne Enterprises can't wait for a more convenient moment to discuss whatever crisis is developing now?"
She regarded Lucius with the kind of cool, assessing smile that suggested she'd already calculated his net worth, his political connections, and his potential usefulness in about thirty seconds of observation.
"After all, some of us are actually curious about how one maintains a multi-billion-dollar enterprise when the leadership is... temporarily indisposed."
Lucius inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her directness with the kind of respect reserved for people who cut straight to essential matters. "Mrs. Queen, your reputation for strategic thinking is well-earned. You're absolutely right—Wayne Enterprises doesn't pause for personal crises, no matter how devastating they might be."
His gaze moved to Bruce and Hadrian, his expression softening with something that transcended business relationships. "Your father always said that Wayne Enterprises was just a tool—important, powerful, necessary—but still just a tool for accomplishing something larger. He used to tell me that the company could survive losing money, losing contracts, even losing market position. But he always said his sons were his real legacy, the part that actually mattered."
Bruce stepped forward, his posture shifting into something that looked disturbingly adult, his young face taking on the kind of serious expression that belonged in boardrooms rather than playrooms. "Father always said you could handle anything, Mr. Fox. That Wayne Enterprises was safe as long as you were running it."
Lucius studied him a moment, eyes warm but weighted with sorrow. "Your father prepared protocols for emergencies like this. Wayne Enterprises is secure. Resources are secure. And your family… is secure."
Robert leaned forward, suddenly serious beneath his trademark grin. "That's the real question, isn't it? Securing the family. Because we all know who pulled the trigger."
The name hung unspoken until Malcolm gave it voice, soft and deliberate: "Falcone."
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
A buzz on Alfred's discreet earpiece broke it. He murmured into the line, then turned. "A delivery. Flowers. Card. Security has cleared it." His tone carried the subtle weight of a man who already knew what was coming.
Moments later, a guard set the elaborate floral arrangement down. Alfred inspected it with a soldier's caution, opening the envelope with surgical care.
His voice, calm but edged with steel, filled the room:
"To the Wayne Family. Please accept my sincere condolences. Thomas Wayne's contributions to our community have always been appreciated. Martha Wayne's grace has enriched our lives. My thoughts and prayers are with your family. Most respectfully, Carmine Falcone."
The silence after was suffocating.
Robert let out a short laugh, too loud, too brittle. "Well. Nothing says 'sorry for the hit job' like a flower arrangement. What's next? A fruit basket?"
Moira's eyes narrowed like daggers. "Don't be flippant, Robert. This is a message. He's reminding everyone he still owns this city."
Malcolm leaned forward, his tone silk wrapped around barbed wire. "It's not sympathy. It's a test. He wants to see how the Waynes respond. Weakness… or resolve."
Alfred's jaw tightened, though his voice stayed level. "Mr. Falcone's timing is impeccable. He's always had a taste for theater."
Oliver, fists clenched, stepped toward the flowers like he might set them on fire. "So what, we just… thank him? Like he didn't order the hit that put Uncle Thomas and Aunt Martha in the hospital?"
Bruce's eyes—cold, calculating—snapped to him. "Yes."
Oliver blinked. "What?"
Hadrian, calm as a still pond, spoke next, his green eyes steady. "We acknowledge. We thank him. Because ignoring him shows fear. And anger shows weakness. Courtesy keeps him guessing."
Bruce added, voice like flint, "We fight him later. On our terms."
The words hung heavy. For boys so young, they sounded disturbingly like men.
Tommy, ever the analyst, cleared his throat. "So, the appropriate response is… diplomacy. Maintain appearances. Acknowledge without conceding."
"Exactly." Hadrian inclined his head approvingly.
Lucius finally spoke, his voice slow, deliberate, resonant with quiet gravity. "Carmine Falcone has been probing the Wayne family for years. Tonight he's testing whether the foundation Thomas built still stands without him. What he doesn't know…" His eyes swept to Bruce and Hadrian, then to Alfred. "…is that Thomas Wayne didn't just build a company. He built a fortress. And a legacy."
Robert, breaking the tension, slapped his knees and stood. "Well, that's the pep talk I needed. Fortress Waynes, holding strong. Now, someone pour me a drink before Malcolm starts color-coding his kill list."
Malcolm didn't smile. "Not a bad idea, actually."
Moira gave her husband a look that could melt steel. "Robert. Sit. Down."
Oliver still glared at the flowers. "One day, I'm going to make Falcone eat his condolences."
Bruce's voice cut through the room like a blade. "So will I."
Hadrian's hand touched his brother's shoulder lightly, grounding the fire with calm steel. "And when we do, it won't be with flowers."
The room, filled with laughter seconds ago, sat heavy with the weight of unspoken oaths.
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