Chapter Text
Bruce doesn’t know how he got here, he just knew that somehow, in some way, both Hal and Clark had something to do with it. He couldn’t explain it, but his intuition was hardly ever wrong. Stephanie said it was his womanly instinct that came from being a single mom, and Bruce, who wanted to bond with his daughter (potential daughter in-law, pseudo daughter—whatever Stephanie was) was inclined to agree.
As soon as Bruce stepped into the Watchtower, the air had felt tense in a way it shouldn’t’ve. Bruce wasn’t aware of any active threats that needed his or any of their attention—and he believed in his ability, his tech, and especially in Oracle, to keep him updated on such matters—so there was only one reason the air was so frigid, and it was because Bruce was about to walk into an intervention.
He had experienced plenty of those.
Alfred had an intervention with Bruce when he was younger and was constantly picking fights with the world around him, with the kids at school and anyone who whispered ill of the Wayne name. He had intervened a lot, those early years, before Bruce had learned to mask his face and adopted the Brucie persona, before he had traveled and became Batman.
Dick, when he was young and Bruce's only ward, staged an intervention when he thought Bruce was sneaking around with Batman. (Bruce had gravely miscalculated what Dick was going to say during that time. Bruce doesn’t think he had ever been more shocked in his life at the conclusions drawn, and one time, when Bruce was at Gotham Private Academy, Oliver had thought Bruce was an actual vampire.)
A surprisingly concerned reporter who thought he was becoming an alcoholic after one too many drunken emergency exits from galas because there was an emergency in Gotham—not that she would’ve known why.
Tim had intervened when Bruce was ridden with grief and rage after Jason died, and he was truly one of the only reasons Bruce had gotten better at that time.
And Dick again when he was concerned that Bruce's wardrobe was a sign that he was depressed.
It was why, after countless times of being pulled into a conversation to talk about how there was something wrong with him, and emotions were heavy and bleeding from eyes, did Bruce realize that he was walking to his doom.
When Bruce had passed the threshold and made it into the debriefing room, he was now one hundred percent certain, without any doubt, that Clark was a key figure in the staging—and not just in getting him to attend, but being the one to bring up the supposed concern in the first place—because the amount of emotion that was held even in his left pinky told Bruce all he needed to know.
“I haven’t killed anyone,” Bruce said as he sat in his seat.
And people said Bruce didn’t have a sense of humor. If Dick was here, he was sure he would’ve gotten at least a smirk from him, if not chuckle at the very least. As it were, though, not even a cracked grin broke on any of the attendees faces.
Instead, Bruce sat silent as everyone—Clark, Oliver, Hal, Diana, and Barry—stared at him with wide eyes.
Barry was fidgeting in his seat, fingers messing around with each other, and, when Bruce turned his attention to him, his eyes shot down to his lap.
Bruce made a glance over everyone, and it was in Diana where he saw strength, and in that strength, she nudged Clark, who was soon about to give him all his answers.
“So—” Clark cleared his throat.
Bruce would’ve suggested he get water before they started, but he wanted to get this talk over with as soon as possible. He wasn’t sure what he was getting an intervention for, but, whatever it was, it was important enough that the entire original JL was present for it. That couldn’t be good.
“Thanks for joining, Batman.”
Bruce grunted.
A minute passed without further words.
“Alright,” Hal said, slamming his hands on the table and standing up. “I’m done waiting.” His brows furrowed, and Clark was stuttering something incomprehensible, but before he could get it out, Hal asked, “Are you poor?”
Never, in Bruce's life, had he heard such an accusation towards him. Him, of all people, poor? He almost let out a laugh. Even the criminals in Gotham never asked him that.
“Bro,” Flash whispered, voice strained, “have some tact.” He turned to Bruce, and now Bruce could be sure that it wasn’t a joke he had overlooked. “We didn’t mean it like that. I promise. There was a whole plan, and we just wanted to help, and Superman was worried, and then Hal said something and it made sense—and let me reiterate, we really just want you to be safe and okay, and isn’t the Watchtower comfy, couldn’t you sleep here—?”
Diana had walked from her spot and put a hand on Barry’s shoulder, effectively quieting him down.
“Sorry,” he mumbled at a normal pace.
Bruce didn’t know what to say. He kept silent.
Clark took that as his cue to talk, to give Bruce the needed explanation for such events. “I promise, Batman, we don’t mean to crowd you or make you somehow feel ashamed. I’ve been saying my whole life that there is nothing shameful about asking for help, and that's what we want to do, find a way to help you.”
“You think I’m poor,” Bruce restated.
He still wasn’t over it.
Bruce “Brucie” Wayne, poor? Now that was a headline Bruce never saw coming.
“Not “poor” exactly, but—” Clark stuttered out. Bruce remained still.
“We just want to help you,” Diana continued in Clark's place. Bruce had realized before that some of them, if not all of the Justice League members, saw him as some kind of “friend,” but Diana's words were warmer than he thought a phrase directed towards him could be. If Dick was here, he’d tell him it was because he thought of them as friends as well.
Probably.
“Money isn’t an issue for me, Batman,” Oliver said. He was leaned back in his chair, but Bruce could tell that his oldest friend was tense, nervous. Like Bruce, he was never as good at dealing with emotions as others—Bruce included—tended to believe he was. “---and you aren’t a charity case. I’ll even keep it off record,” he joked.
Bruce could tell he was serious. He was seriously offering Bruce Wayne money to live off of.
“I fund the League.” Slipped out of his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say it, but, then again, Clark looked like an anxious puppy, and Barry wasn’t faring any better. Honestly, he should’ve revealed his identity a long time ago. Maybe he didn’t have to be so serious, especially not when his youngest was trained by the League of Assassins—they all could handle themselves in a fight, and, not to mention, they’ve been pestering him about offering up information for a while now. Even Damian had told him it was fine, and that he didn’t think that Bruce was acting very “friendly.”
A burst of laughter coughed out of Hal's mouth. The noise rang in the echo of silence that followed after Bruce's announcement.
Barry elbowed Hal, who stopped laughing and turned serious once more.
Clark had a pained expression drawn in his brows.
Bruce did the only thing he thought he could rely on, he turned to Diana. Diana, who was staring at him with a—what might be considered “greatly hidden”---look of horror.
“You don’t have to lie to us, Spooky.”
Barry nodded in agreement. “He’s right. I promise we just want to help. We won’t look at you any differently!”
Bruce passed his eyes over them all once more. He caught all their expressions, pain painted so clearly on their faces that even Bruce, who would admit he wasn’t the best with other peoples emotions and reading a room, could tell what they were feeling.
He sighed.
“I should’ve done this a long time ago, it seems.” And before anyone could react—and no, Dick, it wasn’t because he didn’t want to face emotions, he was just finally giving in to you after years of begging—he removed his cowl.
Even with the smudge of grease paint, it was obvious who he was beneath the harsh lighting of the Watchtower.
In the stunned silence, Bruce repeated his words like a coffee order. “I fund the League.”
Oliver blinked. Once. Twice. “I’ve called you a vampire.”
“Nope. No. I’m done.” Hal said, throwing his hands up. He stood up and started pacing. “This whole time I’ve been worried about a millionaire.”
“Billion.” Bruce corrected.
Hal shot him a dirty look. “I’m never helping anyone ever again.”
"What about all those times you've been hurt or disheveled when joining a meeting?" Clark asked. Barry nodded his head eagerly.
Bruce raised a brow. He didn’t think he would have to explain so much, especially not something so obvious. But, then again, when Clark was trying to help someone, he sometimes got a little too into his head. "Gotham."
“Brucie,” Oliver whispered under his breath. “Batman.” He stared at Bruce as if he had shot and killed his own parents in front of him. (That wasn’t funny. He was still haunted by that day.) “Brucie is Batman. Batman is BRUCIE—?! BRUCE!” Oliver turned to him. “How dare you. I invited you to my fundraiser and you never showed up! I told Dinah you would! I lost a bet because of you!”
“I still donated,” Bruce replied.
Clark was spiraling, going over all their interactions in a new light. Hal wasn’t any better, muttering, “Billionaire”
At least Diana had a normal reaction to his reveal, because her shoulders had lost their tension. “I’m glad you are not homeless,” she said, giving a light squeeze to his shoulder. “Still, if you ever need help, my friend, we are here for you.”
“Wait!” Clark shouted. Everyone turned to him, but Bruce could tell he didn’t notice. “What about your ward?”
“Ward?” Hal asked. “Batman—Bruce—Batman has a kid?”
“Oh my goodness, Batman’s a dad?!”
“Yeah,” Oliver answered. “I’ve met him before. Jason,” he said as Clark answered, “Richard Grayson.”
They both turned to each other. Bruce nodded.
“Yes.” Bruce understood the dilemma. He tried to keep as many of his kids out of the spotlight as he could, and, it didn’t help that it got confusing legal wise. Still, he responded, “I have eight children. Though one of my daughters has parents, and another refuses to let me adopt her and claims she is living with her girlfriend instead. And one of my sons is a foster, who also has parents, but I value him the same as the others.”
Bruce believed this was the most he had talked to the League outside of debriefs and meetings. He was sure Alfred would be proud of him.
“You should’ve heard of them before. Robin.”
Diana’s eyes had turned wide, a smile growing on her lips.
“ROBIN?!” Barry shouted. “I thought he was a myth!”
Bruce thought that Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian would’ve taken that as a compliment.
“Yes. It is a mantle that’s been passed down from my eldest son to my youngest.”
“I would love to meet them properly,” Diana smiled. There was an evil glint in her eyes. “You’re entire family, that is.”
Bruce, contrary to what others believed, could tell when a battle was lost. “I’ll let Alfred know to expect guests.”
Oliver realized: “Alfred Pennyworth, your butler, was Penny-One.”
Hal whispered, “I’ve been worried about a guy who has a butler. A billionaire who has kids.” He looked up, as if praying. “I’m going to end it.”
“Oh god,” Clark muttered, “I’ve interviewed you before.” He brought his hands to his face, cheeks turning red. “I’ve asked Batman his type. I’m so sorry.”
Even his hands were cherry red.
“It wasn’t anything I haven’t answered before.”
“I’m so sorry,” Clark repeated.
Bruce hadn’t known what he was walking into when he first arrived. What he had known was that he hadn’t expected to reveal his identity, but as he sat in his chair, with his fellow Justice League members who may or may not be counted as friends, Bruce could say that this wasn’t the worst intervention he ever had.