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maccreadysbaby · 2 days

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Project: Killcode

batfamily + oc insert

tw: none

wanna read more? here’s the table of contents!

want to read the first fic in the hundred days series so you understand what’s going on here? here it is!

we are LEAPING INTO IT FRIENDS! if you’re new here, this is the third fic in the series! the first is linked above :) I’m so excited!!!

part one

❝ IN THE SHARK TANK ❞

SATURDAY — JULY 14 — 8:27PM

BENTLEY STOOD USELESSLY OUTSIDE THE BALLROOM DOOR.

Weren’t Wayne kids supposed to be good at galas? From everything Bentley had heard, they were really good. Extremely good. Dick had the charm, Jason had the sob story, Tim had been doing it since he could walk, and Damian had the luxury of being Bruce’s biological son. Even Duke and Cass and Steph were naturals, able to saunter around and make comments and control the party at will.

It was like they all had an on switch. Every Wayne knew how to deal with the media, the press, how to impress people and hide secret identities and work them and charm them and Bentley… well, he didn’t know how to do any of that.

Bentley was, in fact, not good at galas. No, actually, it was just stressing him out — and he wasn’t even inside yet. It had been going on for maybe an hour already and he couldn’t bring himself to do as much as go through the door.

So much had happened since Nico left. Two full years of homeschooling, a formal adoption, the change of Asten’s emergency custody into an official foster child. They’d both graduated from middle school, Duke graduated from high school and was now attending a university, Steph was in her senior year of college, and Damian was about to be a Sophomore. They’d been on websites and newspapers and magazines at every turn, pictures Bentley didn’t even know had been snapped, things he didn’t even know people knew. How did they find out he was a Wayne now?

Better yet, how was he supposed to live up to the Wayne name? After all, it was literally his now — Bentley Whittaker-Wayne. He’d hoped, when he was formally adopted, that he’d magically acquire some of the qualities that made a Wayne. For example, the Wayne superpower of nailing every single gala they went to.

It must’ve been wishful thinking, though. Because there he was, still anxious, still jittery, and still kind of nauseous about being in a room with so many formal people. With so many eyes. Eyes that would all be on him; it was the newest Wayne kid’s first gala, after all. Whose eyes wouldn’t be on him?

With a deep inhale and exhale, he shook his hands out by his sides. He was wearing freshly pressed dress pants and a white button-up that fit near perfectly, strangely reminiscent of what his father used to make him wear, but with a different feeling he couldn’t place. (He’d outgrown every single clothing item he owned in the almost three years since he had life-saving surgery. He’d moved into a new size of hand-me-downs and had to go shopping with Steph not too long ago. Which was… fun?) He had a sleek wristwatch Tim had gotten him for his thirteenth birthday on his right wrist, and was wearing some of Jason’s old dress shoes that still looked spotless. His unruly red hair had been slicked and shaped to the nines by Dick, who insisted he knew just the way to do it. He really was picture perfect.

For the moment. If he didn’t puke on himself before going into the ballroom.

He was the youngest, fresh off the press Wayne. He had to do perfect, and he had to be perfect, and everything had to go perfect because he was a honest-to-goodness Wayne now. He was one of them; a member of the family that took Gotham by a storm year and year again, that no one ever stopped talking about, that no one ever stopped looking at.

No one told him being a Wayne was so stressful.

Asten had it lucky. Seeing as he wasn’t a Wayne, he was merely a foster child, he wasn’t expected to come to galas. (Not that Bentley was forced — there had been a very long conversation about whether he wanted to attend or not. He just kind of wished he’d said no.) Asten was just living it up on the other side of the Manor, the side closed off to the public, while all the other Wayne’s forced themselves into a shark tank of social butterflies. (Save Jason. Y’know, being legally dead and all, he wasn’t really one you’d expect to see frolicking around at a gala.)

Yeah. Bentley just really wished he’d said no.

He lifted his head and glared at the stupidly big, stupidly intricate, stupidly impressive wooden doors that led into the ballroom. There were probably half a dozen matching pairs along the walls that all led to the same place. Why was it, when Bentley was so nervous, that it was always thanks to some really intimidating doors?

He’d been given tips by almost every Wayne family member, but not a single one of them was still present in his mind. He was blank; empty. The only advice he could remember was Asten’s snarky comment of just pretend you’re Johnny Cash, and Nico’s corresponding text that said no, Elvis Presley. That might have been helpful if Bentley knew who Johnny Cash or Elvis Presley were.

All he had to do was walk in. It wasn’t that hard. Walk in, find Bruce, and stand with him for the next, like, two hours until the dreaded thing was over. That was all. (But what if he couldn’t find Bruce? What if he couldn’t find anybody? What if he got lost in a sea of rich Gothamites and had a mental breakdown and people all over the world started stomping on the Wayne name because of him?)

“Nervous?”

Bentley flinched when a voice came from his left, whirling around just quick enough to come face to face with Dick Grayson.

He was in nearly the same outfit as Bentley, but with a blazer jacket on top. His black hair was in a (somehow classy looking) mop on his head, per usual, and he had that famous Dick-Grayson-shine to his crystalline ocean irises. His twenty-eighth birthday had been not too long ago, but, in true Dick Grayson fashion, he still looked twenty. (Bentley was convinced he found a way to de-age, because, honestly.)

Bentley blinked a few times, blowing air out of his mouth. “I thought you were in there already.”

“I was,” Dick replied, taking a few final steps and settling next to Bentley, facing the doors, too. “Then I noticed that B kept glancing around all worried-like, so I told him I’d go looking for you so he could, y’know. Stop being a helicopter dad.”

Bentley snickered lightly, emptily, looking down at his hands. “I think you’re gonna have to do a little more to get rid of the helicopter dad thing.”

Dick said nothing, but his expression changed slightly. He clapped Bentley on the shoulder and squeezed it. “What's up, babybird?”

The Babybird shrugged unconvincingly. “I dunno. Just don’t want to screw up, I guess. I keep psyching myself out.”

Dick snickered to himself, shifting his weight to one side. “You know, we’ve all pretty much ended a gala before, right?”

Bentley looked over at him, scrunching his face up, searching Dick’s face for a meaning. “What?”

“Oh yeah,” Dick started. “I was nine at my first gala. Broke a chandelier. Cracked a man’s ribs. It was great.”

“Seriously?”

“Hundred-percent,” He replied, turning and leaning up against the heavy doors. “Jason cussed out a lady at his first gala who kept insisting he was a disgusting street rat that should go live back in the alley. Justified, of course, and hilarious, but it ended pretty soon after that.”

Bentley smiled lightly. “That sounds like Jason.”

“The lady never came back,” Dick added, shrugging. “Tim had been gala-ing since he was born, but come the day of his very first gala with Bruce as his guardian, he was sick as a dog. He didn’t want to let B down, so he passed out right in the middle of it instead.”

“That also sounds like Tim,”

“Hey — he’s been doing better,” Dick argued, chuckling lightly.

It was true — there had been a drastic change in Tim from the mere ages of nineteen to twenty-one. It was like he finally found his life balance. How to coordinate patrol, and work, and everything else. He had a new apartment in Gotham that Bentley hadn’t even known about until, like, a week ago, and it was great. Like he finally realized he needed to prioritize himself in order to do all the other things that needed done. (And it was so nice. Bentley was proud of him.)

Dick breathed in and out. “You know, you really don’t have to go in if you don’t want to. The last thing Bruce would want is for you to be uncomfortable.”

“But I told him I would,” Bentley replied, shoving his hands down in his pockets. “I can’t chicken out now.”

You do what you say you’re going to do, Bentley Whittaker, or so help me.

He shook his head side to side in an attempt to push his father’s voice away. (How he wished he could block it out of his mind forever.) It was strange even imagining his voice now — Bentley hadn’t seen him since the time he’d gone to the prison with Jason. He’d tried to call for Bentley a handful of times on Bruce’s phone, but Bentley never answered. He couldn’t. What was he supposed to say?

“You wanna come in with me, then? You can learn gala-ing from the veteran,” Dick smiled a patented Dick Grayson million dollar smile that brought Bentley out of his trance.

Well, who better was there to learn from? And he should probably go in. Y’know, because he said he would.

Bentley shook his hands out by his sides again. “Sure.” What better option did he have?”

So, armed with gala-veteran Dick Grayson and a whole lot of nerves, Dick opened the doors, and Bentley went through them.

He’d seen the ballroom on occasion, empty and pristine and perfected. But now it was packed to the gills and pristine and perfected. There were people — so many people — everywhere. All dressed to the high heavens, in sparkly dresses and suits and blazers and ties and heels and Bentley had truly never seen anything like it before. Nearly everyone was holding a glass of champagne, and the ballroom was filled with a not-loud-but-not-exactly-quiet overlapping chatter, and if you listened close enough, there was even quiet classical music. In the background sat the wainscotted walls, velvet drapes, and nighttime starry sky that was visible through the windows.

Bentley spotted Bruce on the far end of the room talking to a middle aged couple, holding a glass of champagne that didn’t even look sipped out of. He also thought he might’ve caught a glimpse of the infamous Timothy Drake gala persona talking to someone, but it was hard to tell through all the people.

Speaking of people — several looked Bentley’s way when they came in, a few eyes lingering and crawling all over him like ants.

It only took half a second for Bruce to look over at him, too, and do that smile he always did.

“Go ahead, kiddo. He’ll probably introduce you to, like, fifty people,” Dick said, shaking Bentley’s shoulder and winking right after. “It’s just ‘cause he loves you.”

Bentley smiled back at Bruce, exhaling tensely. “Do I just… walk over there?”

“Yeah,” Dick shrugged, leaning down closer to his height. “Unless you’re feeling really confident — then you can skip.”

Bentley snickered, throwing an amused glance his brother’s way. “I think walking is good.”

“Whatever you say,” Dick stated, and then proceeded to actually, literally skip off into the crowd.

Bentley was sure his face flashed with a mixture of amusement and horror at Dick’s behavior, but he quickly squared himself away and began walking over to Bruce in the most normal, not attention grabbing way possible… Even though it felt like everybody was staring at him and he was walking like a baby deer. But he made it to Bruce anyhow, even without falling. (Which was a win.)

“Hey there, chum,”

“Hey,” Bentley said as he drifted up to Bruce’s side. Bruce smiled and put his hand on Bentley’s shoulder.

“This is my youngest,”

Bentley looked up at the couple in front of Bruce, completely competent, completely pleasant, completely normal-

And then he choked on nothing.

Standing in front of him was a man and a woman — the man in a fresh pressed suit and the woman in a tight red pencil dress with floral designs Bentley knew he had seen before. Her hair looked like a giant bee-hive sitting on top of her head, and hooked on her arm was a massive black purse with the ugliest dog he’d ever seen sticking out of it.

It was his father’s old business partners.

Whatever poor attempt at a gala smile™︎ he had going on dissipated, and he ended up just diverting his gaze to the shiny marble tiles under his feet.

They wouldn’t remember him, right? It wasn’t like they saw him every day — only a handful of times. And he was older now. A lot older, four years older. It wasn’t like he was an absolute spitting image of his father or anything…

“Bentley Whittaker,” The woman sneered, a strange look of distaste crossing her features. She looked over at the man, vaguely amused. “Yes, we know. John was our business associate.”

Bentley said nothing, but fought the urge to fidget around by biting the inside of his cheek.

“I’m still not completely sure why a man as upright as John Whittaker would get sent to prison, and have his child taken away,” She continued, eyeing both Bentley and Bruce with narrowed eyes. “Let alone have his child given to an extraordinarily rich man in another city who seems to have a never ending supply of little boys at his disposal.”

Bentley didn’t really get what this lady was trying to say, but he definitely did get her tone; something along the lines of accusatory, and disgusted.

Bruce didn’t so much as make a face in return. Instead, he asked a level: “What are you suggesting?”

The woman shrugged, tilting her nose up disapprovingly. “I’m not suggesting a thing, Mister Wayne. It’s just interesting how you simply seem to… acquire other notable families' young sons year in and year out, is all.”

Bentley kept staring at the floor, having to literally fight to keep his hands still. He was thirteen, he should be over the fidgeting by now. But he wasn’t. Per usual. Why were these people even here? Why come if they were just going to criticize Bruce?

And suddenly, it hit him.

No, like something literally hit him — right in the side of the head with a bonk.

A pink bouncy ball bounced out in front of him.

He bent down and picked it up, then scanned the ballroom. Through the crowds of posh adults, there were two girls on the far side — like, all the way across the room — staring at him like a pair of deer in some headlights. They had to be around his age, at least.

“Why don’t you take that back to them, Bentley?” Bruce questioned, and he gave Bentley a look, a look like he was giving him an out to escape the strange conversation. Like something wasn’t right with what the woman was saying and he shouldn’t hear anymore.

Bentley obliged.

So, he endured another sort-of-very-awkward walk across the ballroom. Not to mention that he could feel that those girls were definitely, definitely staring him down. But, more than the eyes that were crawling all over him, he really wondered what that lady had meant. She seemed appalled that Bruce had so many adopted sons, but Bentley couldn’t work out why. Wasn’t it good to adopt kids? Her meaning had to have had something bad to it, since Bruce had openly given Bentley an opportunity to leave. But what was it?

He didn’t have time to figure it out. Because as quickly as he’d walked away from Bruce, he made it to the girls.

He’d literally never spoken to a girl his age. (Was that embarrassing?)

The girl on the left had to have been the one to throw the ball — seeming as she had a borderline horrified look on her face. She had short, blonde hair that barely reached her shoulders, and grayish eyes — kind of like Bruce’s — that sort of looked like she might start crying if Bentley said one negative word to her. She was wearing a boxy white dress and flat white shoes that starkly contrasted all the dark, moody outfits in the room.

The other girl, however, was the total opposite. She had long black hair that might’ve had some dark purple streaks in it, and her eyes were a deep brown, almost black. She was staring at Bentley like somewhat of a feral animal, waiting for him to screw up, and her dress was tight and black, covered by a massive brown bomber jacket with patches all over it. She was wearing brown combat boots.

(It was like he was looking at Asten and Nico but… girls.)

Bentley held the pink bouncy ball out toward the blonde girl, resting in his upturned palm. “Here’s your ball.”

She just stared at him, blue eyes wide, with this absolutely gobsmacked look on her face.

Bentley blinked. “Uh…”

Suddenly, the other girl’s hand hit his with a slap, and she took the ball from his palm.

“Sorry. She didn’t mean to hit you in the face,” She deadpanned, staring at Bentley with this strange, empty glower that made him immensely uncomfortable. She shoved the ball in her jacket pocket.

“It’s fine,” He replied, glancing over at Bruce, who was still talking to the same couple. He did a scan for Dick or Tim or Damian (who he knew were all here.) but came back with nothing.

“You lost?”

Bentley looked back at the pair of girls, both of which were staring at him, one still horrified looking, the other like he was some kind of bug crawling around on the floor.

(He hated this.)

“No,” He replied shortly, shifting his weight. “Just checking for someone.”

The girl with the black hair snickered. “Okay, Bentley.”

He glanced up at her, and she gave him a cheeky smile. “Everybody knows you from the internet — don’t look so shocked.”

Bentley said nothing, but instead, looked down at his shoes.

“I’m Vera,” She spoke up again, and then jammed her black-painted thumbnail toward the blonde girl. “That’s Layla.”

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you in the head!” Layla blurted, her face turning nearly the color of a tomato.

Bentley blinked. “It’s… okay. I’m not mad?”

“Oh... Okay,” She continued, visibly relaxing, the tension leaving her shoulders. “Then, uh… hi!”

“…Hi?” Bentley replied. Vera crossed her arms and kept eyeballing him in a way he didn’t really appreciate.

Oh my God, why was this so terribly awkward? It would probably be less awkward if he whipped out his superpowers and started using them right in the middle of the gala.

“You’re a meta, too?”

Bentley locked eyes with Vera again, and she was staring, her expression less disgusted and more intrigued. Layla reached over and punched her arm. Had he said that out loud?

Vera snickered. “No, you didn’t say it out loud. I’m telepathic, genius.”

Layla whacked her again, her blonde hair spinning in a circle around her at the speed she turned her head. “You’re not supposed to talk about that!”

“Oh,” Was what Bentley replied. He’d heard the word telepathic before, when The Secret Keeper was around, but he never actually knew what it meant.

“It means I can read your mind,” Vera’s voice spoke in his head, but her mouth didn’t move. She just smiled in a sort of creepy way. “Don’t worry — I can’t see anything besides what you’re thinking about right now.”

Everything about the situation — the disembodied voice, the creepy smile, the Don't Worry — it all reminded him of The Secret Keeper. Too much of the Secret Keeper.

Bentley made it a point, then, to make his mind blank. “Stop.”

Vera held her hands up next to her head in a surrender. “Touchy.”

Bentley looked away, scanning the room for Dick or Tim or anyone? Literally anyone would be good, but he didn’t just want to go walking around the ballroom to find them. He wanted to desperately to go back to Bruce, but it was apparent Bruce didn’t want him hearing the conversation anymore — what did he need to do now?

Vera snickered. “Your brother’s name is Dick?”

Bentley turned just to glare at her, blankly, with a huff. “I told you to stop.”

“Leave him alone,” Layla muttered, nudging Vera’s arm. It was just then that he realized Layla was a little taller.

Vera breathed in and out, slowly. Then she pointed behind him. “Your Dick’s over there.”

Layla’s face turned beet red again, and she refused to look at Bentley, choosing to glare hard at her counterpart instead.

Bentley followed her finger, and indeed, Dick was there, talking with his usual sparkle to a gaggle of young women. (Not skipping anymore, thank goodness.)

Something didn’t feel right about going over there, either. Not with the way all those girls were looking at his oldest brother. Dick was being his typical Dick-Grayson self, loud and charming and bubbly as ever, and the ladies were absolutely eating it up. (It reminded Bentley, sort of… of sharks.) Bruce was still with the rude couple.

Vera snickered one last time, and Bentley turned to look at her, a deadpanned look on his face.

“I know you told me to stop, but I had to see your reaction to that,” She snickered, smiling a slightly real-er smile than before. “Looks like you’re stuck with us, Wayne.”

Bentley sighed heavily. “Fantastic.”

—

dedicated to @sassenashsworld ❤️

—

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