Chapter Text
The Drake mansion was similar to the Eckhart mansion. Cold, filled with valuable objects that were only a reminder of what money could achieve. And Penelope didn't like it.
She didn't like that place; it reminded her of the Eckhart mansion.
For Tim, the mansion was just as she remembered it. The memory that for his parents, archaeology was more important than their own son. Too quiet, too empty, too white. The marble gleamed as if no one had set foot on the floor in months, and the faint scent of fresh flowers—so carefully chosen by the housekeepers—was almost ironic.
It wasn't home. Just an expensive postcard. The cold, quiet air enveloped them immediately, and as Tim's small suitcase was placed on the floor, Penelope looked at her brother.
"So... you're not coming home?" she asked, her blue-green eyes looking at her older brother.
"Not right now," Tim denied, giving his sister a soft smile. "Relax, they only come every so often, maybe they'll only last less than four days here."
"Four days?" she asked, curious.
"Sure! They never take me seriously, so I'll be fine," Tim smiled.
Dick, who was leaning against the mansion's front door, grimaced. He didn't like the idea of leaving Tim here alone. He didn't like the idea of the boy who was his little brother (his little brother!) being alone in the grand architecture, but he knew there was nothing he could do.
"Would you repeat how we're going to introduce Penelope to the story?" Dick asked, looking at the two children. They'd told him the plan, and while he accepted that it was completely crazy, he also accepted the fact that it was a good plan.
"We'll just say Nelly arrived here with a letter of instructions and a paternity test," Tim smiled happily.
Dick blinked several times. Was it even a good idea? He could doubt it, but he also knew it was for the best.
"Well, I'm not one to point out flaws," the eldest of the three calmly assured him.
Tim gave them a quick tour of the mansion, and when they reached Tim's room, he looked at Dick with flushed cheeks.
"I have a lot of pictures of you, Jason, and Bruce," he said, embarrassed.
And Dick blinked several times, but smiled nonetheless, perhaps expecting a few pictures, but what he saw surprised him.
"That's a lot of photos!" Penelope exclaimed loudly.
And the magenta-haired girl wasn't lying. There were a lot! One of Tim's walls was covered with photos and red thread connecting some dots to others. Dick found it amusing.
Two hours later, Tim was left alone in the Drake mansion.
The Bat Family
Tim was waiting for his parents. He wasn't happy to see them, and not because he didn't love them; he'd always been alone since he turned four, so there wasn't that connection he'd had with Bruce. All Tim wanted was to be back at Wayne Manor with his family.
Bruce's calls came every hour, Dick's every half hour, and Penelope's messages came through Alfred's cell phone, who had also been checking on him and his health.
It was joyful to hear his family's voices; unfortunately, he had to keep up a facade, so when four o'clock in the afternoon rolled around and the few rays of sunlight had begun to leave the Gotham skies, he saw a Rolls-Royce approaching and knew his parents were on their way.
He looked in the nearby mirror and nodded, noticing that he looked as presentable as possible. His hair had grown out of the strange mushroom cut his mother had given him several years ago, and seemed to be more of a modern cut, so he calmly smoothed out the few remaining wrinkles in his clothes and waited for the car to finish parking.
"You're not a child," he said quietly to himself. "No more."
The car stopped in front of the marble staircase. The chauffeur got out first, opening the doors with ceremonial precision. Janet Drake got out first, impeccable in a beige designer dress, dark glasses that obscured her gaze, and lips painted a red as severe as her expression. Then Jack Drake got out, a light gray suit, blue tie, and a wide, fake smile, as if just returning to Gotham was cause for celebration.
Tim didn't smile. He didn't want to; he didn't feel comfortable. He wanted to go home.
The air between them was icy even before they spoke a single word.
"Timothy," Jack said, extending his hand, as if he were greeting a business partner and not his son. His voice sounded cordial, like that of a man meeting a business partner.
There were no hugs, and Tim's body remained rigid. He could smell the expensive perfume, the scent of travel, private planes, hotels. Not home.
"Son," Janet said in a neutral tone. Her eyes, after removing her glasses, appraised him from head to toe, as if sizing him up not as a son, but as a collectible he'd kept hidden for too long.
"Mother. Father," Tim greeted calmly.
No one else spoke immediately. The echo of the hall filled the void between them.
Tim took a deep breath, aware that the real dinner, the real test, was yet to begin, and he just wanted to return to Bruce's arms and Nelly's games.
The hall had swallowed up the first greeting, and soon Jack decided to break the tension with his best weapon: talking about the one thing he knew well.
"So, son... how are things going with the company?" he asked, straightening his tie, with that textbook smile he wore at investor meetings.
Tim blinked. He hadn't expected the first question to be about the company. Not about his life, not about his health, not even about how he felt after so many months without seeing them. Just about the numbers, the excavations, the Drakes' prestige.
He took a deep breath. He had promised himself to remain calm.
"The company's still the same," he replied in a neutral voice. "But actually, I wanted to talk to you about something else."
Jack raised an eyebrow, surprised by the tone. Janet, who was sitting in a nearby armchair, crossed her legs with an elegant but tense movement, as if already preparing for something unpleasant.
Tim leaned over and took a white envelope from the hall table. He placed it carefully on the glass table in front of them.
"This letter arrived a few weeks ago. I want you to read it."
Jack took it, curious. Janet, suspicious, leaned over his shoulder as he unfolded the paper. Her eyes flicked over the handwritten lines.
The letter read:
Dear Mr. Wayne,
I know this news may come as a surprise, but I must tell the truth before I depart from this world. My name is Isolde Lemaire. Over a decade ago, I had a relationship with you, and at the same time, also with Mr. Jack Drake. From that relationship, a daughter was born. I am not sure which of us is her biological father, and so I can only trust that both of you will assume this responsibility. In my final days, I have sent my daughter to Gotham, hoping she will receive the care and love I can no longer give her.
Yours, with respect,
Isolde Lemaire.
The ensuing silence was suffocating.
"What kind of joke is this?" Janet asked, her lips compressed in a line of pure anger. Her tone had an edge that could cut the air.
Jack didn't respond. His face had paled, and there was a spark of memory in his eyes.
"Isolde..." he whispered, incredulous. "Yes, I remember her. In France. God..."
"And you remember her?!" Janet burst out, turning on him with suppressed fury. "Did you know about this, Jack?"
"No!" he retorted, throwing up his hands. "I just... I just had an affair years ago. I didn't think..."
Janet bolted upright, the letter still in her hand, trembling with rage.
"So what now? A lost child claiming to be yours? A letter written at the last minute?" And Bruce Wayne mixed up in this? How are we supposed to look if this becomes public?
Tim watched them in silence for a few seconds, until he spoke, his voice clear and firm.
"The girl the letter speaks of exists. She's in Gotham. She's at Wayne Manor."
Janet turned to him, frowning.
"What are you saying, Timothy?"
"That it's not a joke. And that this conversation doesn't end here."
As if fate itself wanted to underline her words, at that moment the mansion's doorbell rang. The echo reverberated off the cold marble walls.
Jack and Janet exchanged a confused look. Tim, on the other hand, already knew.
A moment later, the door opened and the impeccable figure of Alfred Pennyworth appeared on the threshold. With a small tray in his hand, he greeted them with his usual serenity.
"Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Drake. Mr. Wayne invites you to dinner tonight at Wayne Manor. He has an important matter he wishes to discuss with you."
The silence grew even heavier. Janet still held the letter with trembling fingers, and Jack swallowed, unable to deny the obvious. They still couldn't believe what they were hearing.
Alfred said goodbye to Tim with a warm smile; it went unseen by the Drakes, but they didn't care. Alfred wanted to take his youngest grandson and take him to the mansion, but he must remain calm. When the Briton left, the silence grew heavier.
Janet was the first to react.
"This is ridiculous," she said coldly, dropping Isolde's letter onto the glass table. "I'm not going to lend myself to a play organized by Bruce Wayne. If he wants to add more orphans to his collection, let him. We have nothing to do with it."
Jack didn't respond immediately. His fingers continued to brush over the invitation envelope, as if the texture of the paper called to him. There was something in the letter that troubled him beyond prestige or scandal: a memory, a shadow of a face he'd tried to forget.
Finally, he looked up at Tim.
"And you? How do you know about this girl?" he asked seriously, in a tone she rarely used with him.
Tim held his gaze. He didn't hesitate.
"Because I've already met her."
Silence fell suddenly. Janet raised an eyebrow, incredulous.
"What do you mean, 'I've already met her'?"
Tim took a deep breath, prepared for the carefully constructed lie with Bruce. Although he wanted to tell them she was his little sister, his princess.
"Bruce introduced me to her a few weeks ago. He said she was shy, not used to talking to new people, and that it would be good for her to have a friend." At first, I thought it was a weird joke from Bruce... but no. It was real.
Jack squinted, trying to catch some detail.
"So... what's she like?"
"She's quiet at first, but smart. Very smart," Tim answered without hesitation, because in fact, Penelope was shy at first. "She likes books, puzzles, and has a strange sense of humor. She's unlike anyone I've ever met."
"So why did Bruce introduce you to her?" Janet persisted, her voice thick with suspicion.
Tim lowered his gaze for a second, as if hesitating, but then looked up again.
"Because... because he thinks she could be my sister."
The blow was sharp. The word hung in the air, impossible to ignore.
Jack opened his eyes in surprise, and for the first time in years, he appeared unarmed in front of his son. Janet, on the other hand, narrowed her eyes, skeptical, but she couldn't hide the curiosity that was beginning to infiltrate her expression.
"Your sister?" Jack repeated in a whisper.
Tim nodded.
"I'm not the only one saying this. There's proof. They don't know if she's your daughter or Bruce's, but... she's real."
Jack remained silent, thoughtful. That word—sister—stuck in his head like an uncomfortable echo.
Janet, who had remained standing, turned toward the window. Her reflection in the glass showed a stern face, but her words betrayed her.
"So what's she like?" she asked, almost in a whisper.
Tim watched her closely. It was the first time his mother had shown anything other than disdain.
"She's... special," he answered sincerely. "I don't know how to explain it." You have to see it for yourselves.
Jack ran a hand over his face and let out a sigh.
"Maybe we should go to that dinner," he murmured, as if talking to himself.
Janet turned to him in disbelief.
"Do you really want to play along with this?"
"I want to know the truth," Jack replied, with unusual firmness. "And if there's even a chance, even a small one, that that girl is mine... I need to see her."
Janet said nothing more. But deep in her eyes, a spark of curiosity was beginning to ignite, and that was a good thing, because if Janet became interested, Penelope might have a good chance.
The Bat Family
Tim paced back and forth in his room. It had only been a few hours since Alfred had left the invitation in his parents' hands, but for him, the wait was unbearable.
He hadn't imagined the distance from Penelope would hurt so much. Since she came into his life, he'd gotten used to hearing her voice in the hallway, to her interrupting him when he was deep in research, to her following him with stealthy steps that weren't quite so. It was strange, but Wayne Manor now felt like home because she was there.
Now, at Drake Manor, everything was different. The silence was cold, unkind. Every wall seemed to be watching him, reminding him that he didn't really belong there. And the worst part was, he couldn't see her. He couldn't be sure she was okay, that Bruce and Alfred were watching over her, that she wasn't scared.
He took out his phone and checked his notifications. No new messages. He had spoken to Penelope a while ago, through Alfred, but that wasn't enough. His fingers drummed against the glass, a lump in his throat refusing to go away.
"Just a few more hours," he told himself. "Just a few more hours and I'll see her, I'll see my little sister."
Meanwhile, across the hall, Jack and Janet were in the mansion's main study. The crystal chandelier illuminated their tense faces as they argued in low voices, though Janet's tone couldn't hide her displeasure.
"This is a mistake, Jack," she said, crossing her arms. "We can't allow Bruce Wayne to bring that little girl into the equation. Timothy is our only heir, he always has been. He's more than enough."
Jack paced back and forth, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His expression was more confused than annoyed. He could understand Janet; it had taken them a long time to get Tim born, it had been a high-risk pregnancy, and now the appearance of an illegitimate child was a serious problem.
"I know, Janet. But... there's something that won't leave me alone."
"What is it?" she asked impatiently.
Jack stopped in front of the window, looking out at the distant lights of Gotham.
"Over a decade ago... in Europe. I remember a woman. An archaeologist, or something. She had the strangest hair I've ever seen: vibrant, like a fiery magenta. A woman impossible to forget."
Janet frowned.
"So what are you implying?"
Jack took a sip and looked down thoughtfully.
"That maybe Bruce isn't making all this up. Maybe that girl really exists. And if she has that hair color... I can't help thinking... she could be mine."
Silence fell in the room. Janet watched him with a mixture of suppressed fury and fear. Not only because of the infidelity implied in those words, but because of what it meant: that someone else could claim what had always belonged to her son. The son she had worked so hard to conceive and bear.
"We're not going to allow some unknown girl to jeopardize Timothy's future," Janet declared, an icy edge to her voice.
Jack, however, didn't seem convinced. His curiosity had been awakened, and with it, a shadow of doubt that would haunt him until dinner at Wayne Manor.
The Bat Family
The black Rolls-Royce drove through the iron gates of Wayne Manor as night fell. The headlights lit up one after another, illuminating the path to the main entrance. The air inside the car was tense: Jack silently observed the landscape, deep in thought, while Janet held her chin up, her brow furrowed, and her lipstick set in a tense line.
When the vehicle stopped, Alfred Pennyworth was already waiting for them at the top of the stone steps, immaculate in his butler's suit and white gloves. His expression was serene, as if nothing unusual was happening in welcoming Timothy Drake's parents under such circumstances.
"Mr. and Mrs. Drake," he greeted with a respectful bow. "Welcome to Wayne Manor."
Janet merely nodded. Jack, on the other hand, forced a cordial smile.
"Alfred... always so punctual."
"Punctuality is a virtue that never goes out of style, sir," the butler replied with British calm. Then he extended an arm inside. "If you'll join me, Mr. Wayne awaits you in the tea room."
The echo of their footsteps on the marble floor resonated as they made their way through the halls. The walls were adorned with antique portraits and discreet pieces of art, but Janet barely paused to look at them; her attention was focused on what awaited them. Jack, for his part, allowed himself to be led, the invitation still in his hand and Isolde's letter echoing in his mind. And Tim—Tim—all he wanted to do was run into Bruce's arms and tell him not to leave him in that mansion again.
Meanwhile, in the east wing of the mansion, in a room painted in soft tones, Penelope sat at the dressing table. The oval mirror reflected her focused face while Dick stood behind her, his sleeves rolled up and a comb in his hand.
"Hold still, Nelly, or I'm not going to be able to get these knots out," he growled through gritted teeth, though amusement was evident in his tone.
"It doesn't hurt," she lied, wincing as the comb caught on a wayward strand of her magenta hair.
Dick snorted and rolled his eyes.
"You're worse than Tim. He also says 'it doesn't hurt' when he gets hurt and then limps for three days."
Penelope smiled shyly, watching her older brother in the mirror. She wasn't used to having someone do her hair, much less with the patience Dick displayed between complaints and jokes.
"Why are you combing my hair and not Alfred?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.
"Because Alfred is busy entertaining two people who are probably going to ruin the evening," Dick answered bluntly. "And because Bruce has no idea how to braid." Believe me, he tried it once with Barbara, and it was a disaster.
The girl let out a soft laugh. She'd been hearing so much about Barbara and Cass that she wanted to meet them, and the tension in her shoulders eased. Dick noticed the change in his reflection and smirked.
"There," he announced after a few minutes, securing a braid on the side with a small blue ribbon Alfred had left ready. "Perfect for the occasion."
Penelope turned slightly in her chair, touching the braid with careful fingers.
"Do you think... they'll like it?" she asked softly, almost fearfully.
Dick crouched down to her level, placing a hand on her shoulder.
"Listen to me, Nelly. The only thing that matters is that you like it. But if you ask me... yes. You're amazing. And if they don't see that, that's their problem."
The girl's eyes shone for a moment, and although she said nothing, she clung to that certainty like a shield.
The Bat Family
The tea room was lit by wall lamps that cast a warm glow, but nothing could ease the tension that permeated the air. Bruce Wayne stood, hands clasped behind his back, as he watched Jack and Janet Drake take the seats across from him. Alfred stood discreetly in the corner, pouring tea into china cups, though his movements had the precision of a silent witness, aware of every word about to be spoken.
Bruce felt the weight of the situation as if he were wearing one of his suits of armor. Feet away from him stood Timothy, his son in all but blood, and he couldn't get closer, couldn't show what he felt. He had to maintain the mask of the tycoon, not that of the man who watched over the boy when he was sick, nor that of the father who dragged him to Wayne Manor the first time he noticed Drake Manor was deserted and the boy had no adult around.
"Mr. Wayne," Jack said, breaking the initial silence with a polite tone, but with distrust etched in every syllable. There was no "Brucie," just more formality. "We appreciate the invitation... although I must confess I don't understand what you're trying to achieve with all this."
"It's not a matter that can be explained in a few words, Jack," Bruce replied, his voice echoing in the room, trying to smile as if it were some kind of joke, and as if trying to lighten the mood. "But I'll try to be as clear as possible."
Janet raised an eyebrow, placing the cup back on its saucer with a sharp click.
"The least you can do, Mr. Wayne, is be clear. My husband and I don't have time for fantasies."
Bruce didn't flinch. Alfred, however, tensed his jaw slightly.
"What I'm about to show you is not a fantasy," Bruce finally said, leaning toward the table. He took a set of documents out of a black folder and slid them toward them. "They're genetic tests, verified by two different labs."
Jack cautiously took the first page. His normally calm face turned one of disbelief as he read the results.
"This... this says there's a 50% match with my DNA," he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.
Janet raised her eyebrows, but before she could speak, Bruce added,
"And there's also a 50% match with me."
Janet's gaze hardened to ice.
"Are you suggesting that... that you and my husband have..." Her voice cracked with indignation, but Bruce raised a hand, interrupting her.
"What I'm suggesting," he said with controlled calm. The last thing he wanted was for Janet to think that he, with his playboy reputation, had seduced her husband, "is that there is a scientific explanation, albeit a rare one, for these results." It's called bipaternal chimerism.
Jack raised his head, confused.
"Chimerism...?"
Bruce nodded, reciting with the precision of someone who had memorized every word.
"It's an extremely rare phenomenon. It occurs when two eggs are fertilized by different sperm, and instead of developing as twins, the embryos fuse into a single entity. The result is a child with two distinct genetic lines. In this case, analysis suggests that this child carries genetic material from both yours, Jack, and mine."
A heavy silence filled the room. Jack leaned back in his seat, unable to tear his eyes away from the paper. Janet, on the other hand, seemed more offended than incredulous.
"And you expect us to accept this without further ado?" she snapped, her tone icy. "A child who suddenly appears and, by chance, turns out to be related to my husband and you? This is ridiculous, Bruce."
Bruce held his gaze, implacable.
"What you choose to believe is your business. But the results are there. And the girl too."
Tim, sitting to one side, remained silent, rigid, his hands clenched in his lap. He wanted to shout that Nelly wasn't a fabrication, that she wasn't a nuisance, that she was his sister. He wanted to defend her with every fiber of his being, but he knew any other words would arouse suspicion. The role of the distant son was suffocating him, and Bruce could tell.
Deep within himself, Bruce felt the pang of helplessness. Before him was the boy who had risked his life a thousand times, who had shown more courage than any adult, and yet he had to restrain himself, maintain the cold mask of a millionaire, because if he allowed himself to act like a father, the Drakes would use it against him.
Jack finally spoke, his voice low and trembling:
"Where is she?"
Bruce watched him silently for a couple of seconds before answering.
"Here. At the mansion."
Janet pursed her lips in disgust.
"And you're going to bring her to us now as if she were... a spectacle?"
"No," Bruce replied, his tone unwavering. "I'm going to present her to you as what she is: a child. A person deserving of respect."
As if fate had been waiting for that moment, a soft knocking sounded at the door. The handle turned slowly, and the figure of Dick Grayson appeared
"Oh," she said, with her eternal half-smile and an air of studied naturalness.
"I hope I'm not interrupting," she said lightly.
Beside him, holding hands, was Penelope. She was wearing the braid Dick had done for her minutes before, adorned with a blue ribbon, and a simple dress Alfred had carefully chosen. Her eyes, large and bright, darted nervously between the faces waiting for her.
Bruce took a deep breath, knowing that moment would change everything.
"This is Penelope."
The tea room fell completely silent.