The Waynes

The Grand Gotham Hotel ballroom sparkled with the city's elite, a sea of designer gowns and tailored tuxedos flowing beneath crystal chandeliers. The annual Wayne Foundation Charity Gala for the Children of Gotham attracted both old money and new influence, all opening their wallets for the prestige of association with the Wayne name.

Matthew adjusted his bow tie for the third time, uncomfortable in the formal wear his father had insisted upon. At fourteen, he'd hit another growth spurt, and the rented tuxedo felt too tight across his shoulders. Barbara had teased him mercilessly about looking like a "blind penguin" before their father had silenced her with a look.

"Stop fidgeting," James Gordon murmured, guiding Matthew through the crowd. "Commissioner's son or not, we're still guests here. Try to look like you belong."

"I'm blind, Dad," Matthew replied dryly. "I have no idea how I look."

Gordon chuckled despite himself. "Fair point. Just... behave. This event funds half the city's youth programs."

Matthew nodded, focusing his senses beyond the immediate conversation. The ballroom revealed itself in exquisite detail—486 guests based on heartbeats, waitstaff circulating with champagne and hors d'oeuvres, a string quartet playing Mozart in the corner. He catalogued each element, building a complete picture more detailed than any sighted person could perceive.

"Jim Gordon!" A booming voice approached from their left. "Glad you could make it."

"Mr. Wayne," his father replied, shaking hands with the man. "An honor to be invited."

"Please, it's Bruce. And the honor's mine—Gotham's finest keeping us safe deserves recognition."

Matthew tilted his head, focusing on the newcomer. Tall, broad-shouldered, impeccably dressed in what was undoubtedly a custom tuxedo worth more than Gordon's monthly salary. But what captured Matthew's attention was the heartbeat—strong, controlled, with a distinctive rhythm he'd heard before. Not in this ballroom, but across rooftops three months ago.

Batman's heartbeat.

Matthew had spent enough nights tracking the vigilante's movements from a distance to recognize that unique cardiac signature. The realization sent a jolt through him that he fought to keep from his expression.

Holy shit... Bruce Wayne was Batman.

"And this must be Matthew," Wayne continued, his attention shifting. "Your father speaks highly of you."

Matthew extended his hand in Wayne's general direction, maintaining his cover of limited spatial awareness. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne."

Wayne's grip was firm but carefully modulated—strong enough to project confidence, gentle enough not to seem intimidating to a teenager. The calluses on his palm told a different story than his public persona suggested. These weren't the hands of a man who spent his days in board meetings.

"Please, call me Bruce," Wayne insisted. "I understand you're quite the scholar. Top of your class at St. Michael's?"

Matthew shrugged, feigning modesty. "I get by."

"More than 'get by' according to your teachers," Wayne replied. "Father Callahan mentioned you're particularly gifted in debate and ethics."

The reference caught Matthew off guard. Wayne had clearly done his homework—on the commissioner's blind son, of all people. Interesting.

"I like arguing," Matthew admitted with a smile. "Must be the lawyer genes."

"Lawyer?" Wayne sounded genuinely curious. "I thought the Gordons were a police family."

"Matt's determined to break tradition," his father explained with a mixture of pride and resignation. "Says he wants to fight in the courtroom instead of the streets."

"A noble calling," Wayne observed. "Gotham needs good lawyers as much as good cops."

A smaller heartbeat approached from behind Wayne—younger, lighter footsteps, a subtle scent of hair gel and the faint residue of chalk on the hands. Acrobatics training, recently completed.

"Bruce, Alfred says I have to mingle for at least twenty more minutes before I can escape," the newcomer complained, then caught himself upon noticing Gordon and Matthew. "Oh! Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Not at all," Wayne replied, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Dick, this is Commissioner Gordon and his son Matthew. Gentlemen, my ward, Richard Grayson."

"Dick," the boy corrected, offering his hand first to Gordon, then to Matthew. "Only Alfred calls me Richard, and only when I'm in trouble."

Matthew shook the offered hand, noting the strength in the grip despite the boy's small stature. This was Robin, then—Batman's partner whose existence was still debated in the press but confirmed through Matthew's nighttime surveillance.

"I'm Matt," he replied. "Only my dad calls me Matthew, and only when I'm in trouble."

Dick laughed, a genuine sound that cut through the artificial politeness of the gala. "Hey, same! Are you as bored as I am at this thing?"

"Dick," Wayne warned, though Matthew detected amusement beneath the reprimand.

"It's okay," Matthew said. "And yes, monumentally bored. These events all sound the same—fake laughter, clanking jewelry, and everyone trying to impress everyone else."

Dick's heartbeat quickened with interest. "You can tell all that just from listening?"

"When you can't see, you notice other things," Matthew explained, deliberately simplifying his abilities. "Like how the string quartet keeps making the same mistake in the third movement but covers it well enough that nobody notices."

"That's amazing," Dick said with clear admiration. "Like a superpower."

Matthew smiled at the irony. "Not quite. Just practice."

Gordon and Wayne drifted into conversation about the city's latest crime statistics, leaving the boys to their own devices. Dick moved closer, lowering his voice.

"Want to escape to the dessert table? The chocolate fountains are worth braving this penguin suit."

Matthew hesitated, then nodded. "Lead the way."

As Dick guided him through the crowd, Matthew decided to test a theory. "So," he began casually, "what's it like living with Batman?"

Dick stumbled mid-step, his heartbeat spiking dramatically. "W-what?"

Matthew laughed, the reaction confirming his suspicion. He nearly made this kid shit himself. "Dude. I'm just kidding. But your Dad does have that mysterious billionaire vibe. The tabloids are always speculating."

"Oh," Dick exhaled, heartbeat gradually steadying. "Yeah, Bruce gets that a lot. He's just... Bruce. Boring old Bruce who makes me finish my homework before allowing video games."

The recovery was impressive for a child, but the initial reaction had been unmistakable. Matthew filed away the confirmation for future reference.

They reached the dessert table, and Dick began describing the elaborate spread in detail. "Chocolate fountain on the left, fruit display shaped like the Gotham skyline straight ahead, and something with gold flakes that probably costs more than my monthly allowance to the right."

Matthew appreciated the natural way Dick included visual information without being patronizing. He selected a strawberry from the platter, making a show of finding it with his fingertips rather than reaching directly to its location.

"So you're in ninth grade?" Dick asked between bites of chocolate-covered pineapple.

"Yeah. You?"

"Seventh at Gotham Academy. Skipped a grade, which makes me the shrimp of the class."

Matthew nodded sympathetically. "I get that. Being different makes you a target."

"Tell me about it," Dick agreed. "Being the charity case orphan Bruce Wayne took in is like wearing a 'please bully me' sign."

The bitterness in the boy's voice was palpable, though quickly masked. Matthew recognized the defense mechanism, humor covering pain, a technique he'd employed himself.

"Meh, people are idiots," Matthew offered simply.

Dick laughed. "Direct and accurate. I like you, Matt Gordon."

They spent the next twenty minutes in surprisingly comfortable conversation, discovering shared interests in mathematics, gymnastics, and crime novels. Dick had a quick mind that jumped topics with acrobatic grace, and Matthew found himself genuinely enjoying the company of someone closer to his physical age.

"Master Richard," a refined British voice interrupted. "Master Bruce asked me to remind you about your early training tomorrow."

"Five more minutes, Alfred?" Dick pleaded.

"I'm afraid not, young sir. Past experience suggests your 'five minutes' somehow transforms into half an hour."

Matthew turned toward the newcomer, extending his senses. Elderly but fit, impeccable posture, subtle scent of gun oil beneath expensive cologne—a military background, and still armed despite the formal setting. The Wayne family butler was clearly more than he appeared.

"It was nice meeting you, Matt," Dick said reluctantly. "Maybe we can hang out sometime? I mean, if you want to."

"I'd like that," Matthew replied, surprised by his own sincerity.

As Dick moved away, the butler lingered. "Master Matthew, I presume? Alfred Pennyworth, at your service."

Matthew nodded. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Pennyworth."

"Likewise," the butler replied, then lowered his voice slightly. "If I may say so, young sir, Master Richard hasn't connected with many peers since coming to live with us. Your conversation appeared to be the most animated interaction he's had at one of these functions."

There was genuine gratitude in the butler's tone, revealing a deep affection for his young charge. Matthew understood the sentiment—Dick Grayson carried tragedy beneath his vibrant exterior, a weight Matthew recognized from his own past life. Orphans should stick together.

"He seems like a good kid," Matthew said simply.

"Indeed he is," Alfred agreed. "Perhaps we could arrange a proper visit sometime. I believe both you and Master Richard might benefit from the friendship."

Before Matthew could respond, he sensed Bruce Wayne approaching from behind.

"Making friends, Alfred?" Wayne asked, his public persona firmly in place—voice pitched slightly higher, movements more casual than his vigilante alter-ego would ever allow.

"Merely expressing gratitude for young Master Matthew's company," Alfred replied smoothly. "Master Richard so rarely enjoys these functions."