“So much to do, so little RAM.”
- Iron Man 1 290
Tony Stark!batsis!Fem!reader pt 1 | pt 2
Gotham's got another thing coming Tony Stark!batsis!Fem!Reader
It starts out how most things do, with a failed marriage
To the media, its an amicable divorce between Bruce Wayne and your mother, but the two have always been good at smiling for the camera
Custody is split, with your mother getting majority. You're closer to her, anyway. She bends herself soft towards you, cooks you eggs and pancakes in the mornings instead of having the nanny do it. When you're doing homework, she brings you apple slices that she cut herself.
Bruce is more distant after the divorce. Never less full of love. Just, when he sees you, you're a shadow of your mother, and he's a man full of excuses who foresaw this and gave it a chance, but it went to hell anyway. He's never been good with words. He doesn't know how to show or say that he wants the world for you, and that he's never kept a good thing in his life without harming it
so he's at work most of the time. He hears how you're doing from Alfred, from your teachers, from occasional reports from your mother
then she dies and Bruce and you are stuck with one another
car crash, evidently
It's a transition. Slow, yet sudden. You see Alfred more than your own father. The butler and you get along like lemons and salt. By 7 am he's throwing the covers off of you, weekdays and weekends.
"Master Bruce has done a poor job at teaching you to respect your elders, young mistress."
"Yeah, well, two thousand years ago when old people started getting naggy, they'd be left on a desert hill."
"Yes, how unfortunate for the young master, being bugged about their Caribbean Cobb Salad being ready."
You call him a sadist
He says, "Yes, I do take particular enjoyment in it."
After a few months of you ignoring teachers and spending lunch hour in the robotics lab building practical motors, Bruce decides to send you to study abroad. Better schooling, is the excuse he gives you. You'd bet he figured it'd do you some good to be out of Gotham. That, or he was tired of receiving complaints from the school counselors.
You have no idea about the kid until two years later, when Bruce isn't buying your excuses for skipping Christmas dinner anymore
He's in the foyer of the manor, staring up at you with blinking blue eyes that have you craning your head from him to Bruce and back again. Polite and a little wary, he is, even when shrugging him off to hole yourself up in the storage room used to keep your old science projects and procrastinated ideas. It's where you spend most of your time, and Bruce doesn't pry. Dick Grayson, who's name you never ask for but involuntarily learn (a gold mine for teenage jokes, unfortunately for him), is all too curious. Friendly, talkative. Asks about what you're working on and picks parts off of tables to turn them over in his hand with an inquisitive eye. One time he started juggling plyers and screwdrivers just to pass the time.
Secretly clever too, you come to learn. There's not much explaining about what parts do what and how to use each tool. He seems to know already, and if not, watches you for a few seconds before imitating.
It's not as if you dislike him, but you don't get along. No fault on Dick's part, but you're physically incapable of holding your tongue and not make fun of him for his pleated sweaters and general unpopularity at school. Dick never seems too affected by it, though. That riles you up even further.
Then there's the secrecy. Him and your own father get along better than with you, bouncing off ideas, gone during late hours, Bruce invested in Dick's education and sports life. It's like you're watching a play of what your own life should be like. Worst of all, Bruce tries. He tries with you. Comes down to see what you're working on. Asks about boys at school and grades and if you're turning in your homework on time. Most damning of all, he asks if you'd like to come back to Gotham. Stay with him. You weren't able to name why that made you so bitter back then. No word for what caused you to spew hurtful jabs wrapped in sarcasm about how Dick was your cheap replacement and you had no desire of staying. Bruce doesn't react with hurt or anger; you don't know if you want him to. But he places a hand on your shoulder, gives it a squeeze.
Doesn't take you long after seeing the kid in a yellow cape and pixie boots on the news to make a connection. Swift movements, agility you've caught glimpses of in the corners of your eye.
It's whatever, you tell yourself. You go back to boarding school once winter break is over. Not much contact, save for Alfred. Strangely enough, you wonder if you're more of an orphan than Dick is.
University at 14, graduate at 17, whilst Dick and Bruce are playing Knight and Squire in Gotham. Tensions still linger, but you show up for holidays, if only to remind them that you exist. Barbara Gordon joins the fray during all this. Smart and witty, but you take it as a challenge.
Then Dick and Bruce have a split and Dick moves to Bludhaven under a new mantle. You watch it all go down like a comedy. Bruce gets a new protege, some scraggly kid off the streets. You meet him briefly, but it sticks with you. Jason's like a grasshopper, always bouncing here and there, sweet in a way that made you curl your words in more teasing rather than jabs. A superman fan with an engraved glass autograph in his bedroom (showed off to you excitedly). There was a tenseness to Bruce after rare nights out in the field, when he'd be firm, a watchful eye on Jason, a stern talking behind doors, but Jason wasn't Dick even if similar. You found that a good thing.
Still, Bruce takes him in as a son with a quickness you're unsure what to make of. You're stuck thinking that as the blood daughter, you deserve some privilege over Dick and Jason, if only to just have your father to yourself. But he hasn't been much of a father, has he? That's the thing. It's like you were the trial run. Jason's all his to cherish and love.
He's too sincere to garner any lingering hate, though. The kid somehow smooths over some of the rough edges between Dick and you. Dick passed on the Robin mantle to Jason himself, led him and cared for him like an older sibling, and Jason looked up to him and tried to live up to the legend. For some reason, he sees you in a similar light. Like a sister. Someone he wants to live up to and impress. Apparently, he thinks you're super cool for being a genius, and your designs inspire some time of child like wonder within him. Even studies hard so he can understand them. With dedication like that, you only lightly compare him to your robot Dum-E.
He liked writing to you when you were off being reckless around the world, even if you rarely replied.
Not much later, you're showing up to his private funeral hungover, amber tinted shades on, wearing a wrinkled blazer.
You don't remember what you said. Insensitive, probably. A joke made too early. Most definitely, because it made Dick kick you out. No one reached out for a while and there was a twisted sense of relief in that. Freedom from responsibility in the guise of punishment. Because Jason had sent you a final letter before that, more sparse and questioning. You were getting plastered on a yacht off the coast of Monaco when he died.
He's a ghost that lingers and pushes unknowingly. The arguments are frigid. Loud. You hit back with sharp sarcasm and laugh at Bruce's glares. You want to change the trajectory of Wayne Enterprises. Defense, you'd said. That's where all the money is. And you've got ideas. A stockpile of them. You'll turn the company into the forerunner of military defense, almost a monopoly. With weapons like yours, wars will be won before they can even start. And, yeah, maybe there's something about Jason that's pushing you to do this instead of working on anything else.
Bruce's jaw clenches so hard his teeth ache.
No. It's low and bursting, cold as a blizzard. This is not what my parents stood for.
And all you do is tilt your head, the signature sardonic smile that is so much like the guise Bruce dons in public. "Yeah, well, I'm just getting with the times."
There's a shareholder meeting. Bruce is vehemently against your decision. He's composed, hands intertwined on the marble table, black suit pressed and tailored.
You show up late. Grinning. "Hold your applause, gentlemen. I'm here to save you from what I bet is a riveting conversation about just why we shouldn't take the next steps to take over the weapons manufacturing market. All sound, I'm sure. Dear old dad knows how to put an engaging power point presentation together." Your eyes meet and you smile wider. Next you're pressing your watch, holograms shining out. You swipe your hand over them and they connect to the large screen at the end of the room, flaring to life with the presentation title, 'GENESIS'. "Now, I don't consider myself a god," you start, hands in your pockets, sauntering to the head of the room, right behind Bruce. "I'm not that demigod with the red briefs in Metropolis. But if we want to, it'll be us controlling the board."
Bruce figured you would be prepared, but never to this extent.
Potential profits and buyers, he expected. But you're his kid, and thorough when you want to be. When it spites people. There's contacts with the pentagon, an insider in the air force who's interested in what you could sell. Invoices already drafted. Bruce never knew you could put this much work into anything that wasn't in a lab.
And in a room full of shareholders seeking profits? The agreement couldn't come quicker.
Still, Bruce is never one without a backup plan.
As it stands, he's the majority shareholder. Up his sleeve is the second majority, Derek Powers, who Bruce promised a third of his shares so long as he voted against your proposition. Not enough to give Powers the leg up over Bruce, but it brings him closer. A necessary liability that Bruce will have to deal with after this.
When all is said and done, the trump card Bruce had stored away never goes off. Derek Powers votes in agreement with you. Bruce hides the disdain on his face well, like a mask of indifference.
You look at him, shrugging and winking. "Hey, no hard feelings? We're still up for family dinner night on Friday?"
You're putting on your yellow shades, palm on the handle of the glass meeting doors before pausing. Turn your head back. "Oh, by the way. I kinda promised Powers CFO."
"You don't have the power to make that decision," Bruce says.
You snap your fingers. "That's what I was forgetting! Right, right. Guys, can we get on that? Vote to transfer the CEO position to me?"
A majority sweep.
"Cool. Powers, congrats on becoming CFO."
Then you're gone.
Dick, the proverbial son that he is, tracks you down for a talk.
You expected it, which is why you spent the night at the casino, surrounded by security and handsome men trying to buy you drinks once they recognize you. It was that time where you stopped counting your wins and losses.
The atmosphere doesn't scare Dick off. 'Course not. He's a bat.
He's in a well pressed suit of his own. Navy, stripped. Blue tie for a comical touch only him and you can understand.
The ladies in silk dresses take one look at him and bat their eyelashes.
You hold out the dice concealed in your fist. He eyes it, leans down, plays along and blows on them. You roll.
"Would you look at that, the Grayson luck. I think you just saved me from bankruptcy."
"Wouldn't be a good look if you ran the company dry on your first day as CEO." He holds up a cold glass of water. "Snagged you this from the bar."
"Oh, my favorite," you say, taking it and immediately passing it away to your bodyguard, forgotten. There's whisky in your breath.
Dick manages to lure you away for a moment and you're forced to listen to him, sipping dully on a cocktail as he gives you that look that's so much like Bruce under the high chandelier lighting. It's almost funny. Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne's adopted son, and you, his blood daughter. Dick's more like Bruce than you have ever been -- can ever try to be. It's there in his face, the same crease of their brows, same downturn of their mouth.
"An arms dealer?" he asks, an underlayer of something in his tone.
"What, would you rather we end up like Queen Industries and their hippie new business model? I don't look good in their shade of green. That's a lie, I do, I just don't like it."
And he narrows his eyes at you the same way he's done since he was nine and mulling something over. It's less evident now and he's able to hide it when he wants, but there's no need for that when it's just you two. There are traces of that little kid in him still there. Maybe that's what he's seeing as he looks at you right now. "I'd like a serious answer."
"Hey, watch your tone, junior. I'm the oldest, which means you can't criticize me ever and you do all I say. This is the 21st century, Dick. Weapons are needed now more than ever, and I'm securing that Wayne Enterprise's has the lead. You want a peaceful world? Peace means having a bigger stick than the other guy."
"Some would say that's a really philosophical way of saying, war profiteering."
"Not a philosopher, but my mother did read me Dr.Seuss."
The media has a field day.
Bruce Wayne stepping down as CEO is framed by Wayne Enterprises as a heartwarming passing of the baton to his 21-year old prodigy in full earnest. Less amusing than the almost Shakespearean takeover you orchestrated.
The U.S. air force land you Wayne Enterprises' first major contract with your miniaturization engineering work and its possible applications in munitions -- a little something your worked on when you were nineteen and existential.
Six years in as CEO, 27, still a lively nuisance to the general stoics, reporters and journalists swarming you day and night like blood sucking flies.
If they're cute, you take a few questions.
"Ms.Wayne, would you describe yourself as an arms dealer?"
And you're looking at the man with the recorder up and down, adjusting the rim of your sunglasses as you straighten up and lean your hand on the the door of your convertible. "Hey, pretty. For you, I'm whatever you need me to be."
"The people would like an honest answer. Ms.Wayne."
"Huffington Post?"
"Bloomberg, actually."
"Well, Mr.Berg, I'm a representative of the people. Are you planning on reporting the numbers of how ever since taking on government contracts, Wayne Enterprises has dedicated a significant amount of its resources into medical biometric implants, cardiac replacement medicine, and internal analgesic pumps thanks to military funding? Or does that not sell as many click bait subscriptions as affirming the echo chamber of your readers?"
"All research funded by blood money."
"You mean, money that lets Americans sleep at night without having to worry about the other big guys on the side of the world with their fingers hovering over that scary red button. No need to thank me, really. But I do love hearing it."
And the cute reporter is shaking his head in the wrong kind of amazement.
"What does your father, Bruce Wayne, think about the drastic change in direction Wayne Enterprises has taken ever since you've been at the helm?"
You grin. "Jealous he didn't do it first."
You're not all bad, you think. You've heard your father talk about Gotham. How he loves it, sees the good among the waste, wants to save it, even if half the country has given up on it. You're stopping wars. Keeping the country safe. Keeping its allies safe. All military funding finds itself back into social technologies, projects that help the little guy. But tonight? Based off the way this reporters looking at you, you're going to have some fun before you fly off to Afghanistan tomorrow.
