Chapter Text
For the child of a multi-billionaire, Avery liked to think he wasn’t that greedy.
He never asked for a car, even when he got his license, content with riding in tense silence with his younger brother to school. Well, that was if he was lucky. Any less luck, and he had to sit through some biting remarks from the boy. Still, he never thought it necessary to ask for a car, used or otherwise. Sharing the ride, even in silence, felt better than driving alone.
He never saw the appeal of new electronics either, not really, no matter how excited Tim seemed to get when he got an upgrade for his PC, though Avery smiled like he did. He pretended he cared about processor speeds and water cooling and whatever else Tim rambled about. Pretended, because it was only that time when Tim spoke to him with such joy, even if he’d give the same speech to a houseplant if it sat still long enough.
Traveling was interesting, he was sure the way people described it, but it never crossed his mind to travel anywhere outside of Gotham before. That, and the Waynes didn’t really take “family vacations” like those in the Gotham elite typically did. Instead, there were business conferences or philanthropic tours or anything else in the same vein outside of leisure activity. Trips that required scheduled agendas and press releases, none of which Avery was invited to. The closest he ever got was bringing Tim an extra charger before he flew out to whatever Wayne Enterprise had him do.
As for time? Well, Avery didn’t think he asked for an unreasonable amount. Just an afternoon, less than a couple hours. Not enough time to truly hurt Bruce Wayne’s bottom line.
Still, as he sat pin-straight in the stiff, plastic chair in the counselor's office, Avery had to conclude he asked for too much.
The office was cold, even colder than the hallway, despite the radiator humming away under the windowsill. Maybe the heat went out? It couldn't be cold just because he was alone on the opposite side of the desk. That’d be ridiculously self-pitying, even for him. It was probably just the scraping of metal against linoleum that made those goosebumps crawl up his arm.
Mrs. Keene peered over the edge of her clipboard at him, “...and your GPA is very good as well, Avery. A 3.6, that’ll place you in the upper percentile.”
Avery nodded, brushing back a stray curl from his temple, “Thank you, ma’am.”
“I see you’ve completed your community service as well, and your essay shows promise. Now, the only matter to focus on is your choice of college.”
He picked at the thread on his blazer, unconsciously, as the question of the day appeared before him.
“Do you have any top choices?” Mrs. Keene asked in that in that careful tone adults used when they weren’t sure if a teenager was fragile or just strange.
“I–” His voice choked for a heart beat, but he powered through. “I’ve thought about it…”
He didn’t know where to continue from there, because that’s all he did really.
Mrs. Keene considered him for a moment, before hitting another nerve with the subtlety of a jackhammer, “And will your family be joining us in this meeting? It would help finalize your post-graduation plan.”
Of course she asked.
They always asked, every year, every teacher, every advisor—and every time it didn’t get any easier.”
But he swallowed that bitter pill a while ago.
“They’re busy,” Avery said, with a practiced smile, “They…don’t really do school things.”
That was the kindest version of the truth.
“Yes, I imagine Bruce Wayne must be very busy,” she said, trying for a laugh that died before it landed. “But maybe you could remind him? These forms help us advocate for you after all.”
Avery nodded, not because it was a practical thing to ask but because she expected him to. “I’ll remind him when I get the chance.”
But they both knew that was a lie. He’d just set it on the kitchen counter, and Alfred would likely be the only one to see it.
Mrs. Keene sighed and set down the clipboard, “Just make sure to remind him next week is our final meeting. It's good to show family engagement with colleges."
He had heard that phrase so much he’s gotten sick of it. Family engagement. Like something that could be measured or charted.
“I can come alone,” Avery murmured. “It’s fine.”
Her brows pinched with sympathy—the kind adults tried to hide but couldn’t.
And Avery forced a small smile, the one he’d perfected over the years.
The one that said: Please don’t make this embarrassing.
“Alright,” she said softly. “Then we’ll work with what we have.”
He nodded, “Alright.”
The rest of the meeting was a blur of technicalities: application fees, recommendation letters, essay requirements, and the usual checklist of graduation logistics. It hit that peculiar rhythm—boring enough that his attention wandered, but important enough that he couldn’t completely tune out. By the time he stepped back into the hallway of Gotham Prep, his nerves felt frayed, a little raw from the weight of sitting still for so long. And now he was late for his last period of the day, much to his chagrin.
Tightening his grip on his messenger bag, Avery slipped through the crowds and past clusters of students that didn’t look up as he passed. They rarely did, as Avery existed at Gotham Prep in a weird social limbo: polite enough to nod at but unremarkable enough to forget five minutes later.
Slipping into the stairwell, he made his way down the steps to the auditorium wing of the academy. Last period: Theatre Workshop, the only class where arriving on time was more of a polite suggestion than strictly mandated, and the backstage crew ran on caffeine and prayers.
By the time he reached the double doors of the auditorium, he could hear the usual mix of clattering props, bickering techies, and Mr.Bonheur’s chatter bouncing off the rafters. And once he pushed open the side door, he was blinded momentarily by stage lights that were half on, bathing everything in a warm, dusty glow. Students were scattered everywhere; blocking scenes, adjusting light rigs, painting set flats, showcasing the organized chaos of a production two weeks from opening night.
Mr. Bonheur noticed him, even in the partial lighting near the entrance he arrived at, and waved a distracted hand, the one not holding the stack of, what Avery assumed to be, scripts, “Ah–Avery! Your sewing kit’s backstage. We’ve got a crisis.”
There was always a crisis, seemingly one everyday, waiting for him when he got there. Made him think things waited around just for the exact moment to fail and be his problem. Or maybe he just fell short on the universally allotted luck. Regardless, Avery made his way behind the curtain, weaving past actors practicing their lines with unnecessary flair. His “workstation”, an old wooden table draped in fabrics, pincushions, and half-finished costume pieces, waited patiently, creaking as he plopped down with a steadying breath.
The “crisis” of the hour? Turned out to be a tear in the Natalia Marlowe’s, perpetual female lead and drama department royalty, costume.
The same costume Avery had spent multiple afternoons painstakingly sewing, from the tiered gauze skirts to the embroidered bodice. In the end, it had been a labor of love, sure, but Avery had still been content with seeing very little of the piece after he handed it off, as it had also been an ordeal from sketching together a design composed of ideas thrown at him at mach ten speed to scavenging the specific fabric from the corpses of other costumes to–
Anyway, he had hoped his efforts would be rewarded with at least some care from the actress, but of course that was asking for too much again.
But even then he couldn't be mad, for being shallow as a puddle, Natalia did look sorry as she presented the gown to him, “It got snagged on a screw. This whole set is out to get me, I swear!”
Avery examined it with a scrutinous eye and ran a finger over it, “You caught it on the seam. I can fix it, no problem.”
Natalia sagged in relief, “You’re a life saver. Like, literally, you’re saving the show”
She always said dramatic things like that, and Avery never knew how to respond. Instead, he ducked his head and fished for a needle and thread.
While he stitched, the world seemed to blur around him into background noise. But in a pleasant way, like watching the scenery pass by a car window. The steady rhythm of stitching, the faint smell of stage makeup, and the muffled sound of actors rehearsing lulled him into a groove. In the end, the skirt was mended and the stitch was fairly well hidden.
But he didn’t realize until he looked up again that Natalia was watching him, only noticing when his eyes met her brown ones. She laughed, not in a mean way, when she saw him jump out of his skin.
“You ever think about doing costume design professionally? You’re kind of a prodigy.”
Avery snorted softly—barely audible. “I don’t know about that.”
But his cheeks warmed, even after he tied up the final strand, "...And there we go.”
He handed off the dress once again, joking politely, “Here you go. But no more fighting screws, alright? It can only handle so much.”
Natalia laughed, it was a bright and nice sound, “I’ll do my best.”
Just as she left, Mr.Bonheur called from somewhere onstage: “Avery! Any chance you can also help with makeup? Someone smudged the entire contour palette on the floor.”
He sighed a quiet and resigned sigh, but not an unhappy one. “On it.”
He wiped his hands on a clean cloth and stood, already planning how to triage the disaster zone that was the makeup cart, which smelled heavily of acrylic and residual chaos.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
A text: Pulling out Damian early. Can you walk home?
Avery glanced at the auditorium doors, where gray Gotham daylight leaked in.
Could he? In theory, sure, but it’d be cutting it a bit close.
Despite that, he typed back: Yeah, I’ll take the train. Don’t worry.
A thumbs-up emoji appeared seconds later.
Avery tucked his phone away and grabbed a stack of makeup wipes.
He got how busy being a true Wayne was–really, he did! Dick, for how often he was at the manor, still lived an entire city away and had his own career to worry about. Being a cop wasn’t for the faint of heart nor the lackadaisical, so he didn’t mind a rain check or two from the man. Even if they came often. Even if they were sudden. But that’s what it’s like being an adult and having your own life, right?
Jason certainly understood that, with the distance he liked to keep from the estate. And– though it might sound terrible to think – Avery didn’t entirely mind that. Sure, he had been nothing but cordial after the initial “incident”, maybe even a little apologetic. But the way his piercing eyes still pinned Avery in spot for a beat whenever he saw them was kind of unnerving. That, paired with the solid thud-thud-thud of his boots down against polished floors didn’t help either. So, with that said, he wasn’t heartbroken when Jason brushed past him without saying anything.
Tim, the miracle child, was a phenomenon in his own orbit. Valedictorian of his year, already devouring Gotham University with pure intellect. That alone kept him at arm’s length, as if their two-year age gap stretched into a canyon. It was hard to match him with brainpower alone–often just garnering an annoyed or bewildered look when he did try–so Avery could only circle his perimeter. Which could be enjoyable, yes, in its own way, just coexisting in the same space, but Tim didn’t seem to share the sentiment. Or notice he was the one refilling his mugs of coffee. Either way, it at least wasn’t actively unpleasant.
And while Damian…could be unpleasant, Avery didn’t take it personally. Well, he tried to, as it would be embarrassing to admit a child’s words got under his skin, right? Besides, the boy just seemed prickly to the point of abrasiveness towards everyone, so Avery took heed of Alfred’s words and turned the other cheek. But that seemed to irk Damian further, like everything appeared to, save for maybe that stray cat he fed in the garden.
Avery exhaled and rolled his shoulders, stepping fully into the makeup station. The palette on the floor was indeed a crime scene–streaks of brown, beige, and an inordinate amount of glitter covering the scuffed linoleum floor. Someone must’ve dropped it, then kicked it, then panicked and fled. Regardless, he crouched down over the mess with a handful of wipes, muttering under his breath, “Not a moment’s rest around here, huh?”
Cleaning wasn’t glamorous, by any means, but he didn't all that much. It was grounding and predictable, at least, more so than most things in his life. And by the time he had everything mostly restored, brushes sorted, cracked palette taped shut, powders salvaged—rehearsal had moved into its usual late-period frenzy. Actors shouting their individual cues, stage hands walking by with thick slabs of lumber, and someone up in the catwalks shouting down below, “WHO MOVED THE GELS? THEY WERE RIGHT HERE!”
Despite the noise, the chaos, and how overwhelming it should be, Avery never minded the hustle and bustle of the theater. If anything, it was far more welcoming than the stony silence he had grown used to.
Avery wiped his hands again, satisfied enough with the cleanup. His messenger bag sat slumped in the corner where he’d left it, looking as tired as he felt.
Just then, Mr.Bonheur materializes behind him, looking frantic, “Avery, before you go, where’s the silver thread? Someone moved it again, and we have to finish Mark’s wings.”
Avery blinked slowly, “Top drawer, underneath the spool box. ”
The man nodded, looking the smallest bit less distressed, and allowed Avery to sling his bag over his shoulder once more and take his leave.
He checked his phone and, nope, no new messages. No sudden change of plans. No last-minute offer to pick him up. Just the quiet hum of the backstage hallway and the dim glow of his lock screen.
Alright, train it was.
He readjusted his bag and threaded his way toward the exit, stepping around stray costume pieces and prop swords. And as he reached the doors, the last warmth of stage lights faded behind him.
The halls were emptying out, the final bell signaling the end of the school day, and the students spilled out in droves outside the campus gates. Chauffeur and carpools swept away any stragglers, while Avery gave a cursory glance at the line of cars down the road. His polished shoes crunched the autumn leaves scattered across the courtyard as slowed to take a pause.
No Alfred. No familiar Wayne cars.
They must’ve pulled Damian early. Expected, sure. But he still had to check.
The walk to the station was only a couple blocks. Close enough to the post office too. Convenient.
Across the street a bus rumbled down the road, a woman passed by him bundled in too many layers with a dog, and in the distance a siren blared mournfully.
Just a normal day in Gotham, he supposed.
His p.o. box was in a hole in the wall post office: quiet, dingy, and mercifully uninterested in his Gotham Prep uniform. He retrieved the small package waiting patiently for him, and buried it in his bag.
The train was crowded, but the noise blurred into a low, numbing hum. By the time he reached his stop, the sun had already slipped behind the skyline, leaving only a few scraps of light for the last stretch home.
He crossed the manor threshold with a handful of daylight to spare.
“Welcome home, Master Avery,” Alfred called from the top of the stairs, not looking up from whatever he was tending to.
“Hey, Mister Alfred,” Avery made his way inside, used to speaking into the air. “Anyone home yet?”
Alfred didn’t answer right away. He didn’t even slow his stride as he disappeared around the landing, voice floating back down with practiced calm.
“Master Bruce is in the study. He requested not to be disturbed until dinner.”
Avery nodded, even though the butler was already gone, “Right. Got it.”
The foyer always felt bigger when it fell quiet–not empty, no, Wayne Manor was never truly empty. But his footsteps rang hollow as he walked further inside, hurrying up the staircase two steps at a time with his arms clutching his bag close to his chest. Avery turned on his heel when he met the landing, opposite the rest of the rest of the manor, to his far-flung room in the western wing.
Once inside his room, Avery set down his bag with a sigh and shook off the day like built up dust. Without turning to face the door, he slowly slid his lock into place.
He made it. Just barely, but there was no time to think about that.
He crossed quickly to his closet — the second one. Not the one with school uniforms and the carefully plain outfits Alfred approved of. No, the other one, the one tucked behind a sliding bookshelf panel he’d installed himself under the guise of “needing extra storage.”
He pushed the panel aside, with more force than necessary.
The soft colors puffed out impatiently at him, released from their dark confines, and whispered to him as he delved within the many folds of fabric. Within the depths, he felt his finger snag on something, and he pulled out one of many strands of string lights.
“C’mon, c’mon…” He muttered to himself.
More than a little tangled, which sucked, but not enough to take up his time, Avery decided. He managed to shake out the knots within a minute, and they flickered alive once plugged in. Casting a warm blush, Avery splayed them across the head board, down his bedframe, and up the shelf nearest to his desk.
Next: the plushies – which didn’t take more time than thought. There were only three of varying sizes –enough to not warrant suspicion– and they had creases from their time in the hollowed out trunk at the foot of his bed. Smoothing them out would take too much time. Avery tossed them on his bed and nightstand, the only things that could be seen from his computer’s vantage point. A pastel rabbit and a large strawberry. The intention was cute but not overtly childish, which he hoped was apparent in his rush.
The tapestries were a bit trickier. During the day they lived rolled up inside the fake floor under his bed–not folded to avoid the same fate as the plushies. He eyed the patterns decisively and in a split second picked a soft purple one, decorated with swirling clouds and moons. They clipped into place over his blackout curtain, one straight but the other pulled taut. Not visible, though, so it didn't matter too much.
Standing in the middle of his guest-wing bedroom, Avery quickly scanned it with a dissecting eye. Anything notable, anything incimrinating–his bag, his uniform, his school ID–was squirreled away out of sight. He swept a hand over his desk, spilling miscellaneous textbooks, play bills, and the envelope from the counselor's office into the open drawer before closing it. All that remained were a faux plant and desk lamp, where his webcam sat nestled between them, angled down from a height that hid half the room.
Situating the microphone in place, Avery ran a finger over the fuzzy cover with his thumb. The ring light hummed on with a soft buzz, blooming light around him until he dialed it down to warm rather than clinical.
His hair wasn’t disheveled, at least not noticeably with all his curls, but it still took some time to pin it back in a french braid, with bobby pins and his wig cap, while hovering in his vanity’s mirror without fully sitting down. He finished off with a travel size can of hair spray, small enough to hide in his box of clip-on earrings at the bottom of his drawer, and a pixie-bob wig with coquettishly detachable pigtails. Avery watched his reflection, as his fingers fit the wig under his hairline and slipped the ear covers into place, almost snagging his bow shaped clip-on's.
His outfit, an over-sized, pastel sweater paired with a neutral a-line skirt, needed some extra attention. A few cursory passes of the hand, to get any creases and wrinkles out, later and it was passable. Not immaculate, Avery thought as he hopped into his striped thigh-highs, but good enough.
He couldn’t do any more than the essential with his makeup, some dab of lip gloss, a smudge of blush, and a quick smear of highlighter. His eyeliner wasn’t perfect; the wing was uneven. He wiped it with his thumb and redid it in one sweeping motion. There. Decent.
Once he sank into his plush desk chair, Avery threw a quick glance over his shoulder at the door.
Still locked. Good.
The preview came to life and Avery got a quick glimpse of himself, flicking a lock of synthetic hair from his heart shaped face.
Lights? A cozy, warm kind of glow.
Tapestry? Steady, but not eerily straight.
Plushies? Cute, made things seem lived in.
Perfect, everything was ready.
He hovered his cursor over the button before clicking Start Stream.
A practiced, polished smile blossomed across his face, completely unlike the breathless scramble from before, as the Starting Soon! graphics danced across the screen.
“Hey, babes, sorry for the late start,” AveOnAir cooed in a kittenish tone, “Rough day, but let’s make it better, yeah?”
The chat flooded him with hearts.
He smiled wider.