Chapter Text
Bruce had slipped slowly from the tangled weave of the covers into the thick, suffocating pitch of the master bedroom. Despite the blinding darkness that swallowed the corners of the room, he reached his toe out almost shyly, testing the cold floorboards and checking for any treacherous tripwires. The cavernous estate had been far too quiet for far too long; the heavy silence hung like fog, making it almost seem as though he had miraculously slept through the entire night.
He had slipped across the room, the soles of his feet carrying him far too hastily over the dark hardwood—perhaps the creeping anxiety was finally getting to him. He stopped dead, his toe halting a fraction of an inch above a taut length of string he was certain led to some humiliating torment. He shifted slowly, his breathing controlled, careful to keep his foot from hitching on the fine line as he felt around the surrounding floor, finding his way slowly, carefully over to the towering mahogany door.
Bruce pauses, his breath hitching as his fingers grazed the frigid, polished metal of the brass doorknob in front of him. No, no—if he goes out there into the echoey hallway, they'll have the door covered, right? They might even be waiting in the shadows for him.
Bruce turns, dragging his feet slowly down the familiar, cleared path he had already asserted was safe, carefully stepping back over the wire. He treaded cautiously, rolling his feet smoothly over to the far side of the room—a vast, shadow-drenched distance that felt far too long as he strained his ears, listening for the telltale groan of something shifting in the darkness.
On the bed—no sound came, save for the faint ruffle of linen.
Bruce had slowly pulled open the heavy velvet curtains, allowing a sharp shaft of morning sunlight to flicker in from outside, cutting through the gloom to catch the pale frame slumped beneath the dark bedding. Bruce, his tongue curling over his top lip in intense concentration, had slowly reached out his hands, his fingers quietly grasping the chilled wooden base of the window frame as he pushed it open. The slow, groaning shutter of the window shifting upwards rattled the room, causing the figure to shift slightly under the thick covers.
Bruce paused, his breath hitching sharply in his throat as he watched the figure go still after rolling over.
Bruce, gritting his teeth against the silence, slowly shifted the window higher, his eyes barely catching the dusty sill before he fixed his sharp gaze back on the bed—praying that the sleeping figure wouldn’t wake up before he could escape out into the morning air.
Bruce, finally getting the heavy window high enough, doesn't bother to open it fully, instead opting to slide belly-down under the wooden grid. He bends his legs just slightly against the wall, hands feeling over the rugged exterior windowsill as he shifts his head outside into the breeze.
Splat.
A loud, messy sound reverberates as a wet, creamy feeling of cold pie smacks him directly in the face, coating his nose and eyes in dollops of whipped foam.
"Good morning, Master Bruce," Alfred calls monotonously, standing impeccably poised on the balcony in his crisp suit, a freshly pressed cloth draped over his wrist. "Would you care for a wet towel?"
A sudden chuckle erupts from behind him in the dimly lit room—a loud, grating cackle that bounces off the high ceilings. Bruce swipes a gloved hand over his eyes, his face swollen with exasperation at being so thoroughly caught. "Have they finally gotten to you, too, Alfred?"
The voice's cackling grates even louder from the bed, shaking the frame.
"Not them, I'm afraid, Master Bruce," Alfred begins, calmly twisting the towel around his arm as he arches his hand back with practiced elegance. "Young Master Robin would be the more accurate culprit."
Bruce swings an arm out, catching the warm towel from Alfred as he turns back into the warm-toned bedroom, glaring at the sprawling figure in bed. "I'm moving to the other side of the wing," he reprimands sternly. "The two of you can keep your clownish antics to your hysterical little selves," he grumbles, shoving the thick, damp towel precisely over his face to pull as much sweet cream off his skin as possible.
"Why are you mad at me?" Jack questions from the mattress, pulling his hands dramatically to his chest, his pale face slanting downwards into a theatrical, exaggerated frown.
"I know you had something to do with this," Bruce insists, grumbling under his breath as he steps carefully over a scattered pile of gear toward one of the plush armchairs.
"What happened to innocent until proven guilty? I'm only a man," Jack insists, grandly slipping from under the tangled covers and stepping onto the rug.
Jack collapses heavily over the curved arms of the couch onto Bruce's lap, sighing heavily into the air. "The world would be much better if we all just wore a smile," he insists, reaching his long fingers up to push the stubborn corners of Bruce's mouth upward, his own lips pursed in a barely suppressed smile.
"That's one less Christmas present this year for both of you," Bruce insists, turning his eyes away from the grinning face above him. "Don't try to distract me. Besides, if you move to the other side of the wing, we'll just pack up and follow you over there," Jack complained, his fingers idly tugging slightly at the dark strands of Bruce's hair.
"Maybe I'll check myself into one of the subterranean bunkers at Arkham," Bruce suggests dryly, his lips pulling upwards instinctively despite himself as he leans back into the cushion. "You two can visit me on the weekends."
"No, don't need to move to the family room, I need to pack all of my gaming stuff," Dick complains, bursting through the doorway, sliding across the slick floorboards to effortlessly hop over the taut tripwire.
Alfred, balancing three gleaming silver trays—one steady in each hand and one effortlessly perched on his head—slips silently into the room, raising his polished shoe to click the heavy door shut behind him before stepping over the wire with a quiet, practiced awareness.
"Oh, so you're all just—"
"Dick," Bruce grunts, letting out a heavy oof as the wind is knocked out of him when the boy, instead of taking one of the many leather chairs surrounding the wide oak coffee table, hops backwards, knocking himself heavily into Bruce's chest.
"What?" Bruce questions, his hand dipping into his rich burgundy pajama robes to pull out a sleek handheld console. "Aren't you a little too old to be sitting on our laps?" Bruce points out, shifting his weight to wrap a steady arm around Dick as he adjusts himself on the oversized burgundy and oak armchair.
Dick leans over, presenting his glowing screen to whisper, "This guy keeps beating me, you need to ban him from the game," right into the side of Bruce's face.
"Do you see?" Jack initiates, leaning up only slightly from his spot on the chair, careful not to shift Dick's weight. "You can't leave, we're completely helpless without you," he explains, gesturing his flat palm broadly towards Dick's furious tapping.
"I'm not banning anybody from the game. There are freedoms that come with these apps," Bruce cuts off plainly.
"You son of a—" Dick yells suddenly at the screen, his body doubling into his knees in dramatic gamer defeat. Before he pauses, tilting his head sheepishly in Bruce's direction, pursing his lips tightly as he refocuses back on the bright game in his hands.
"You know, I don't see," Jack begins, expanding his arms wide as he closes his eyes with a nonchalant shrug, "why people are always so offended by words."
Flashback
Bruce leans into the very corner of the plush leather car seat; it made it easier to slide out into the cold night air when he finally got home. Alfred had taken it upon himself to take the winding, long way back through the dim city streets every single time. Bruce had taken it upon himself not to say anything, so they sat suspended in the heavy, comfortable silence of the quiet vehicle.
"Hey, kid, I told you not to sleep out here," a man grits, the harsh scrape of metal echoing into the damp air as he shifts the heavy metal column of a protective security grill away from his storefront.
"I wasn't sleeping," the boy complains, jostling himself off the hard pavement into a slouching sitting position.
"No?" the man questions, shaking his head. "Then what were you doing?"
"Well, I was just sitting down when I realized... there was darkness in my eye, so I was trying to catch it," the boy explains, his smudged face completely, deadpan serious.
Bruce couldn't help the small, upward twitch of his lips at the sound of the strange logic. He looked out the rain-streaked window, his eyes hitching on the skinny teenager sitting on the curb who looked to be just about his age.
Bruce hadn't even realized that the long luxury car had come to a gentle stop until Alfred walks past the side window, gesturing politely toward the warmly lit corner store. "I'm just going to pick up something, I'll be right back."
Bruce nodded solemnly from the backseat shadow.
"And were you successful?" the business owner questions, his keys jingling as he goes about chaining his metal grill open for the evening.
Alfred had moved to stand impeccably upright just in front of the shop entrance, bowing his head toward the store owner with a polite, "Good evening."
"I was almost there!" the boy chimes excitedly, his voice ringing out in the quiet street. "So," he declares, raising a single finger in absolute assertion, "you have to be very quiet while I search for it, okay?" he establishes, slotting himself further back onto the cold metal column of the shop framework.
"You think you're funny, don't you?" the shopkeeper complains, unlocking the rusty column before finally rolling it up with a loud clatter into its designated space above the storefront.
"I hope you know there's nothing funny about this matter, and I take my job very seriously," the boy insists, tilting his worn hat down his head before hesitating. He slips the hat from his head—revealing a messy, patchy tuft of highlighted green hair standing up in the streetlights.
"Money for the hard-working?" he suggests, turning the cap right-side up and swaying his hat slightly in front of the store owner.
The older man rolls his eyes with a gruff grunt, moving past him to unlock and open the store doors. Alfred stood there quietly in the dusk, patiently waiting for the store to open.
"Hey, come on, you can pick up what you want," the man explained easily, shifting the heavy glass doors open to let the warmth spill onto the sidewalk.
Alfred stepped forward, walking into the brightly lit store. His sharp eyes had shifted only for a moment toward the car, checking on Bruce.
A few moments later, Alfred had tucked his fresh pack of gum into the pages of a paperback novel, folding it up neatly before stepping back out into the chilly evening air.
Alfred hitched in his steps at the sudden sight of Bruce crouched down on the damp pavement, casually dropping a sleek, twenty-five thousand dollar Patek Philippe Calatrava into the teenager's worn hat, Bruce's bright, intent eyes entirely fixed on the young boy in front of him.
The boy, his mouth pulled tight into a thin line as he looks down into the hat, hesitates—his wide eyes jerking sharply back up to meet Bruce's unblinking gaze before flooding back down to the gleaming gold watch resting in his cap. The boy pulls the hat hastily to his chest, slowly shifting it onto the top of his head to shield the treasure, his eyes fixed on Bruce with the very concern of someone terrified of being robbed or demanded a refund.
The boy's lips part in silent shock as he shuffles the hat fully onto his head, rolling slowly away on the sidewalk from Bruce as he tends to shift to his feet.
Bruce, seemingly unbothered by the fortune he just gave away, smiles—a genuinely awkward, hesitant thing—shifting smoothly from his crouch up into a standing stance, his hand outstretched in a quiet gesture of peace.
The boy quickly pats Bruce's fingers, shifting to his feet and spinning on his heels to catch Alfred's towering eyes. The boy looks nervously at Alfred, walking past him slowly along the storefront, as though waiting for an immediate reprimand that would see his newfound gold sullied or stolen.