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Wayne Manor very rarely received guests. Bruce still didn't feel like organising galas as his parents had done, and there was this aura of sadness and horror that hovered over it that heavily discouraged anyone else from approaching.
Even journalists preferred a neutral place, so to speak, to try to extort an interview from him.
Commissioner Gordon, however, was different. He was used to the horrors he saw daily on the streets of the city, and a slightly creepy house did not affect him.
It was one of the reasons why he respected that man so much.
"Mr. Wayne, I apologise for the inconvenience, but it's important," Commissioner Gordon said, leaning forward. "But I needed to talk to you. We have received information about..."
He paused, staring at a point behind Bruce. Bruce invited him to continue, "About what, Commissioner? Have I been threatened?"
"No, it's actually that Luthor stole some Wayne Tech technology to build portals and... Sorry, but do you know there's a flying sheet behind you?"
Bruce turned around immediately. There was a sheet suspended in mid-air, floating as if there was a breeze pushing it, even though the windows were all closed.
He had to thank the constant half-light at the manor and the distance that did not make Gordon see well that it was not a floating sheet, but a man wrapped in a sheet, blissfully asleep and unaware of the chaos he was causing.
Clark had warned him about some of his sleep problems. It was his fault for not understanding how sleep problems could be different between humans and super-powerful aliens, who are also able to use their powers even while sleeping.
He had to come up with a story on the fly for the commissioner, and quickly.
"My house is haunted," Bruce quietly told the commissioner, without batting an eyelid. He was completely serious, without the Brucie patina that he was still trying to perfect and that everyone saw as a clumsy attempt to return to society after years of isolation.
"Haunted," the commissioner repeated, unperturbed.
"It's ancient, as you see," he continued, drinking his tea as if his butler wasn't repelling a flying sheet, "So, it's only normal for ancient inhabitants to stay here. I tried to get exorcists to come, but they all want to be paid first, and then they run away."
"A big problem," Gordon agreed, "However, ghost problems aside..."
The walls of the house vibrated violently, and the commissioner had to grab the arms of the armchair to keep from falling.
Bruce instead remained where he was, perfectly still.
"Does this also happen often?" the man asked, beginning to doubt the sanity of someone who voluntarily decided to live in such a place.
"Monday and Saturday afternoons only," Bruce replied with a shrug, "It's nothing to worry about. It's just my ancestors' way of letting me know I'm safe here."
Considering that there were many people in Gotham intent on killing him, and considering what had happened to his parents, it was almost reasonable to feel safe that way. Who wouldn't want to know that there were dozens of spirits behind you, ready to intervene in case of danger?
To each his own: Gordon accepted the help of a mysterious furry vigilante, while Mr. Wayne was protected by the spirits of his ancestors.
"I see... then, going back to where we left off..."
*
Half an hour later, when the commissioner had left, Bruce ran a hand through his hair. Alfred came up to him with a raised eyebrow, "Congratulations, sir. In the face of the unexpected, you were able to react appropriately and without panicking."
"Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Alfred," Bruce replied, annoyed, "I couldn't tell him the truth."
"That the great hero of Metropolis has slept at your place and suffers from sleepwalking? I think it would have been more acceptable than passing Wayne Manor off as a haunted house," the butler replied, without hiding a hint of annoyance. "Besides, is this the way to let me know about the evolution of your relationship?"
Bruce blushed, showing an emotion his butler had rarely seen in him: embarrassment.
"It's a very recent development," he said, running a hand over his neck, trying to cover a hickey embarrassingly. He'll blame it on the heat of the moment and fear of Clark's near-death after everything that had happened in Metropolis. "I didn't have a way to warn you."
"That would have been preferable; at least I could have locked your bedroom door and not risked any surprises," Alfred reiterated sarcastically. "Besides, what happened to the walls before?"
"Clark snores," Bruce said only, as if that was an answer enough. Probably, for him it was. The risks of dating an alien demigod, he had to imagine.
The butler sighed, "At least, it didn't happen with Miss Vale. We won't have to worry about any defamatory articles."
"Mhm."
"When will your guest wake up? Or does he also have bad eating habits?"
"No, he... he eats everything. He likes to have breakfast for dinner," he added, enjoying the horror in his guardian's eyes.
"At least he eats without making a fuss... I guess it's progress, especially if it convinces you to do the same."
"I doubt it," he muttered, more out of principle than anything else.
Alfred, however, wisely added nothing else. In all that chaos, they had forgotten one small, fundamental thing—or rather, someone.
"ALFRED!" Dick went down the stairs so fast that he almost fell, getting up in time. He got out and yelled, "THERE'S SUPERMAN! SUPERMAN IN OUR HOUSE! IN BRUCE'S ROOM! HE'S FLYING! ALFIE!"
Oh, heavens.
Now he will have to be a responsible adult, won't he?