Chapter Text
October 18th, 2018
03:24
Cave, Gotham
The air smells of iodoform and antiseptic wipes. A tray rolled up beside the medical bay cot is cluttered with syringes and broken bits of thread. Several sheets of gauze are thrown about the metal plate or scattered on the ground, each with slightly less blood soaked into it, telling the story of the boy who sat on the table. Or maybe it is the story of the man scowling next to him.
“I don’t regret it.” The boy spits out the words like they are poison in his mouth, turning his insides sour. The man’s hands still, letting the silence finally shatter around them. He too has been simmering, allowing for a dangerous build up.
The man finishes the stitches with the same methodical patience he had begun them at, but after he ties off the knot, the man slams the needle onto the tray with dull satisfaction. A couple more blood-soaked cloths flutter to the ground.
The man opens his mouth and takes a breath. Then, he simply shakes his head and turns away stiffly.
“Jason,” the man bites off his words. Something is telling him to be careful. Control his anger. “Jason,” the man starts again, just as sharply. “Upstairs, Bedroom. Go.” The man turns to leave.
The boy, Jason, just snorts. He springs down from the medical bay cot, landing in a fighting stance and balling his fists tightly, allowing the pain of his own nails digging into his palm to flow through him.
“Sure, B, just fucking walk away,” Jason mutters lowly, unclenching his hands. Jason knows Bruce will hear him and Bruce knows he is meant to. “All you’re good at anyways,” Jason spits after the older man, still turned from view.
Jason shoves the tray out of his way as he stalks off to the changing rooms. No costumes upstairs. Sure, Jason toes the line, but that rule is Alfred’s. And Jason wouldn’t dream of breaking it. No matter how much of an absolute ass Bruce was being on any given night.
“Ah, Master Jason. Pleasant night?” Alfred Pennyworth is setting a cool glass of water on Jason’s bedside when Jason emerges from the Cave in civilian clothes. Despite taking an ice-cold shower, Jason is still seething after the night’s patrol. Jason narrows his eyes suspiciously at the older man whose pleasant smile for once does little to soften Jason’s rage.
“Did Bruce tell you?” He accuses harshly, stalking off to the bathroom to wash off again before bed. Jason didn’t need to wash his face, he washed in the showers in the cave. But he needs to do something. He is dangerously close to allowing his rage to evaporate in the presence of the older man and Jason needs his rage. He clings onto with desperation.
Alfred’s eyes flicker over to him briefly, widening slightly in surprise. Jason glances over, flooding with guilt. Alfred doesn’t deserve this. Jason sighs. Now, out of the sight of Bruce, Jason’s rage is disappearing fast.
“Sorry, Alfred,” Jason mutters, not sure if Alfred could hear him or not over the running water. He splashes some on his face before turning back to the bed. Alfred has not only placed a glass of water by Jason’s bed, on a coaster of course (Jason almost rolls his eyes), but he has also relocated the various books Jason had strewn about the room back to the bookcase. Alfred even abided to the organizational structure Jason had created, no matter how many times the old man insisted it made no sense. Jason almost smiles.
“Is there anything I can get you, Master Jason?” Alfred asks, his voice gentler this time.
Jason shakes his head and climbs into his bed.
Alfred takes the cue and turns to exit, pausing at the door. “Whatever was said, Master Jason, I’m sure came only from the best intentions.”
The anger boils inside Jason again, but dimmer and mingled with reasoning that Alfred means well. Jason snorts. “Do words and intentions ever match up for him?”
Alfred flicks off the lights. “Whatever was said by both of you, Master Jason,” the old man says gently, closing the door behind him and leaving no room for a reply.
Alfred Pennyworth pauses outside the door and takes another deep breath before descending down the stairs to the entrance to the Cave. With each step, he changes what he is going to say. A rebuke? An apology? Words of consolation? Inspiration? Wisdom? But what wisdom could he offer to a father? Much like Bruce, Alfred had adopted his charge. Always doubting. Doubt mixed with the knowledge that this was hardly what Thomas had in mind when he asked Alfred to take care of Bruce.
No, Alfred Pennyworth doubted Thomas would be pleased. But Alfred couldn’t help but be pleased. Be proud. He is not foolish enough to believe he could have talked Bruce out of this path he had chosen, but irrational pride always fills him when he looks at Bruce.
Bruce sits in his chair at the computer, cowl still on when Alfred arrives downstairs. He looks powerful, or he would, if he’d had anything pulled up on the computer.
“Deep in research, Master Bruce?” Alfred asks, making his way over to the medical bay and beginning to gingerly clean up the array of spilled supplies.
Alfred isn’t sure what he expects as a response. Stony silence? A shout that he was right? Yelling, screaming, anything. Anything, really, other than leaning back in his chair and audibly sighing.
“What is wrong with me, Alfred?” Bruce groans.
“Would you like the list chronologically, or alphabetically, sir?”
Bruce finally turns the chair toward the older man and gave him a look. One that was far less harsh than the butler had expected.
“I opened myself up to that on purpose, just to be clear. Allowing you to insult me was a form of apology.”
“Sir, I feel compelled to point out that you have answered your own question.”
That got a glare. Bruce turns his chair back toward the computer. Alfred sighs.
“There is nothing wrong with you Master Bruce. And I do not take the insinuation lightly.” Alfred began wiping down the trays and the medical area.
Bruce doesn’t respond but pauses, signally that he is listening. Alfred continues.
“I believe you are familiar with the unstoppable force versus immovable object paradox?”
Bruce snorts now and spins around again in his chair. “So, what, Jason’s the force, I’m the object? I—“
“Master Bruce,” Alfred cuts in. Alfred never cuts in. Bruce falls silent and the two share a look. After a moment, Bruce cedes the floor with a nod. Alfred straightens himself upright, trying not to take pride in the small victory.
“You and Jason are far more alike than you give each other credit for. What I am saying sir, is that you are two unstoppable forces.”
Bruce falls silent at this. Alfred continues cleaning the medical bay, taking his time in gathering all the instruments the two used that night. This time, Alfred can tell it is an angry silence, not like before. He waits.
“So, what?” He is very angry. Alfred has to tread carefully. “We are inevitably bearing for a head on collision?”
“Of course not, sir,” Alfred replies sternly. Clear and strong, Bruce seems to relax just a little. Or maybe that was a trick of the light. Alfred takes it as a positive sign anyways and barrels ahead, placing each bloodied cloth into the biohazard waste bin. “There is no such thing as an unstoppable force.”
Bruce sighs now. “Alfred, I have spent all night solving riddles, I really do not desire to navigate another.”
“I do not have the patience tonight for riddles either, sir,” Alfred replies tersely. “If two unstoppable forces did exist, I do think it would be preferable if they were heading in the same direction.”
Bruce is shaking his head. “I cannot compromise my morals and Jason gets closer and closer to the line with every night out. I ground him, he goes out. I talk to him, he doesn’t respond. I yell at him, he . . .” Bruce gestures vaguely. Alfred lets a small smile slip and makes his way over to Bruce, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“He has not crossed the line yet.”
“So, what, I should be glad that it will just happen someday, not today?” Bruce is angry again, but Alfred is used to these swings, he feels confident now.
Alfred gives Bruce a stern look. “I was saying that perhaps your paths are not as collision-prone as you may believe.”