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Bruce dances between the threshold of wakefulness and sleep. More there than here.
He is cradled in gentle arms and the world sways from one side to the other. His world is a boat and it travels the dreamscape of his home. Blurry half glances of blue eyes catch sight of golden light coming through the French windows. A clean-shaven chin. The tall ceilings. Paintings.
He rests on a pillow which houses a beating inside. It breathes in and out. In and out.
His swaying boat is tall and lean and it hums. It sings a choir of ‘do-do-do’s and it brushes away his hair with tender care.
“My side hurts,” Bruce mumbles to his boat.
“Aw, I know buddy. I’m sorry,” his dad replies. “Do you want me to lay you down?”
Bruce shakes his head against the fabric of his boat/father’s suit.
“Is it better when I walk?”
Bruce nods and nuzzles against the inner engine of his boat. It goes ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom, against his ear.
“Do-do-do, do-do-do, little jitterbug, don’t cry,“ his father sings, voice a soothing wind.
Light. Windows. Ceiling. Chin. Paintings.
Bruce is dreaming. He dreams he’s in his house. And he is there. It comes and goes in waves.
He opens his sleepy eyes and his father’s face is staring down at him with adoration.
“Are you daddy’s tiny tot?” Thomas Wayne sings in a whisper and smiles.
Bruce closes his eyes and falls asleep.
Someone’s humming.
“Dad?” Bruce asks.
He opens his eyes and is welcomed by blurry surroundings. Gray all over.
“No, B, it’s just me,” Jason says with a sad smile. “You’ve been shot,” his son informs him.
He’s in the cave. His side hurts.
“Hm,” Bruce hums, still half asleep.
“Why’d you think I was Thomas?” His son asks after a few seconds.
But Bruce is falling asleep again.
“If you’re like your pa,” he mutters, “sonny you’ll go far-”
Jason chuckles. “Go to sleep, old man.”
A warm, big hand, covers his own. And then Bruce falls asleep.