Chapter Text
I. He hears Alfred calling in his sleep; Alfred has not spoken to him in months, and in his dreams he hears his voice— his father's name, not his.
II. "you're not your father," Alfred's confession feels salvationional, his voice rings in Bruce's ears, the sound of a thousand promises broken.
III. "you're not my father," bruce says as he wraps his fingers delicate around Alfred's wrist, traces tender the thresholds of his pulse. "feel it— i'm alive, i've never been more alive than i am now.” every word their sickness; Alfred's gaze burns on his skin.
IV. And he holds Alfred's hand tighter, the silence between them so loud, he can no longer hear his own voice. Alfred's fingerbones feel fragile in his death grip; he's wanted for a long time to call something his own and in whatever way Alfred exists besides him, brittle and broken and bewildered, he's his. He's always been his.
V. For now, forever now they stay, Alfred will sing him songs thinner than water, thinner than blood; Bruce tells him that he feels loved. Not by him, but by the emptiness that remains in the hollow of his footsteps every night as he leaves Bruce behind.
VI. This too a runaway child's confession.