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In the couch of the manor sits a figure, a figure that is not small, but compared to the rest of the adults is confused as a teen.
In the couch of the manor sits a figure, one who’s back is curved, who’s arms hug his legs that aren’t supposed to have the military boots he has, one whose mind is alert at the sound of the door of the manor opening.
In the door of the manor walks a figure, one known to be someone that thinks of the people, of the poor, of the unprivileged, one that saw them struggle and wanted to help them
In the door of the manor stalked a figure, one that has been known to pick up ‘strays’ as the public puts it, a rich man with children that aren’t born in riches, that know more the world and the people, that know more the streets and the problems than he’ll ever know… and he’ll ever admit.
The door of the living room fused with the dining room opened, the figure in the couch didn’t acknowledge the existence of the figure at the door, neither wanted to acknowledge the presence of the other.
Not because of hatred.
Not because of disgust.
But because there was something else, unresolved matters of a future dad and a future son, the betrayal of a child when their parent’s promises were nothing but words, the wrath of a child at someone that they could see as an idol, as a model to follow is just as broken as the world around them.
A failed son.
And a failure of a father.
“How long are you staying?” The silence was broken by the older man, making the figure that has claimed the couch as a bed, as a soft spot, as a comfort zone flinch at the acknowledgement.
“As long as the Joker is out.” No lying, why would he lie about it? He can’t be out, be in his suit that he hasn’t worn in months and join sir like his mind has been conditioned to for years to pass and be forgotten. He was a dangerous man and the manor was safe, because Arkham was never a choice. “Dickhead said that as long as the Joker is out, I can’t be without supervision or whatever, what does he think he is? My dad?”
There was no scoff of a laugh or anything, but he could sense the pity in the eyes of the man, who moved to the couch and sat to the other side, enough space for both of them. “I assume then that Alfred has prepared you a room then, Jace.”
“Duh, he’s Alfred, he always knows what’s going on before we tell him and make him aware, Bruce.” There was venom in the name that left the throat, part was justified, the child that was left with a broken promise and no family was part of the layers upon layers of hatred and anger that Jace, the twin of Jason, carried.
And Bruce couldn’t blame him for the parts of venom that weren’t influenced by the Joker’s torture, he could’ve done something, but now two of his children, his sons were deeply affected since teen years. “Champ—”
‘I am not your son.” Jace interrupted. “You don’t have the right to call me that, you don’t even know me.” No response from the man with black hair and suit.
The awkward silence was settling in before the figure that arrived at the manor and was sitting to the other extreme to the figure in the couch spoke. “I know. But that doesn’t mean I can’t love you like one, even if you don’t see me in that way. You are Jay’s brother, thus you are my child at heart.”
There wasn’t a reply, Jace just got up from the couch. “What a pathetic excuse of a man.” And left the room.
In the couch of the manor there was a figure, who’s hands run in his hair and let out a shaky breath, all their conversations were like this: hatred and comprehension, love and disdain.
In the couch of the manor there was a figure… and the figure never blamed the one that stalked to his room the hatred that he bore, a hatred that was used against him, one that became deeply rooted for the words and lies of a clown that should’ve stayed dead.
In the halls of the manor, a figure stalked its way to the childhood room of his twin, a room that was never touched, never used, a perpetual memory of what was lost and unable to be brought back. The child in that room died years ago.
In the halls of the manor, a figure roamed to its room, set next to the guest room, one that was empty, because his childhood stay was never in that room, it was always in the room of the older twin.
A safe place, a comfort zone, a never interrupted dream of safety.
A never interrupted hope of belonging and security.