Silhouette (Batober 2023 #27)

a/n: Language warning… Jason. Surprise, surprise.

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“I’m Batman.”  A straight, serious delivery.  Dick stood with his head high and his shoulders square, confidence hanging from his frame like the well-worn cape.  Having donned the cowl the night previous, he’d had plenty of recent practice.  He was believable in every detail.

“Fuck that.  I’m Batman.”  The statement was cavalier but declared with no less confidence.  Jason voice was naturally deeper than Dick’s and he didn’t have to exaggerate to match Bruce’s range.  The cowl didn’t quite fit right thought and he’d chosen to stick with the red on grey combination, making it his own. 

“You guys are losers.  I’m Batman.”  Tim had put on a late growth spurt and although he wasn’t nearly as tall as his brothers, he made an impressive presentation.  The suit was solid black and professionally crafted and his lean muscles had grown in mass over the summer.  Bruce wondered wistfully when his boy had grown into a man. 

Cass flipped them off and then pointed with enthusiasm to herself.  The platform boots gave her an extra five inches in height and she certainly had presence.  She’d comically acquired a chest plate with a six pack fashioned out of plastic and thrust back her shoulders, emphasizing her physique.  Then she flexed her biceps proudly.  Bruce grinned. 

Damian crossed his arms and glowered, clad comfortably in his Robin costume, daring his father to question his choice.  He’d refused to participate in the farce, stating with an edge to his voice that someday he would be Batman.  Pretending was ridiculous. 

There was a pause.  Then from behind them, Alfred cleared his throat.  None of them had realized he’d joined them.  He too was wearing the cape and cowl he used for emergency rescues.  Dick started laughing.  Jason snorted.  Tim and Cass both smiled.  Damian looked as if he was ready to murder the butler. 

“You too, Alfred?”  Bruce was thoroughly enjoying the theatrics. 

“Always be yourself, sir.”

Faith (Batober 2023 #26)

Admittedly, it wasn’t the most comfortable position.  He was slumped over his bent knees, no room to raise his head.  One shoulder was jammed forward.  The other was pushed back, torquing his torso to fit the tiny space.  It put uneven pressure on his lower back.  They hadn’t been all that careful manhandling him.  His bruised hip and twisted ankle ached.  The residual haze of the tranquilizer thankfully dulled them both.  His shoes were missing.  As were his suit jacket and tie.  There was no belt buckle left to dig into his stomach.  He could at least admire the work they’d done securing him.  The box was welded shut.  The airholes were far apart and each smaller than a pinkie.  Kidnappers rarely found it worth the effort to move beyond ropes or handcuffs.  Because… how much trouble could Bruce Wayne really cause? 

They’d unknowingly done him a favor.  Silence prevailed in the otherwise empty facility.  It was a refreshing break from the squabbling he’d navigated the last few days at home and at work.  There were no arguments to break up, no reprimands to deliver.  No lectures or lessons.  There were no unproductive meetings awaiting his intervention, no conversations in desperate need of derailment.  He didn’t have to listen.  He didn’t have to speak.  He didn’t have to strategize.  The forced timeout was peaceful despite being twisted like a pretzel.  Thoughts of escaping and the methods by which to achieve his goals repeatedly resurfaced but each time, he abandoned them.  He used the opportunity to meditate.  Then to doze.  And finally, he let his mind wander.  It took him back to the last argument between Damian and Tim and how he wished he’d responded differently.  He thought about his lack of patience with Stephanie and how much more she deserved.  His last biting comment toward Clark.  His unwarranted terseness with Alfred.  Steeping himself in self-reflection, he realized the time alone had been badly overdue.  He also realized the arch of his foot was about to cramp and his back hurt. 

“You were right.” 

They were the first words spoken since the abduction in the parking garage.  He cleared his throat reflexively but with his head bent, it did little good. 

“It was none of my business.”

He knew his apology would reach the right ears and be meaningless to anyone else’s.  The silence afterwards stretched.  It continued until it reached oppressive lengths.  Seconds became minutes.  Minutes became a quarter hour.  He resigned himself to waiting much longer when the response came.

Clark dug his fingers into the metal and pulled it apart at the seams. 

Bruce closed his eyes against the sudden assault of light, then blinked hesitantly as they adjusted.  Judging by the amount of sunshine streaming in through the second story windows, he’d sat all through the night and well into the next day.

“I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”  After the wrenching of metal, Clark’s voice sounded quiet in comparison. 

He tipped his head up and back, grateful there was something left to rest it against.  Now that there was room to move, his muscles were too stiff to simply relax on their own.  He was grateful when Clark took ahold of a calf in each hand and gently straightened his legs.  “You had good reason.”

“Stop trying to justify my bad behavior and make it your fault.”

He ground his teeth.  Not at the imperative but at the lessening of pressure in his back that came with the repositioning of his legs.   

“I’m glad I have a friend who cares enough about me to call me on my bullshit.”   He went to cradle the swollen ankle but stopped short, his gaze shifting intensity. 

“Did you talk?”

Clark glanced up sharply.  Irritation flashed on his face.  Then it was gone.  A knowing smile replaced it.  “Yes, we talked.  And we worked it out.  Crisis averted.”

“Until next time.” 

“Until next time,” he agreed.  Because they both knew there would be a next time.  Arguments between him and Lois were happening more frequently these days and the general trajectory was less than promising.  But it was a more serious conversation for another time and place, when neither one of them were quite so raw. 

“I don’t suppose my shoes are close by.”  

“You couldn’t get one of them on if you tried.” 

“You’re not carrying me.”

“Should you put weight on that foot?”

“Should I?  Probably not.”  He fully intended to. 

“How about a compromise?”  Clark reached out and offered his hand.

Bruce took it and allowed his friend to do all the work.  Soon he was on his feet, an arm slung across Clark’s shoulders.  They walked out together, side by side. 

Study (Batober 2023 #25)

The makeup case was open and its contents were spread out on the counter in front of him.  He’d grown to be an expert over the years, learning first from Alfred the correct application for theater use, then for undercover work, and finally, to conceal the many injuries he’d suffered periodically to his face.  He glanced up at the mirror and inspected his handy work.  The foundation was flawless, no trace of his bruises evident.  However, no amount of cosmetics could hide the swelling around his eye.  He sighed, his mind immediately formulating plausible excuses he could use with tonight’s crowd. 

“Why don’t you stay home.”  It was less a question and more of a suggestion.   Dick joined him in the bathroom, stopping to stand behind his father’s shoulder and meeting his gaze in the reflection. 

Bruce seriously considered it for a second before dismissing the idea.  It was far longer than he normally would have spent contemplating the unthinkable.  “Bruce Wayne hasn’t missed a single Wayne Foundation annual gala since he came of age.”

Dick rolled his eyes.  He hated it when Bruce spoke about himself in the third person.  “Bruce Wayne didn’t go a couple rounds with Killer Croc the night before.”

The patent glare didn’t quite have the same effect with one eye partially swollen shut. 

“Bruce Wayne didn’t hyperextend his knee last week.”

Bruce turned on the stool to face him. 

“Bruce Wayne is allowed to take a sick day because he has a really bad case of the flu.”

“I don’t have-“

“Work with me here.”

“Dick-“

“Let me go instead.  I have a great smile,” he declared, flashing his pearly whites to fend off his father’s stubbornness and barreled forward into the rest of the argument.  “I’m charming.  I can deliver a good speech on the fly.  I know how to work a crowd.  And although my last name is Grayson, everyone who’s anybody in Gotham knows I’m a Wayne through and through.” 

Fondness overcame his dogged sense of duty.   

“My dad needs a break.  I got this.” 

Clarity (Batober 2023 #24)

Bruce was deposited in front of the fire upon their return and plied with tea throughout the remainder of the evening.  The children had all found corners of the room to lounge, taking up personal interests to conceal the real reason for their presence.  Damian’s eyes rose from his sketchpad periodically, darting to his father before returning to his drawing.  Tim was more obvious, his attention lingering on Bruce for seconds longer, exchanging eye contact with Alfred as he circled regularly through the study. 

Cassandra had chosen to maintain contact, her side pressed up against Bruce’s leg as she used his chair as a backrest.  She’d dropped her head on his knee, but her relaxed posture did not match the alertness that fueled her continued wakefulness.  The fingers he ran gently through her hair threatened to send her to sleep, but Bruce was far from soothed despite the comfort of the repetitive gesture and the reassurance of her presence. 

He wanted nothing more than to be left alone to process, to separate the emotions that were his from the ones that were left behind.  To recall and evaluate, to put into order the chaos of memories dumped into his mind and the brokenness that still plagued his heart.  He’d buried his parents.  He’d lowered his son into the depths of the earth.  But he’d never lost a spouse, the other half of his undividable whole.  Until now. 

No.  That wasn’t right.  He mentally shook himself. 

Cassandra sensed a change and glanced up. 

He tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear and offered her a weak smile.  When it failed to ease her concern, he leaned forward to place a kiss on the top of her head.  “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Dangerous (Batober 2023 #23)

a/n: Trigger warning for suicidal thoughts. Part 2 of 3.

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The sea had stolen her away.  The same fate called to him, begged him to join her in the waves as they crashed upon the rocks.  A dashed head, a broken body, blood in the water.  She was washed away in an instant to a grave not dug.  It was as if she had never existed.  Alive one moment, devoid of her presence the next.  How easy it would be to fall in after her.  It would be an end to the despair that devoured him from the inside out and to a future that promised nothing but struggling alone. 

A voice called out to him.  His name overlapped with another he didn’t recognize.  One urged him forward past the cliff’s edge.  Another insisted he answer.  They were both wisps on the wind, drown in the thunderous motions of the ocean colliding with the immovable.  A presence swept to the right.  Another to the left.  He flexed his toes, tightening the muscles in his calves, preparing himself to jump.  The plunge would be over in the blink of an eye.

A hand slipped into his and squeezed.  Past and present clashed and for a moment, Bruce was neither here nor there.  Then the earthly remnant of a tragedy long concluded released its grip.  He gasped as the loneliness that was not his own fled and left in its wake a better understanding of the grief that distinctly was. 

“Are you with us, Master Bruce?” 

“She jumped,” he sobbed.  He took a step back from the edge, clinging to the warm fingers clutching his hand.  Cassandra stepped back with him. 

“Who did?” 

Shaking from the cold and completely confused, he couldn’t answer the question.  He pressed his eyelids closed and shook his head. 

“Let’s get you back to the car and warmed up.”

Sacrifice (Batober 2023 #20)

The history book was open on the desk in front of Tim, but Bruce observed he’d made little progress over the last hour.  “Uninteresting?”

“It’s lethal,” Tim groaned, dropping his pencil and slumping down in his chair. 

“Have you tried the audio edition?”

“There IS no audio edition.”

Bruce eyed him in disbelief.

“Okay, that’s not the truth.  I found ONE reading.  Just one.  And it was computer generated.”  Which was far worse than trying to read it himself.  Speech synthesizers had come a long way but still had millions of miles left to go.

With all that was available on the internet and Tim’s ability to find next to anything, the knowledge surprised his father.

The teenager shrugged.  “It’s new.”

“Would you like me to read it to you?”

Tim’s eyes widened and he sat straight up in his chair.  “You’d do that?  It’s like… thirty-five pages.  You probably have better things to do.” 

Bruce pulled up a chair next to him and took hold of the textbook. 

Handful (Batober 2023 #17)

The mansion was an icy tomb.  Fear drove Bruce through the cavernous foyer and up the central staircase, taking two steps at a time.  He grabbed for the railing only once, desperately trying to stave off dizziness.  His head pounded miserably but nothing could distract him from his goal.  At the top of the stairs, he took a sharp turn to the right and barreled towards Tim’s bedroom. 

The electricity was off and had been for several hours.  Heat leeched through the old single pane windows.  The Drake residence was no warmer on the inside of its brick walls than it was on the outside.  The winds continued to howl, irregularly punctuated by the distinctive crack of a tree limb breaking.  Snow blew sideways, encompassing all of Bristol in blizzard like conditions. 

The mound of blankets on the bed didn’t startle or move when Bruce burst into the room.  Fear turned to dread in the pit of his stomach.  “Tim?  Tim!”

He reached for a shoulder, an arm, Tim’s head.  Anything he could uncover.  The blankets were piled in bundles rather than layered and it took Bruce a second to find his boy curled on his side, clothed in flannel pajamas.  Despite the efforts to retain warmth, Tim was still cold to the touch.  Bruce pressed two fingers to his wrist to ease his own anxiety.  His son was alive, his heartbeat steady but slow.  Bruce slipped the chemical warmers from his pockets and jammed them between Tim’s sleeping form and the mattress he was laying on.  It would be enough until he could get a fire going in the fireplace. 

Bruce slipped down and sat on the floor, leaning up against the bed frame.  His fear now addressed, there was nothing to keep the dizziness at bay.  The hand he touched to his forehead came away bloody.  Swerving at the last minute had totaled the front end of the car but had saved him from being crushed beneath the falling tree.  Hurt was preferable to dead.  He was alive.  Tim was alive.  The storm would pass. 

Bruce pulled out his cell phone and autodialed.

Regret (Batober 2023 #16)

Bruce watched the baby from the comfort of the sofa.  Tiny hands flailed, wide eyes following the swing of the overhead plushies.  He was too young to roll over and too uncoordinated to grab.  The pure wonder he was experiencing though captivated his grandfather. 

Jason jostled the arch over the blanket, causing the suspended toys to jump and jitter.  “If I’d known babies were your kryptonite, I would have adopted earlier.” 

His father affectionately squeezed the back of his neck. 

“Am I going to regret this?” His tone was purposefully light, but his expression was deathly serious.

“Not a chance.”

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(Prompt: Regret. 100 words.)

Memento Mori (Batober 2023 #15)

“Do you keep this here as a reminder?”

Bruce followed her gaze to the familiar photograph above his bed.  The black and white shot of the calla lily was muted, like the lake outside on a foggy morning.  A dozen different answers formulated in his mind simultaneously.  All were half-truths or outright lies, designed to end the conversation before it began.  Diana would see them for what they were.  In the house his parents built as a summer retreat, meaning and old memories lurked in plain sight. 

“You sleep with the memory of death,” she observed.      

“It was my mother’s.”  

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(Prompt: Memento. 100 words.)

Matches (Batober 2023 #14)

a/n: Clark and Bruce. idk what this is. Friends with benefits? Established relationship? Close friends who just haven’t seen each other in awhile. I guess it depends on the glasses you’re wearing. Warning for language. Double prompt fill for Batober #14 Undercover and Bruce Wayne Week 2023 – Matches Malone.

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“Matches around?”

The barkeep squared him up.  “Who’s askin’?”

“A friend.”

“A friend, huh?” Dubiousness dripped, like beer from a leaky tap.

Clark didn’t offer any clarification.

“Why don’t you have a seat down there at the end of the bar.  Who knows?  Maybe you might get lucky.  What’ll ya have?”

Halfway through a beer he wasn’t the least bit interested in drinking, a familiar heartbeat walked into the dive.

“Bejesus.  What the hell are you doing here?  Thought I told you to leave and never come back.”  Matches dropped himself down on the neighboring stool, their shoulders nearly touching. 

Clark didn’t bother casting his glance sidelong.  He already knew what he’d find. 

The cheap suit and sunglasses were ubiquitous, the mustache all too natural looking in appearance.  The tie clashed with absolutely everything, but the knot was tidy.  A Swan Vesta bobbed between his lips, his tongue making a plaything of the match inside his mouth. 

“You neglected the ‘never come back’ part.”

“Oh did I now? My fuckin’ mistake.  Get lost, doll face.”

“What if I want to finish my beer?”

Matches scoffed.  “We both know you didn’t come here for no lousy beer.”

The barkeep opened his mouth to protest.

“Shut up.  Nobody asked you.”

He didn’t bother to look affronted.  Instead, he wiped down the countertop and moved further away.  Even with the extra distance, there was no pretense of privacy.

Matches leaned in and whispered conspiratorially.  “There’s piss poor beer and then there’s that.”

“It’s not the greatest,” Clark conceded.

“But you were willin’ to risk it.  Again.”

“Maybe it’s growing on me.”

“That shit doesn’t grow on anybody.  Trust me.  I’ve had my fair share.”

“Why do you keep coming back here if the drinks are so terrible?”

“Everybody’s got a place.  And this is my kinda place.”  He shifted the match, sliding it to the other side, before announcing, “You on the other hand-“

Clark rotated his glass and watched condensation roll lazily down the exterior.

“Let me guess,” he started, his voice full of derision.  “Problems with the sugar daddy.”

Clark glanced up sharply.  “He’s not my-“

“Yeah, yeah.  Here’s the thing, kid.  I’m not a therapist.  Hell, I’m not even a bartender.  I’m not gunna listen to your woes, blow smoke up your skirt, and tell you everything is gunna work itself out.  Go home.”  He paused for a second before adding, “Or don’t.  It’s no skin off my back.”

Clark finally pushed the glass away and crossed his arms atop the bar.  He couldn’t hide an expression if his life depended upon it and right that moment, he looked miserable.

“Me? I’d stick around if only for the cash.  But we all get our kicks differently.  If you’re not happy, maybe you should dump his rich ass.”

“No.”  The answer was quiet but unequivocal. 

“See.  Ya don’t need me after all.  Problem solved.”

“We haven’t talked in-“

“I don’t wanna know.”

“There’s so much-“

“Not listening.”

“- I want to say.”

“Then why are you still sitting here like a shmuck?”

Clark seemed to sink further down on his stool, dropping his chin to rest on his crossed arms.  “I don’t know where to start,” he admitted.

“Geez Louise,” Matches grumped, shaking his head in disgust.  “Anybody ever tell you you’re a disaster?”

A sad smile crept to his lips.  “All the time.”