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leafykeen · 1 day ago

Note

Aaaahhhh I’m so glad you’re taking prompts. What about 39. “If you don’t rest, you won’t get better/heal.” with Bruce and Damian? Thanks :D

this is a billion days late, but here ya go!

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“If you don’t rest, you won’t heal.”

It only happened because Damian was curious.

It was stupid, he knew. He just wanted a break from those stupid Judo drills Father kept making him do, so he’d snuck out of the cave, and wandered around the property, running and jumping through the wooded area a little ways from the West lawn. It even had a little stream, and Damian splashed about in it for a minute, chasing little silvery fish and tiny frogs, before he grew bored.

After that, he went to the Manor garage. The garage was one of Damian’s favourite places in the whole house. It was a huge shed, almost thirty metres long and about a quarter as wide, and it always smelled like engine oil.

It was where Father kept all his cars. He had almost twenty of them. He enjoyed collecting old ones, and tinkering with their engines, which Damian found strange. They were called Vintages.

Father said that put together, they were almost as valuable as the Manor. And then he had said that Damian was to be very careful when he went there, and to not touch anything.

So of course, Damian went there all the time. And he touched everything.

It was only later that he realised what a stupid thing it had been, to do.

He ran up to the red Ferrari, which he liked the most. Gingerly, he opened the door and got in, and sat inside. He put his hands on the steering wheel, and pretended he was driving down the highway, making car noises.

Then he flushed, looking around. He was acting like a child. He was far from a child, at eleven and a half. If Drake saw him now, he would never let him live it down.

He jumped out of the car, running over to the end of the garage. There was a smaller shed pushed up against the very corner, and he looked at it curiously. It was tiny, practically a wooden closet. In his six months of living in the manor, he had managed to explore almost all parts of the property, but he’d never gone into this particular shed before. He hesitated for a second, and then he opened the door.

Inside, there was a bicycle. He stared at it.

It was painted a bright, sky blue. The colour of the sky, during the hot summers back at home. The spokes of the wheels were painted blue as well, as were the handles and the basket and the pedals. It looked like what Damian thought a painting of a bicycle would look like, much less an actual one.

He was frozen in place. It didn’t belong to him. He shouldn't– he couldn't–

He slowly reached out to touch the handles. It couldn’t be that hard. Anyone could ride a bicycle. Even Drake, who was arguably a little mentally challenged, knew how to do it. All he had to do was get on and… pedal. That was it.

That would be it.

Grandfather had always told him that he lacked focus. He knew that sometimes they spoke about it, when they thought he was asleep.

“He’s too much like his father,” he had heard Grandfather say once, his voice quiet and furious, “always asking questions. Always wanting answers. That boy needs to learn how to keep his head down and follow orders.”

Damian’s eyes had been closed. He was lying in bed, his body weary and drained from a long day of training. He had foolishly asked Grandfather if he could take a few hours off to go and see the fair in the nearest village by the compound.

Grandfather had said no. Damian had been furious, and he’d raged on and on about how he was already a better warrior than most of the apprentices Grandfather kept, and wasn’t he less than half their age? He didn’t need any more of this training, and certainly not from an old man like his Grandfather and–

Grandfather had slapped him.

He remembered freezing in shock. Mother had never touched him. It was– it was wrong. He stared wordlessly at Mother, waiting for her to do something. But she had only looked away.

“Make sure he listens,” Grandfather said, when they were outside his chambers.

Mother had been quiet. “Yes, Father,” she said at last. It was strange, how mother let no one order her around but Grandfather. Damian realized with a start that perhaps– perhaps she was scared of him. The idea troubled him. Mother wasn’t supposed to get scared.

After he had left, Mother had come into his chambers and sat on the bed, next to him. She had stroked his head, while he pretended not to sniffle.

“Shhh,” she said gathering him up in her arms. Her threw his arms around her, burying his face into the crook of her neck. He had only been five then, and such foolish things had been tolerated because he was so little.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice small.

“Don’t be, habibi,” she said. Her voice was sad. “It’s just the way things are. You are a soldier first. A grandson second. At least, as long as you live here,” she said. There had been a strange edge to her voice, when she had said that.

“Where else would I live?” he asked curiously, climbing onto his mother’s lap. She smelled like Jasmine and tea leaves. He inhaled, closing his eyes.

Mother stroked his cheek. The one that Grandfather had struck. “Don’t worry about that now,” she said, her voice soft. She smiled at him. “I’ll tell the stable boy to sneak you to the fair tomorrow evening, when your Grandfather is at his meetings. He’ll never know.”

Damian grinned back. “And I can skip training?”

She only laughed and kissed his forehead. “Don’t push it. Go back to sleep,” she whispered.

The next day, the fair in the village had been set on fire. He and Mother watched from the high windows of the compound’s main hall. An example had been made. Mother’s hand was gripping his shoulder very tight. He looked up at her.

He had thought then, for some strange reason, that Mother would say something. Tell Grandfather that he had gone too far. That it wasn’t just. He was only a boy. He should have been allowed to have his fun.

All Mother did was stare at the flames. There was something in her eyes, some inscrutable thing that Damian could not recognize.

“From today,” she said finally, her voice as hard as iron, “you are never going to raise your voice against your Grandfather. Or any superior. Your pleasure is secondary. All that matters are the orders you have been given. Is that clear?”

Damian had nodded, mutely. He remembered, after that. He would keep head down. It didn’t matter what he wanted. He was a soldier first. A son second.

It was only later that he realised that the strange thing in his Mother’s eyes had been fear.

He was lying on the floor of the garage, his breath coming in fast little gasps. There was a shooting pain in his wrist. When he looked down at it, he saw that it was at an odd angle. It hurt so badly it was making his eyes wet. He wiped at them, embarrassed.

The bicycle, he thought suddenly, and for a second he stopped breathing altogether. It was as though time had stopped. Father was going to kill him.

He sat up a little, clutching his wrist, looking for where the bicycle had skidded to, when he’d fallen. When he saw it, he let out a helpless exhale.

The bicycle was all crushed up, the metal bent, the sky blue paint chipped off in several places. But that wasn’t the worst of it. It had skidded into one of Father’s cars. The red Ferrari.

Damian looked at the massive dent on the side of the car, his eyes wide. He was going to die. He was going to die. He wasn’t supposed to be here at all. He was supposed to be practicing Judo drills in the cave, and doing his French homework when that was done, and now Father would– he would–

He squeezed his eyes shut, and lay back on the floor. He inhaled shakily, trying to beat back the swell of sharp, hot panic that was rising in his chest.

All he could remember was what Grandfather had done every time he’d tried to sneak out of the compound, or the way the men would watch silently as Damian was pushed into the pits, as a child.

“He’s too little,” one of them had said, once, “I can’t fight him.”

He could remember the silence there had been in the room, after he had said that. Everyone had looked at his Grandfather. Even the man. His face had been pale.

Damian started to cry. He couldn’t help it. His wrist hurt and his chest felt tight and he had ruined both the bicycle and Father’s car and he couldn’t breathe and–

“Damian?” he heard. It was Father. He had come into the garage. There were soft footsteps coming his way.

Damian whimpered, turning away so that Father couldn’t see his wrist. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know.

“Damian?” Father said again. The footsteps stopped. Father was seeing the damage now. He was seeing the car and the bike and Damian lying on his side and he was going to so so angry. He heard the footsteps again. Father had broken into a run. He turned his face onto the cool cement on the floor of the garage, screwing his eyes shut. No, he thought. No no no no.

When Father touched him, he flinched so hard that Father reared back.

“I’m sorry,” he was crying, his shoulders shaking. He was a coward, was what he was. He ought to have been facing his Father with dignity, ought to have looked him square in the eye and apologised. Grandfather had always said that crying was for the weak.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, sobbing. Father was only staring at him, his eyes wide, “I didn't– I didn’t mean to. I’ll fix it, Father I can fix it, just please don't–” he was babbling, and he knew it. Saying anything that would keep Father from hitting him.

“Damian, I’m going to–” Father said, reaching over to touch him, and he flinched again, shaking his head. He tried to stand up, face his father like a man, but he overbalanced and landed on his wrist and he started to gasp again. It was like he couldn’t breathe. He was still crying,of course– like– like some kind of insane, hysterical child. It was like he had lost all control of his body.

Father moved closer to him, crouching before Damian, not touching him until he had quieted down. “What happened?” he said, his voice very quiet. Like he was calming a horse.

Damian’s shoulders shook. “I don’t know,” he sobbed. “I don’t know.”

He was still cradling his wrist. When Father saw, he made a quiet sound, cupping it gently in his hands. Damian watched him, warily. It was strange. Father didn’t seem angry. He looked… worried.

“That’s broken,” Father said, his voice still doing that quiet thing, “we need to get you inside so I can set it. I’m going to pick you up, okay?”

Damian started to breathe faster again. “I– I don't–”

“Okay,” Father said quickly, “I’m not picking you up. Can you walk?”

Damian was trembling all over. Just shaking. It wasn’t like it was cold. “I just–” he stopped, swallowing. His mouth was bone dry. “Can we just sit here, for a while,” he whispered, his voice small.

Father studied him. “Alright,” was all he said.

They sat there, by the wreck of the bike. Damian kept his eyes trained on the floor. He could feel Father staring at him. His wrist hurt so much.

“You’re not– angry?” Damian said, finally. He was still looking at the floor.

“What for?” Father said.

Damian sniffled, wiping at his eyes with his good hand. “You didn’t see it?” he whispered. “The car? It’s right here.”

Father took a handkerchief out of his pocket and started wiping at Damian’s face, his touch feather-light. “I saw it,” he said, “I’m not angry, Damian.”

Damian stared up at Father. “Why not?”

Father stood up, helping Damian up. His hand was warm on Damian’s back.

“The car is replaceable,” he said, his voice low, “you are not.”

Inside the manor, Damian watched Father as he set his wrist. He was sitting on one of the high graphite counters in the kitchen, and even then, Father was taller than him.

“This next part is going to hurt,” Father said, “I’m going to have to wrap it up very tightly.”

“Oh,” Damian said. He felt drained. First the fall, then the crying, and now that he was in the aftermath of it all, the shame had started to set in. He had completely lost it, and right in front of Father too. He had behaved like a stupid, emotional baby, not at all like the warrior he had been trained to be, and now Father was disappointed in him.

He hadn’t yelled, not yet, but he could tell that something was wrong. Father was being very quiet. Even quieter than he usually was.

Father started wrapping bandages around the splint, his hands working deftly. Damian inhaled a little sharply when the splint dug into his flesh, once or twice. He was not going to cry out. He wasn’t. He had already done enough damage.

Father glanced up at him, briefly. “You know,” he said, “when I was about your age, I would hurt myself while playing all the time. Alfred would sit me down on this very same counter, and he’d give me a spoonful of sugar to put in my mouth while he was dressing my cuts and scrapes, to make me feel better.”

Damian just looked at Father. He couldn’t understand what he was trying to say.

“Behind you,” Father said, still wrapping bandages, “third rack.”

Damian looked. There was a little jar of sugar on the rack. The one Alfred used to sweeten their tea. Damian looked at Father.

“Go on,” Father said.

Damian unscrewed the jar slowly, and put a spoonful into his mouth.

“Better?” Father asked.

The inside of his mouth felt oversweet, and he still felt the last dregs of panic and shame in his chest. But Father’s mouth had curled up just a little while watching him eat the sugar, and his hands were still cupping Damian’s wrist, even though it had already been set, and he still didn’t look like he was angry, not at all, not even a little bit.

“Yes,” Damian whispered. He meant it.

“Good,” Father said.

After that Father started cleaning the rest of his cuts and scrapes. Damian hadn’t even noticed, but he’d skinned his knee badly. He’d tracked blood all the way to the kitchen. He watched now, as Father crouched down and painted the cut with iodine.

He cleared his throat. Now was the time. “Father,” he said, hesitating briefly, “I…apologise. I– I shouldn’t have been in the garage at all. I was supposed to be doing my drills. I just saw the bicycle and–” he bowed his head, trying not to fidget. A good warrior must have perfect form, Mother had always said. Perfect in mind, and in body.

Grandfather had always said that as well.

“It will not happen again,” Damian said, “You have my word.”

Father offered no comment for some time. He was still cleaning up Damian’s cuts. He carefully put a bandaid on top of his skinned knee, his brow furrowed intently.

“Damian,” Father said finally, his eyes still on his knee, “do you not know how to ride a bicycle?”

Damian shook his head. “I never was– it didn’t seem important. Learning to ride a bicycle was inessential to my training.” Damian said. A pause. He fidgeted a little, before he remembered what Mother used to say and stopped himself.

“Also,” he said, his voice quiet, “no one ever taught me.”

Father looked up at him. He was still crouching down, his head level with Damian’s knee. He tried to think of Grandfather, or even Mother dressing his cuts like this. He couldn’t imagine it. In the compound, it was always the servants who bandaged his wounds.

But then Father often did servant work. He made his own bed, and would make tea for Pennyworth in the mornings. He went grocery shopping occasionally. Once he had taken Damian. It had been strange. But not… unpleasant. Father had bought him a pack of marshmallow flavoured chewing gum for a dollar, and they had split it on the way back home. It had not been unpleasant in the slightest.

Father was still looking. “I see,” he said, after a bit. “Well, rest up. Once your wrist is better, we’ll see about buying a new bike.”

“What?”

Father stood up again. “A bike. Don’t you want to learn how to ride one?”

Damian swallowed, trying to speak through the lump in his throat, “Why are you– why are you doing this?”

Father tilted his head. “Because you don’t know how to ride a bike yet, and you’re already eleven. I’m your dad. It’s my job to teach you.”

Damian blinked. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, “I meant– why aren’t you angry? I ruined your car. I lost control of my emotions. I– I cried like a baby.”

Father looked thoughtful. Then he leant on the counter, next to Damian. They were close enough that their shoulders were touching.

“When I was your age,” Father said, “not a day went by when I didn’t lose control of my emotions. My parents had died very recently and I hadn't… I’m afraid I hadn’t taken it very well. I was… a difficult child, Damian. I can’t say I made things very easy for Alfred.”

Damian stared. It was hard to imagine Father being anything other than calm and in control.

“I can’t speak for Alfred,” Father was saying, “but I know that if I had been in his position, it would have been infinitely more terrifying to raise a child that buried everything he felt deep inside him, rather than one that happened to let himself feel things.”

When Damian was silent, Father only smiled. “It’s alright,” he said, “All you need to worry about right now, is if you want me to teach you how to ride a bike or not.”

“I– yes,” he managed. “Yes, I do.” Then he looked away. This was some strange and fantastical world that he had dreamt up. He was sure of it.

“Alright, we’ll start as soon as your wrist is better.”

Damian nodded, mutely.

There was a hand on his chin, all of a sudden, tipping it up. Damian looked up. Father’s eyes were warm. “There’s another thing Alfred always did, when I got hurt,” he said.

“What?” Damian asked.

Father pulled him close, until his head was resting on his chest. He was cradling the back of Damian’s head with his hand. He was hugging him, Damian realised. This was a hug. There they were, sitting on a granite counter in the kitchen, Damian with a broken wrist and a mouthful of sugar, and Father, with his iodine stained fingers. They were hugging.

Damian wrapped his good hand around his father’s neck. Tight.

I love you, he wanted to say. I love you I love you I love you. So much more than I ever loved Grandfather.

“Let’s start tomorrow,” he mumbled into Father’s shirt collar, instead.

Father laughed softly. “Maybe in a few weeks. If you don’t rest, you won’t heal.”

They walked down the mile long driveway slowly, Damian pushing the bicycle with him as they went along.

It was new, and it was bright green. It had a basket and a bell and gears and a little cup holder.

Damian loved it.

“You’re going to hold on, right?” Damian asked, flexing his wrist. They’d only just got the cast removed yesterday. Six weeks of waiting. Of staring at the new bicycle ever since the day Father had gone to the store with him, and they had picked it out together.

“Yes,” Father said. “Come on, get on the seat.”

Damian hesitated, and then climbed on. He was not a coward. Grandfather had always said– Damian pushed the thought away. It didn’t matter, what Grandfather had always said.

Father was holding one of the handles with him. He looked patient. Like he had all the time in the world.

“We could go tomorrow,” Damian had said yesterday, in the Batcave, “after I get the cast removed.”

Father was looking at something on the main monitors, his cowl pushed back. He looked exhausted. He’d been off-world for a week, and he’d only just come home. He was going through reports to help Drake with some case.

Father was scrubbing at his face. “I have meetings all day tomorrow,” he’d said, “and you have history lessons with Mr. Alvarez. Maybe Thursday, Damian.”

“Oh,” Damian had said. “Alright, Father.” and then he’d gone back upstairs to finish working on his Biology assignment. Around dinnertime, instead of Alfred calling him downstairs, Father had come to his room, and sat on the bed. He’d watched Damian drawing anatomical diagrams for a minute.

“You’re good at that,” he’d said.

Damian had blushed, setting down his pencil.

“Maybe we can skip our prior engagements just this once,” he’d said, and laughed when Damian had jumped on him, wrapping his arms around him.

Now, Damian exhaled. “Don’t let go,” he said, one more time, as he began to pedal.

The wheels began to spin as the bike went faster and faster, and soon Father had to jog in order to keep up with him.

Damian could feel himself grinning. Father was grinning too. A proper, real smile, with teeth and all.

“I’m doing it,” he said. He was laughing. He hadn’t even realised it.

And then he was riding. Truly riding the bike. His heart soared as he rode down the driveway, watching the trees on either side blur into a band of greens and golds. The wind swept at his face and his hands and his magnificent green bike cut throughout the air like a well oiled, beautiful ship. He rang the bell, laughing at how good it felt, how excellent he was soon going to be at this, how he was going to go everywhere on his bike, and he turned to tell Father, but Father wasn’t by his side anymore.

He stopped a little clumsily, pressing the brakes. Father was standing at the far end of the driveway, a small figure, next to the large presence of the Manor. He had let go, and Damian hadn’t even noticed.

“I did it!” Damian yelled over to him. Even though they were far apart, he could see the smile on Father’s face.

He grinned, getting on his bike once again, and rode back towards him.

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leafykeen · 1 day ago

Note

HOW DID I NOT SEE YOU ARE DOING PROMPTS ok ok. What about (if you want/have time) something with Bruce and Alfred?

Bruce being seriously injured and having to be nursed back to health by Alfred? Check.

General sadness and angst? Check.

Trauma for days? CHECK.

A phone rang in the middle of the night.

Alfred stirred, sat up slowly. Tried to locate from where the persistent ringing was coming from. It sounded like the landline.

He got out of bed, and shuffled towards the study. Everyday, his knees creaked a little more as he stood up. His bones ached. He was getting older. It was inevitable, that slow march towards the end. He tried not to think of it.

In the study, he picked up the receiver.

“Wayne Manor,” he said, “may I ask who is calling at this untimely hour of the night?”

Then he heard a voice that he had not heard for four years and six weeks.

“Al,” said the voice, “it’s me, Bruce.”

Alfred clenched the receiver tight in his hands, to make sure he didn’t drop it. He blinked hard in the darkness.

“Alfred?” the voice said.

“Yes,” Alfred said.

“I– I need you to come pick me up.”

Alfred took a deep breath. Then another. He was holding on to the receiver so tight. Almost as if a part of him thought that he could hold onto Bruce through the phone.

“Where–” Alfred swallowed back the wild thing in his throat, “where are you?”

A pause. “A village in the Gilgit-Baltistan district of Northern Pakistan. It’s called Astore. You’ll have to take a flight to Islamabad and then another to Gilgit. Then a four hour bus ride. Then twenty minutes by foot, going North as the crow flies. Don’t travel in the night. There’s a house with blue walls, by the fishing hole. You’ll know when you see it.”

Alfred waited a moment, until Bruce was done speaking.

“What happened,” he said into the phone, quietly. Bruce would not have called if he had wanted to come back home. He would not have asked Alfred to come pick him up. He would have shown up one day, completely unannounced, and out of nowhere, quite in the same way he had left.

Bruce was silent for a long time. “I am hurt,” he said, finally. “Very badly. I can’t move by myself. I can’t walk. They tried to put me on the Lazarus again, after the fighting pit, but I refused. If I hadn’t refused they wouldn’t have thrown me out.”

Alfred sank down onto a chair in the study, receiver still in hand. “I don’t understand,” he said, “Who’s Lazarus?”

There was only the sound of breathing on the other end of the line. For the first time Alfred noticed that it sounded unsteady.

“It’s a long story,” Bruce said.

I have the time, Alfred wanted to say. You haven’t talked to me in four years. I have all the time in the world. All the time in the world for you.

“I think I deserve an explanation,” he said instead.

A silence over the line. “Yes,” was all Bruce said.

“And?” Alfred said.

Another pause. When he heard Bruce’s voice again, it was static-y and crackling. “What do you want me to say, Al? That I made a mistake? Yeah, I did. That I should have called? Yes, I should have.”

“I wanted you to say that you missed me,” Alfred said, rubbing at his brow. It was the middle of the night here. So it must be mid-morning where Bruce was. He imagined Bruce sitting in the small room of an inn in a village in the Himalayas, squinting in the sunlight, huddled over a satellite phone.

A sudden thought occurred to him. Bruce would be twenty two years old now. A grown man.

When Alfred had last seen him, he had still been a sullen teenager, lanky and tall and quiet. He might look different now. Might be a different person. Someone Alfred wouldn’t know at all.

“I did,” Bruce said, his voice rough.

Clearly not enough to have cared to call. Alfred closed his eyes against the darkness of the study.

“I’ll be there by tomorrow night,” he said. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Alfred.” Bruce said. His voice still sounded strange.

Alfred put the receiver down, and sat there, in the study, for a long time.

Then he stood up again, and went to his room to pack his things.

He reached the village twenty six hours later. Found the little house by the fishing pond. The locals had pointed to it, before they he had even asked any questions. It was strange.

He knocked at the door, and it opened after almost ten minutes.

“Sorry,” Bruce said. “It took me a while to walk.”

Alfred stared. Bruce looked…he looked like an adult. His shoulders were wider. He’d finally grown into his height. He’d left when he was only seventeen. Now he had a beard.

He also looked like hell. His lip had a deep gash on it, and his eye was swollen shut, almost purple in its colour. A bruise that was yellowing on his jaw. And that was only his face.

His arm was in a sling, and his whole middle was wrapped in bandages. He was leaning slightly to the left, which meant he wasn’t putting any weight on the right leg. There were lacerations on his forearms that resembled… claw marks.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Bruce said, from around his busted lip.

He was standing huddled at the doorway, wrapped in a blanket. The blanket was stained with something dry and red.

“Alfred,” Bruce said. Even his voice sounded different. Deeper.

“Four years,” Alfred said, his voice a thin thread, “four years and not once did you attempt to contact me.”

Bruce looked down. “I know,” he said.

“What makes you think that you can come back here, with no explanations, no calls, nothing? For all you know I could have died. The manor could have been sold off. Your shareholders think you’re dead, you know. I thought you were dead.” Alfred said. His voice was not quite shaking yet.

Bruce looked stricken. Even as a boy, he’d worn his expressions so plainly on his face. He had felt so strongly about everything. “Alfred, I–” he stopped, taking a long, shuddering breath. “Can we not do this out here, in the doorway?”

At Alfred’s continued silence, Bruce’s shoulders slumped.

“Please come in,” he said, his voice quiet. “I’ve been waiting for you all day. I made some tea,” he added, a little uselessly.

Alfred stepped in, relenting. Bruce shut the door behind him.

Inside, it was dark. There were strips of cloth soaked in water, laid out to dry by the window. Some antibiotics on a table. A small cot, pushed to one side of the room.

“The landlady, Shazia, made me call you. I had a fever for a week. It broke just yesterday. She thought I was going to die. She said she didn’t want a stranger to bury me.” Bruce said. “She comes by twice a day with food, in exchange for medicine for the village hospital. Her husband’s the doctor here. She stopped taking them from me for a while though, when I was sick. Thought that I needed it more.”

Bruce was nervous, Alfred realised. He was talking more than he usually did. Except Alfred didn’t know what was usual for Bruce anymore. He didn’t know Bruce anymore.

“I’ll go get the tea,” Bruce said.

“Sit down,” Alfred said. “You’re hurt. I shall fetch it.”

He went to the corner of the room, the one opposite the bed, and took the little pot full of water off the gas stove. Added the tea leaves from a tin next to the stove. He did these things slowly, methodically. Tried to calm himself.

“I–I was going to call you anyway,” Bruce said, eventually. He was sitting on the cot, against the opposite wall. Alfred had his back turned to him, so he couldn’t see his expression, but it sounded like he was frowning.

“I didn’t need Shazia to ask me, is what I mean. I was just. I was trying to summon the courage.”

Alfred turned. “The courage for what?”

Bruce was looking down at his hands. They had what seemed like a million small scratches and cuts on them. “To tell you what happened to me. You’d ask, of course. You will. You’ll ask where I was, these four years. The places I’ve been. The things I’ve done.” Bruce looked up at him. “I wanted to avoid that conversation for as long as possible.”

Alfred looked at him evenly. “Well, it seems that we’re going to have it now.”

Bruce sighed. He ran a hand through his hair. “You’re so angry I can feel it across the room.” he said.

“Don’t flatter yourself. This room is not very big.” Alfred said. He strained the tea and poured it into two cups. Added the sugar in his. There seemed to be no milk, so he went without.

Bruce smiled wryly. “I was in Tibet, before this. France, for a short while. And six months in St. Petersburg. There was a whole mess with a cartel. But I spent the majority of my time here. With a man called Ra’s Al Ghul. Him and his organization, the league of assassins.”

Alfred was spooning the sugar into the cup. He stopped mid-spoon.

“You’re telling me you dropped out of Princeton to become an assassin,” He said.

“I didn’t drop out. They denied me admission after I got expelled from school, remember?”

Alfred gave him the cup of tea. “As if I could forget,” he said, pointedly.

Bruce had the good grace to look sheepish. He took the tea from Alfred gratefully, holding it with both hands. There was something about the way he was sitting– he looked guarded. Wary.

“You’re taking this well,” he said.

“I didn’t hear from you for years.The fact that you were training to become an assassin instead of lying dead in a ditch somewhere gives me great comfort, in fact.”

Alfred sat down on the cot next to Bruce

“You hate me,” Bruce said.

“What?”

“You hate me, for what I did. I get it. I never said anything about going away. I never called, after. I never visited. I deserve it.” Bruce said. He sipped his tea, and then tipped his head back against the bare wall behind him.

“I don’t hate you,” Alfred said.

Bruce laughed a little, in disbelief. “Why not?”

“Because you’re my boy,” Alfred said.

Bruce looked down, jerkily. His knuckles were white around the handle of the cup.

“The reason I didn’t call you, all these years,” he said, quietly, “was because I was too afraid that if I talked to you I’d want to come back home. That I’d miss you too much. And I couldn’t do that. I can– I can change things, Al. I can help people, now.”

Alfred looked down at his cup of tea. “By becoming a killer?”

Bruce shook his head quickly. “No, not by becoming a killer. I won't–I can’t kill people. That was why they put me in the fighting pits. It was supposed to be my last rite of passage. A fight to the death. It started with me and one man, and every hour for one day, they would put another fighter into the pit. To test my endurance. Except I wasn’t killing any of them, so were always more of them than me.” he shrugged off the blanket a little bit, and showed Alfred a burn on his shoulder. “Ra’s was furious by the eleventh hour, I think. They even gave one of them a flamethrower.”

“Christ,” Alfred said. “You were fighting twenty four men at once?”

Bruce smiled a little. “Not really. I knocked out a lot of them. The highest it ever got to was ten at once. After a while I think Ra’s realised that I wasn’t ever going to kill anyone, so he just–well. He threw me out. I hitched a ride to the nearest village once I was conscious again. I’ve been here a week.”

“You need medical help,” Alfred said. His hands were shaking, so he put the cup down. “Take that wretched blanket off, it’s filthy anyway. What are those, bloodstains? And are those claw marks on your arms? Did they throw a bloody bear into the pit too, or did the–”

“I want to go home,” Bruce said. His eyebrows had rushed together. “I want to go back to Gotham.”

Alfred stopped talking.

Bruce was still looking down, and all Alfred could see was the back of his head. “I miss it,” he said. “I thought– I used to think that I’d never go back again. That I’d never want to. It was such a horrible place, Al. I felt like I couldn’t think anymore, couldn’t breathe. It made me want to–” Bruce cut himself off. Took a deep breath. “I had to get away.”

Alfred took the cup of tea out of Bruce’s hands slowly, and held one of his hands. “I understand that,” he said, quietly, “but you should have told me. You should have told me how you were feeling. I would have come with you.”

Bruce sighed. “I didn’t think a whole lot, when I was seventeen. I didn't– I didn’t think anyone was on my side.”

“I have always been on your side,” Alfred said.

“I know,” Bruce said. Then he lay down, so that his head was on Alfred’s lap.

“It really hurts,” he said.

Alfred stroked his hair. “Where?”

“Everywhere.”

“You’re not on enough pain medication.” Alfred said.

Bruce hummed, closing his eyes. “C’n I just sleep.”

“Of course,” Alfred said. “But medical help later.”

“Mm.”

Alfred picked up his cup of tea again. His boy was safe. Hurt, but safe. Everything was going to be alright, eventually.

“I have a plan, you know, for when we get back to Gotham,” Bruce said sleepily, “and I can’t do it without you. We can turn the city around, Al.”