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mattzerella-sticks · 5 years ago

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Let’s Play - Batflash Week Day 2: Parents are Alive AU & Jealousy

One night, the Wayne family decided to take a shortcut through an alleyway. Unknowingly a mugger was waiting in the shadows, and because of this fateful run-in their lives were changed forever.

By a stroke of luck all three Waynes escaped with their lives. But, fearful of the dangers of the world, Thomas and Martha decide it's better to lock their canaries up than let them soar free. When being under the constant watchful eye of bodyguards becomes too much, Bruce finds freedom with the strangest boy who won't shut up.

“...and it’s actually really amazing what the artist did, using the canvas to tell a story pushed forward with each minimal stroke of the brush…” The guide carries on with his explanation of the painting, Bruce squinting at it while racking up a list of criticisms. Sitting on top, his largest complaint had nothing to do with the art on display. Instead his parents shared the number one spot. Baffling how they could entertain the meaningless blather coming from their guide.

He tugs on his father’s sleeve drawing Thomas closer. “Can we leave?” he whispers.

Thomas frowns at him. “No,” he says, “and please stop asking, Bruce.”

“But I’m bored .”

“We’re guests ,” Thomas hisses, “it would be rude.”

Returning to full height, his father leaves Bruce to stew in his increasingly horrible mood. His mother pays no mind to their conversation, giving her full attention to the guide. Even though Bruce can tell her mind wanders like his, lips stretched thin like cellophane when she pretends to listen. It’s a common feature during galas and gallery opens, like this one.

Why his parents continue attending these events Bruce will never know. What made it worse was how they were miles away from their home, stuck in Missouri until tomorrow.

“The artist is truly grateful that you all came and showed your support,” the guide finishes, leading them away from the painting and the collection as a whole. Bruce’s spirits pick up, trembling at the possibility presented. He imagines the thin-stick man slipping through a stray crack in the floor, freeing them from the torturous tour. Or a door opening and blowing him across the room, crowd piling through the exit without care.

Unfortunately neither of these happen. Instead the guide brings the crowd to a small room off to the side of the wing cluttered with tables, waiters bustling between them.

“And we here at the museum want to show our gratitude, too, with a lovely banquet in the artist’s honor,” he says, “Please find your seats and enjoy the food. In an hour the artist will give a speech, but before and after that he’ll be walking around, fielding questions.” He left then, mission accomplished.

Their group dispersed. Martha and Thomas tried leaving, but Bruce barely budged.

Glancing behind at the statue of his son, Thomas sighed. “Bruce…”

“I want to go .”

“Please, Bruce, we’re almost done here,” Martha says, running gentle fingers through his hair, “All we need to do is listen to the artist and then we’ll go back to the hotel room.”

“Can’t we skip the hotel and head straight for Gotham?”

“You know we can’t,” she frowns, “your father has a very important dinner meeting with a few investors. First thing in the morning, though…”

Bruce groans, uncaring to the wry stares he draws. His parents squirm under the attention, shuffling him closer to the shadows.

“Please, Bruce,” Thomas asks him, “your mother and I would rather be in Gotham, too. But this is one of those situations grown ups find themselves in where they make obligations and need to see them through. Now do you want to be a grown up?”

Two answers present themselves - the one Bruce wants to pick and the other his parents want to hear. “Yes,” he relents, tucking his chin to his chest. Thomas squeezes his shoulders, saying how proud they are of how mature he is. That with a full plate he’ll hardly notice time flying by. They try and leave again, only a sudden idea hits Bruce that very moment. “Wait!” he says, stopping them, “I… have to go to the bathroom.”

Martha and Thomas look at each other, brows furrowed.

Bruce carries on, adding to his lie. “We passed one on our way here, it won’t take long. I promise - I promise .”

He pouts, using every dirty trick he has to earn a few minutes of reprieve.

It works. His parents waved him off, telling him to be quick. “And don’t forget to take Willoughsby with you,” Martha says, “in case anything happens.”

The plan sours as the guard in question steps up, bald head shiny under the harsh lighting. Willoughsby nods at Thomas, ushering Bruce over to the bathrooms. “Right this way, Master Wayne.”

Bruce sneaks a final peek at his parents conversing with the others on their security team until they’re blocked by the door. Out of the room Bruce shrugs Willoughby off. “I can walk fine on my own.” The guard stays stone-faced, curtly huffing as he paces towards the nearest bathroom. Bruce walks three steps behind, glaring at the guard.

All it took was one mugging for his world to upend. Not as dangerously as it could have, the mugger inexperienced and oafish. He aimed his gun at his mother and fired only for nothing to erupt. With nothing on him but an unloaded gun, Thomas made quick work of their attacker. Tied him up with his shoelaces until the police arrived.

His parents were alive and well, but the night’s events left them shook. Immediately they placed feelers within their community of socialites and entrepreneurs, asking for references on building a team of security guards. To protect them in case of another wrong turn down a dark alley.

Once they assembled the perfect team, the guards never left their family’s side. They hung about the house like the paintings in the gallery, serving a purpose that needn’t be filled. Assembled because a mind was allowed to run wild.

Bruce entered that alleyway a child, but left an adult. Shoulders burdened with the heavy responsibility someone his age shouldn’t know. Unable to break free from the chains of fear or the watchful gaze of his bodyguards.

That didn’t stop him from trying, though. Especially with Willoughsby, Bruce’s personal guard. Strictest of all the others, with as much of a concept for boundaries like a squirrel.“What do you think you’re doing?” Bruce asks.

Willougshby had one hand on the bathroom door, pushing it open halfway. He cranes his neck to answer, “Going to the bathroom.”

“Do you have to go?”

“No, but you do.”

“I can go perfectly well on my own.”

“It doesn’t matter if you can or cannot,” Willoughsby answers, frowning, “my job is to protect you -”

“Which you can do from out here,” Bruce tells him, pushing past and entering the other room. Pausing halfway through the entrance, he mimics his mother from earlier. The smile as asphyxiating as it is sweet. “It doesn’t make much of a difference, right? Good. Won’t be long!”

He shuts the door. Advancing halfway, he waits for Willoughsby to enter after him. When the door doesn’t budge, he relaxes his fist. Bypassing the stalls he shuffles towards the mirrors. Stares at his reflection like it could jump out and take his place for him. So Bruce can remain hidden in the bathroom, alone.

But not totally. A flush echoes, startling him. In the mirror Bruce sees a boy around his age leave the middle stall, bouncing over to the sink beside him. He dresses opposite Bruce, shorts and t-shirt making Bruce feel uncomfortable in his tiny suit. Tugging at his tie, he rakes his gaze over the collection of buttons decorating his backpack. A few he recognizes from the comics his classmates pour over during lunch and the moments between classes.

“Yeah, they’re cool aren’t they?”

Bruce looks to the boy, finished washing his hands and now facing him. Blushing, Bruce shrugs and runs his hands under the faucet. “Really cool,” he mumbles.

“My name’s Barry,” the other boy continues, grinning madly, “It’s short for Bartholomew - that’s my grandfather’s name. But I don’t like being called Bartholomew because it’s so long and usually whenever my mom uses my full name it means I’m in trouble. So I go by Barry - which sounds like berry and I like blueberries, but not strawberries. Raspberries, I’m on the fence with. What’s your name and favorite type of fruit?”

He reels from the seventy turns Barry forced him through during that one sentence, water pouring from the faucet and dampening his cuffs. Blinking, Bruce snaps his jaw shut. “Bruce,” he says, “And I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what your favorite fruit is?”

“Never thought about it.”

“Really?” Barry squints, leaning closer than comfortable, “Usually when someone asks about favorites a thought immediately pops into their heads. It’s not something you need to think about, it should just be. Unless you don’t have any favorites, which is cool I guess. I don’t have a favorite vegetable. Or maybe you have too many ! Like, my bag!” Barry spins, showing off his backpack again. “There are just too many cool heroes to choose from so I put all of these on my bag. My mom helped me with each one ‘cause the first time I tried I kept stabbing myself with the pin…”

Bruce watches the boy ramble with amazing speed, frighteningly intelligible. Like breathing was a suggestion and not a necessity. Instead of focusing on what Barry says, Bruce instead drifts to wonder about the boy and his willingness to talk to a stranger. How, if Bruce had tried the same approach anywhere else, he’d be shunted away by Willoughsby and his bodyguards and his parents. To protect him from shadows that exist in alleyways after movies.

He hates Barry a little bit for the ease of his life.

“Hey,” Barry shakes him, “are you okay? You look like Molly Dorchester in math class?”

“What?”

“Molly Dorchester,” he says, “she’s this girl in my grade who thinks it’s funny to take my lunch and throw it in the trash. Anyway, whenever the teacher switches over from history to math her eyes kind of lose focus and sometimes she drools a little. One time I pointed this out and she had Kyle Dombrowski and Manny Ortiz pants me during recess but… yeah…” Barry steps back, finally red-faced, “Was I like math class right now?”

The kernel of jealousy explodes at the way Barry shifts to mask his energy, inspiring some of it to rouse Bruce into wakefulness. “No,” Bruce says, “I… I was having trouble following along.”

“I get that a lot,” Barry tells him, “Every year on my report cards my teachers say that I do really well, but I could learn something from slowing down. My mom says I shouldn’t have to slow down, though. There’s nothing wrong with running at your own pace!”

Bruce matches his timid smile. “She sounds great.”

“She is!” Barry jumps, enthusiasm returning, “She’s waiting for me right now, actually. We were on our way to the park when I had to go to the bathroom. Since this is right across the street we stopped in here because I don’t like going to the public bathrooms in the park, they’re really gross, y’know?”

He wouldn’t, but Bruce nods all the same.

“What about you?” Barry asks, “What are you doing here?”

His question, innocent in theory, reminds Bruce of what’s waiting for him on the other side of the door. He sighs, hunching over. “Stuck at this event my parents forced me to go to,” he says, “and I’m bored .”

“And they won’t let you leave?”

“No…”

“That’s awful!”

Bruce looks up at Barry’s sympathetic frown. He feels a fresh gust of air fill his lungs, except he knew he didn’t breathe. The shiny blue of Barry’s eyes were the cause, glinting with concern at the injustice of his situation.

It forces a giggle from Bruce, the first in a long while. Barry grins again, joining him.

“I know,” Bruce says, “I wish I could just… get out of here.”

“Why not?”

“I’m… under a lot of supervision right now.”

Barry tilts his head to the side. “Are you in some sort of trouble?”

Bruce frowns, “No, but my parents… they’re afraid that I might get into it.”

Nodding, Barry’s eyebrows furrow over his eyes. Lightning crackles in the sea of his eyes, stoking the fires of Bruce’s curiosity. Like a switch Barry’s levity floats the brows high again, disappearing under his baseball cap. “Don’t worry!” Barry says, “You won’t get into any trouble with me!”

“What?” Barry latches onto Bruce’s hands, dragging him towards the exit. Bruce digs his heels in, panicking. “What are you doing?”

“We’re gonna find your parents and tell ‘em we’re gonna go play!” Barry says, “I’m very hard to say no to.”

“I… That’s probably not a good idea.”

“Why’s that?”

Bruce rushes for an answer, the simplest explanation waiting on the other side of the door. “Someone is waiting for me, just outside. The second I leave the bathroom he’s gonna drag me back to my parents. I doubt he’ll let you follow - he’s mean .”

Barry pouts, but doesn’t let go. Instead he squeezes tighter while he thinks, storm clouds reappearing. They erupt with an idea that booms in the small space.

Letting go, Barry zips his bag open and digs around. Bruce waits, wondering exactly he looks for. Blanching when the other boy finds it and tosses it at Bruce.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a hoodie!” Barry says, slipping his shoes off, “Put it on, and switch shoes with me!” Bruce does so, stuffing his feet into the dirty Sketchers. The hoodie smothers him in warmth, smelling so different from anything he’s ever smelt. Instead of the rich jasmine Alfred uses, it smells like a cheap soap that cloys at his nose. Still he finds it refreshing.

Barry rubs at his chin, scanning him. “Almost perfect…” He pulls his cap from his head, freeing his unruly blond locks, and stuffs it onto Bruce’s head. “There!” Barry says, “You look really cool .”

Bruce blushes, fiddling with the hoodie strings. “Really?”

Nodding, Barry reaches forward and eases the hood over his head to obscure more of his features. “Yeah. It’s not hard to look cool in red - it’s the coolest color. But you’re making it even better! How do you do that?”

“...I’m not sure.”

Shrugging, Barry grabs at Bruce’s hand again. “Doesn’t matter. We’re wasting valuable play time !”

Time plays out slowly in the seconds they leave the bathroom. Bruce tucks his head into his chest, wincing, ready for Willoughsby to spot him and yell. However all he hears is the squeaking of Barry’s shoes against the linoleum and the swinging of the bathroom door. The farther they get from the bathroom the softer his heart beats.

Risking everything, Bruce glances behind him at Willoughsby. The bodyguard watches the door, back rigid.

He floats after Barry, riding a sugar rush of freedom. Only crashing when he hears someone clearing their throat.

“Barry?” an older woman asks, tone suspicious, “Who is this?”

“This is my new friend Bruce!” Barry introduces him, “Bruce, this is the mom I was telling you about. Her name’s Mom.” He turns to his mom, “He and I are gonna play in the park together.”

“Are you?” she asks, looking at Bruce. “Bruce? Do your parents know about yours and Barry’s plans?”

Wide-eyed, Bruce nods. Not trusting his own voice. He expects Barry’s mother to drag them back where they came from and ruin their plans. However, glancing between him and Barry, her features softened.

“Okay,” she says, “as long as they said it’s okay.”

Bruce keeps silent. Barry groans though, hand not in Bruce’s to tug on her jacket. “Mom! I wanna go play.”

She chuckles, taking his hand and guiding them out of the museum. “Patience, sweetie. We’ll be at the park in a few minutes. Then you and Bruce can have your fun.”

Barry turns to Bruce, beaming. “You’re gonna like it, we just got this new jungle gym. It’s pirate-themed !”

Bruce finds himself excited the more Barry describes the game of make-believe they’ll play.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Thomas knows he looks insane, puffing and shouting his son’s name like an animal. Except it’s all he can do besides break down into tears. Martha busied herself with her terror by firing their bodyguards and driving with Alfred to the police station while Thomas stayed behind to scour the area.

All hope seems lost, and visions of the alleyway flash into awareness. The glinting of the gun as the mugger raised it, ready to fire if necessary. How Bruce clung to his leg with a fear no boy should ever know. Remembers the prayers he said, hoping that a miracle would appear in the moment between the man stopping them in the alley and him demanding for Martha’s pearls. Pearls she doesn’t have anymore. That she donated after spending too many nights staring at them with half a glass of scotch in her hand because she couldn’t sleep.

He shakes the foggy tendrils of the nightmares away, sure that if they clawed their way in finding Bruce would be impossible. Instead he waits for the light to change then dashes across the street.

Staggering, he readies himself to find the nearest phone booth to call Martha at the police station. Except he hears a shrill laughter that echoes in his heart, and another boy yelling, “Bruce!”

Thomas follows the sounds towards a playground, spying the familiar dark curls as they chase a blond boy around a grounded pirate ship.

“Bruce,” he breathes, shuffling over. The closer he gets the reassuring feeling of seeing Bruce safe gets corrupted by the anger of realizing nothing happened to Bruce. A thought creeps into mind, that he ran away knowing full well how his parents might react. His son’s name readies itself in his mouth again, sharper than before, only for a hand on his shoulder to interrupt.

“Hi,” a woman stops him, “Are you Bruce’s dad?”

Startled, his plans fall apart. “Uh - yes… I - I am.”

She smiles, “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Nora, your son is playing with mine.”

“...I see,” he says, following her gaze over to the boys, “They seem to be having fun .”

“Yeah,” Nora nods, “it’d be a shame to interrupt them, wouldn’t it?”

He whips around to stare at her, Nora remaining calm. Thomas glares, “I don’t know. Considering all the worry he put me and his mother through, playtime is far from over.”

“Figured he was lying when he said you were okay with this.”

“And you still allowed him to come here?”

She shrugs. “My son is a whirlwind. He wanted to play with your boy and… well, Barry doesn’t have many friends. So maybe I was a little selfish.” Nora faces him, finally, smiling in the sad way only a parent can. “Sue me.”

Thomas raises a wry brow, lips stretching thin. “If you knew who I was you wouldn’t be joking around with the ‘sue’ word.”

“Maybe not, but I can tell that your suit probably costs more than my lemon of a car,” she says, “C’mon, a bench just opened up. Let’s grab a seat and chat.” Nora walks away, leaving Thomas with no other option but to follow. They sit with their children still in view. Barry swings an invisible sword in the air, Bruce shaking his fist from below.

“So,” she starts, “what were you and your family doing at the museum?”

He crosses his legs, sinking against the cold wood as his body gives into the tremors of exhaustion coursing within. “We were invited to an artist’s gallery opening, someone who benefited from a grant we created a few years back. Although after what I saw I wish my wife never suggested it.”

“Art is subjective.”

“If you’d suffered through his explanation on how a squiggle represents the unknown possibility of his future since his parents’ evicted him from their house you’d become pretty objective.”

Nora laughs loudly, head tossed back in joy. “I’ll take your word for it.”

They hear a shout and a slam, both turning to see the cause. Thomas’s heart seizes at Bruce crumpled on the ground, tiny hands wrapped around his knee. Standing above him, Nora’s boy gapes with worry.

Thomas readies to stand, except Nora’s grip keeps him tethered to the bench. “Excuse me,” he grows, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Bruce is fine.”

“He’s not fine, he’s hurt .”

“It’s a skinned knee,” she says, “Barry gets them all the time, mostly because he always forgets to tie his shoes. He’ll know what to do.” Nora gestures to their kids, Bruce joined by Barry who hopped down from the ship. Digging around in his bag, he searches for something. It becomes obvious to Thomas exactly what it is when Barry fiddles with Bruce’s knee. He relaxes in the bench as Barry finishes patching his son up, dropping a kiss on the wound for extra measure. “I taught him what to do after the fifth time,” she says, “for when he falls and I’m not around to help.”

“But you are here,” Thomas argues, “And I’m here. Shouldn’t we go and help our children when they need us.”

Nora agrees. “But I don’t think they need us now, do you?”

Bruce stands as if he didn’t tumble, the only evidence being the tear in his suit pants. Barry shoves him and runs away, Bruce chasing after with the wildness of youth.

“Kids are kids,” Nora continues, “They’re going to get hurt. But they’ll pick themselves up and keep going… it’s inspiring really. The older we get the easier it is to be afraid. To live our lives like whatever’s waiting around the corner can smash us into a million little pieces. I was like that, for some time.”

Thomas watches Nora slip into the past, a far away gleam dancing in her eyes. “I got home a little earlier than planned and the door was unlocked. Figured Barry left it open, as usual. So I thought nothing of it and walked in - only to see a man standing in the middle of my living room with a knife . Neither of us expected the other to be there. I rushed for the phone only he… he grabbed me. Grappled me to the floor and held the knife up to my throat. He was going to kill me and if… if Barry hadn’t come home just then I…” She breathes deeply, wiping at a few stray tears. Thomas reaches across and squeezes her hand. Nora smiles at the gesture, thanking him. “Anyway, he hesitated for a moment. That’s all I needed. I kneed him in the groin, flipped him over, and thanked every self-defense class my parents forced on me as I held the knife to his neck while telling Barry to go call the cops.”

“And the after?” Thomas asked, “What happened after?”

“We moved on with our lives.”

“... How ?”

“It wasn’t easy at first,” Nora admits, “I was scared. That the breeze behind me was the man breathing down my neck, ready to finish me off. I’d wake up screaming in my husband’s arms because I thought ht was someone else. I could barely eat, I wasn’t as present as I was with my family.”

“But then Barry…” she smiles, returning to the present to watch her boy, “one day I was sitting on the couch, letting the TV play while I was somewhere else… he climbed up beside me and laid down on my lap. I was nervous, asked him what he was doing. He said that he was spending time with me… that all I ever seem to do anymore is sit in the living room and watch TV. So if that’s what I liked than it’s what he wanted to do, too, because it meant we could spend time together like we used to.”

Thomas reflects on the past year since the attempted mugging. A montage of family dinners where his family stretched away from him, growing more distant with each day. Blocked from view by bodyguard after bodyguard. Bruce’s excitement never returned since that fateful night watching Zorro, but since he was safe it hadn’t occurred to either him or Martha that it meant anything was wrong.

They went to bed each night thankful that Bruce was safe and their family was together. When in reality the mugging shattered their family and the shards of what was continued to hurt.

“Barry gave me the push I needed to turn things around,” Nora tells him, “I went to therapy… joined a support group. Over time I felt like my old self again, doing the same things I used to with the people I love. Because I wasn’t going to let that bastard steal me away from my boy. I might not always be around to patch up a scraped knee or a paper cut, but when Barry really needs me… I’ll be there.”

Thomas clears his throat, unable to say anything with enough gravity to compare with the unburdened trauma Nora presented him. A few words string together, though, after staring at Bruce playing with Barry. “It’s been awhile since my boy’s been a… well - a boy. We, him, my wife, and I, we actually suffered a similar circumstance. Martha and I might have… overreacted . Put a bandaid over a gouging wound… I never considered Bruce wasn’t happy.”

“But he looks it now?”

“Very happy.”

“So does Barry,” Nora smiles, “I meant what I said about him not having that many friends… he always had trouble finding kids who wanted to stick around. It’s disheartening watching your kid get turned down again and again, left alone by everyone else.” She slips her hand free from Thomas, blushing. “I really am sorry about taking Bruce. I ignored every good instinct I had just to give Barry an hour or two of having a friend.”

“Parents will do anything for their kids,” Thomas shrugs, “Even if it’s not the best decision.”

“Exactly.”

A few more minutes pass contedly of Bruce and Barry running around, playing. Thomas and Nora sit together in silence, wind blowing between them.

“You’re not from around here are you?”

He hums. “Afraid not.”

Nora chuckles, shifting in her seat. “I figured things were too good to be true.”

“But,” Thomas says, “I’ll be spending more of my time here in Central City, especially if this new deal I’m working on pulls through. And maybe on my visits Bruce will come along… and he won’t want to be stuck with me all day long in meetings. Better he has someone his own age to play with, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I definitely agree,” Nora says. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, Mr…?”

“Wayne. Thomas Wayne.”

“Do you always introduce yourself like you’re James Bond?” “Unfortunately I’m the furthest thing from a spy, but if you need a doctor…”

“No kidding, my husband is a heart surgeon.”

“Really? Small world…”

They talk while their kids tucker each other out, playing to their heart’s content. Of the four of them, no one is whole. But they’re all healing. Growing past the trauma inflicted, building something new, magnificent, and strong.

Thomas incorporates all this into his toast, sniffing past the tears as he congratulates Bruce and Barry on their wedding. After the clapping he sits in his seat beside Nora, watching Bruce guide his husband onto the dance floor.

“That was a touching speech,” she starts, sipping at her wine glass, “I see you decided against embarrassing him.”

“Figured you’re better at that, Nora,” he says.

“I mean I had a few memories picked out,” she said, “About how I stumbled on them practicing kissing with each other when they were thirteen, or Bruce flying over to throw Barry his own dance when he wasn’t asked to his. Maybe the summer after high school graduation where they were arrested for nudity… Although who can compete with your speech.”

Martha chuckles, sliding her hand into Thomas’s. “I told him to go easy but he wouldn’t listen.”

“It’s okay,” Nora says, “it just means he owes me. Which I’ll collect on when they have their first child named after me.” The joke tickles everyone, both the Waynes and Allens laughing. Thomas sighs and grabs for his glass, drinking. Over the rim of his wine he sees Barry whispering to Bruce, causing the smile on his son’s face to grow wider.

Barry Allen is the best thing that ever happened to his boy, even if he almost caused Thomas to experience his first heart attack.

#Bruce Wayne #Barry Allen #batman #Flash #batflash #batflash week #bruce wayne x barry allen #barrybruce #barry/bruce #thomas wayne #Nora Allen #tw: crime #tw: violence #tw: trauma

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