"Hey Bruce, Mommy isn't feeling too well," his father said, patting him on the back. Bruce sighed unhappily. "But I don't like the opera either, so can I be sick too?"
His father laughed. "I like it just as much as you, but I still have to go have to go. Some people from Daddy's work are gonna be there but they're very… intimidating, and I don't want to go alone," he said, "You sure you don't wanna come?" he pleaded.
"Oh ok… But next time I wanna be sick!"
"Well, I'm pretty sure you don't want to have as high a temperature as your mother."
Bruce rolled his eyes and went to go find his least favorite pair of shoes: the really shiny ones.
"I said gimme the wallet!" he shouted, jerking the gun into his dad's face. Bruce drew back, clutching at his father's jacket.
"Easy, easy," he said, slowly reaching into his jacket. "Here, you can have-" his fingers slipped on the thick wallet and it fell to the floor. His father reflexively jerked to try and catch it.
The mugger's eyes widened at the sudden movement, and suddenly all Bruce could see was a flash of light and then-
Bang! Bang!
He looked up from his father's body. The fleeing man was just a far off blur now. He was crying.
Bruce pressed his head to his father's chest to check for a heartbeat or a breath, or anything, just like his dad had told him to if ever someone was hurt. There was a movement.
The people carted his father into an ambulance while he was driven to the police station. He met his mother there. She was crying, but she smiled when Bruce walked in. He wrapped her arms around him and hugged him against herself.
"The doctors…" she whispered into his ear while choking back tears, "they think that Daddy'll make it, Bruce," she paused again, then let out a sob, "but he nearly didn't… oh Bruce I can't stand it! What if I'd been there? I could have helped…"
"He'll be OK Mommy," Bruce found himself saying. Anything to stop his mother from crying. Anything.
Bruce Wayne walked briskly down the hallway fast enough to send a ripple through his lab coat. The floor, although scrubbed clean like every Monday morning, showed signs of wear: scuff marks, skids from trolley wheels, and even the occasional scorch mark.
He glanced down at the clipboard again, checking the room number. Finding it, he pushed open the door to Operating Room 506.
The other surgeons were already operating on the small child.
A quick check of the girl's face revealed that the anesthetic was working.
To his left, Bruce saw Jane, a fellow surgeon, use the medical clippers to snip off a connecting ligament.
"You can go ahead and take the appendix out now, Meredith," she said calmly to her assistant. Meredith nodded as Bruce made his way into the disinfectant room, where he was sprayed down with a light aerosol. He returned and walked quickly to the sink where he washed his hands and dried them on a sanitized towel before pulling on disposable gloves.
The girl's appendix, he saw, was now safely in an airtight bag. Meredith carried the clear sack out of the room.
"All yours, Mr. Wayne," Jane said, removing her thin rubber gloves. Her high heels made a rhythmic tap tapping noise as she left the operating room.
Bruce moved closer to the operating table, reaching for the fine needle and clean thread.
The girl breathed deeply.
"It's OK, sweetie," Bruce found himself saying as he began the procedure. "Mr. Wayne'll fix you right up. That's what we always do," he continued, gently pulling the needle through.
The job was quick and easy, something that Bruce would not normally take pride in. As he strode out of the room, peeling off his gloves, he was joined by Meredith. She sipped her cup of steaming coffee.
"You look so happy," she said, the steam from the cup fogging up her large glasses.
Bruce Wayne nodded. "We saved her. She could have died from appendicitis, but thanks to us, she'll live."
Meredith grimaced as the burning coffee touched her tongue. She coughed, then said, "You know Mr. Wayne, I think you're gonna become one of Gotham's best doctors," and then she walked forward a little faster to catch up with Dr. Jane.
Bruce smiled. Today was going to be a good day, he decided.
The black lamborghini pulled up in front of Wayne Manor. Bruce stepped out, his shined black shoes crunching in the gravel. As he approached, he reached to knock the door out of habit, but before his knuckles could touch the hard wood, the door swung open.
"Good afternoon, Master Wayne," Alfred smiled.
Bruce's grin widened. "Hey, Alfie," he said pointedly.
"Really Master Wayne, I much prefer 'Alfred'-"
"And I much prefer 'Bruce'," said the young man, still grinning.
Alfred sighed and said nothing, but Bruce saw a bright twinkle in his eyes.
Bruce stepped in, pulling off his jacket and hanging it on the coat stand. He took a deep breath in.
"Alfred, have mom and dad already started eating?"
"I'm afraid so, Master Wayne," said Alfred. "Your father told your mother that you'd feel guilty if they had to eat a cold meal because of you."
Bruce nodded. "He knows," he said.
Alfred followed Bruce into the kitchen, where his parents were enjoying lasagna at the counter. The Waynes didn't often use the long dining table when there were no guests to entertain, so they usually sat in the kitchen and talked with Alfred as he prepared each new course.
"Hello Bruce," his mother said, giving him a happy smile.
"Hi, Mom," he said back, pulling up a seat next to his father.
"How was work today?" Thomas Wayne asked.
"Good. One patient had appendicitis, and her operation couldn't have gone smoother," Bruce said, noticing that his father's wheeze wasn't so bad today. "We had one man in for heart surgery, but then for the rest of the day I was stitching and disinfecting wounds. Crime's still sky high in Gotham, even after all this time dad."
There was a long silence.
"I think people would feel better if you came out and spoke more," Bruce stated tentatively.
His father laughed, which then turned into a hacking cough. "I suppose so, Bruce. But ever since the...accident, I've wanted to spend more time with you and Martha. Anyway, I'm still making sure that Wayne Enterprises sticks on the right track."
Bruce shrugged. "I see your point, as always, but that doesn't mean I have to agree with it," he said, sticking out his tongue in a childish gesture.
His father snorted.
"Speaking of public events, we've all been invited to a party over at Marie's house, and since her husband is in charge of the Gotham medical department, I thought it would be interesting to go talk to other doctors, don't you think Bruce?"
Bruce shrugged, unable to say anything with a mouthful of lasagna. Over by the oven top, Alfred pursed his lips, trying not to laugh.
When he finally managed to swallow, Bruce said, "As long as you both come with me. I don't really know any of the doctors from the other hospitals, and since it's going to be 'fancy'," he sketched air quotes, "I doubt any other doctors working in the East End will be coming."
"Aww, you'll be fine Bruce," Martha said, rubbing her son's shoulder. "But you're father and I will come," she said, looking at her husband, "Right Thomas?" she asked pointedly.
"I guess, just this once," he teased.
Alfred, dressed in his usual formal attire sat in the front seat of the limousine. He had absolutely refused to let Bruce drive, but that was understandable as Bruce often forgot that in America there were speed limits and speeding tickets. He and his parents were sitting in the back. Thankfully, today was another of Thomas' good days.
They were being driven to another house outside of Gotham, that, while being several times smaller than Wayne Manor, was still enormous. The Waynes spotted the house from nearly a mile away, as it was surrounded on all sides by lush fields.
"Oh look," Martha said, peeking out the window. "They have the lights on. The reflection must look wonderful in that pond of theirs."
Bruce and his father shared a knowing glance, knowing that she either knew that their host's family had a pond because she had been there before, or that she had seen it on one of her helicopter rides.
There came a point where the road faded into a gravel drive. "It would seem as though we've arrived," stated Alfred as he pulled around the circular driveway. A valet came and Alfred rolled down his window.
"Sir, we're using that field over there," he pointed, "to park everyone's cars."
From the back, Thomas said to everyone else, "Well it looks like our queue to get out."
They all got out. As he was leaving, Thomas said to Alfred, "Thanks again. We'll see you inside," at which Alfred grinned and drove off to the field at which the valet had pointed to.
The Wayne family walked up the stairs and through the open door that flooded the driveway with light.
"Ah! Mr. and Mrs. Wayne! How absolutely wonderful to see you!" a middle-aged woman said, coming forward to greet them. "Oh!" she exclaimed, seeing Bruce. "Bruce! Oh how you've grown. Do you remember me? Last time I saw you, you were this tall," she laughed, waving her hand to the level of Bruce's waist. Bruce smiled awkwardly.
"Oh! I'm being so rude," she said, "do come in, there are loads of people waiting to meet you."
She stepped aside and the Waynes entered the building.
A sea of party guests greeted them, all wearing lavish gowns and fancy suits. Bruce even spotted one or two dinner jackets. They mingled around, talking to each other.
Bruce shook his head. What could be so interesting that they could talk about for hours? He made a few greetings to people he knew, like the head of security and the head of the medical department, but very shortly he became bored.
Every few minutes, some random attendee would come up to him and usually kick off a conversation with something along the lines of, "So you're Bruce Wayne?" Followed by a ridiculous complement, to which he would reply, "You're too kind." After a few moments of awkward silence, the suck-up would make up some excuse to leave the conversation and sidle back to their friends.
After about an hour of standing around alone, watching the party from the sidelines, Bruce was bored. He'd already tried every single type of food at the buffet, and there was nothing left to do.
He waved down a waiter. "Do you mind pointing me in the direction of the gardens?" he asked.
The waiter obliged, gesturing out a side door. "It's out that way, and through the second door on your left. The lights should be on outside as well." The man smiled. "Enjoy the party, Mr. Wayne."
He grabbed a flute of champagne on his way out.
A few moments later, Bruce pushed open the heavy wooden door open and stepped lightly into the open air. He breathed in deeply, and when he finally released the breath iat came out as a lonely sigh. Sure, he didn't want to talk to any of the wealthy party guests here, or the high end doctors, but that didn't mean he didn't want to talk to anyone.
He decided to make one tour of the garden, then see if his parents knew anyone that didn't just think of him as a rich, playboy son of a billionaire. He wished Rachel were here. He paced slowly up and down the garden, unwilling to complete a circuit.
It was a long path, around miniature herb gardens, past heaps of tiny flowers and around a bed of roses. It was a loop though, and eventually Bruce got to the point where he had started.
Sighing again at the inevitability of it all, he downed his champagne in a quick gulp and walked back to the mahogany door and pushed it open.
As he made his way back to a more populated room, noise flooded his ears with laughter, and constant chattering. He scanned the crowd for his father and found him standing, talking to the director of a private hospital. Not wanting to interrupt, he turned around to try and find his mother instead.
As he spun around, the world slowed down until it was a golden, shimmering blur. He felt as if he were a child again, spinning in his parents arms.
His glass smashed into a waiter's tray, shattering into needle-sharp shards.
Bruce's arm kept going, pushed forward by momentum and crashed into the outstretched arm of another man.
The waiter's tray spun out of his hands, sending a cascade of champagne flutes to break against the marble floor. Someone screamed.
The main hall fell silent. Everyone turned at the jarring sound of splintering glass. There were a few moments of awkward stares and looks, during which Bruce hurriedly stepped aside to allow a waitress with a dustpan and broom to sweep away the pieces.
Bruce turned to the second man. "Sorry 'bout that, I didn't mean-"
He stopped. The man was examining his hand, frowning. He was bleeding.
There was a sharp intake of breath from Bruce. "I'm sorry," he said, raising his hand to clap against his forehead.
"Don't-" the man warned as his hand darted out to grab Bruce's wrist as it flew up. Blood dripped onto his cream-white cuffs. "-rip your head open," he finished. With his other hand the man tapped Bruce's shattered glass that he had still been holding, with a fingernail.
"Oh," Bruce said, realizing that he had been about to rake a broken glass over his head.
The man nodded, releasing Bruce's wrist. "That kind of self-harm isn't good for you," he said, flashing him a curt smile. He prised what was left of the champagne flute easily from Bruce's fingers and set it down on a nearby table in a fluid motion.
"Your hand," Bruce pointed out. "I hit it with my glass."
The man nodded again, holding it up. He walked a few steps away from the mess and Bruce followed him. The stranger flexed his hand, making sure each of his fingers could move.
"I'm a doctor, I can make sure that no glass-"
The stranger sighed and rolled his eyes. "You're also Bruce Wayne, which means I'll be giving you my hand whether I like it or not," he said, extending it coldly. He looked around at the other guests as if he was annoyed that they'd see.
Bruce took it gently, examining the back of the other man's hand. He removed a pair of tweezers from a pocket and removed several small shards of glass from the man's hand.
The stranger didn't wince.
Once he was sure there were no more, Bruce examined the rest of his hand to make sure there were no other cuts. He discovered nothing other than that the man had long, slender, pale fingers.
While he did this, he asked questions to break the ice and the awkward silence.
"You're a doctor too, aren't you?" he asked, noticing how the other man didn't flinch or look away from his injured hand.
"Yes, although not the kind you're thinking of." There was a kind of smirk that Bruce could hear in the way the words rolled off the other man's tongue.
"Hmm?" Bruce asked distractedly.
"I work at Arkham," the man said.
Bruce looked up, surprised and intrigued. "You work in the Narrows- In the East End, just like me." Bruce narrowed his eyes. Suddenly the man's appearance popped out at him. The dark hair, the glasses, the blue eyes. He seemed vaguely familiar. Where had he seen him before?
The dark haired man nodded. "The only place for Gotham's criminally insane," he said.
Bruce laughed. "What did you say your name was?" he tried to ask innocently.
"I didn't," the man said, pushing his glasses further up his nose, smiling gently. "But I'll spare you the trouble of snooping around," he said, tilting his head.
Bruce waited.
"I'm Dr. Jonathan Crane."
