Author's Note: Not typically a fan of 'fluff' style stories, but will make somewhat of an exception with the content of this particular offering. Of course, staying true to the idea that Bruce is always working a case whether he wants to or not, there is a plot beneath the father-son bonding moments.
The first two chapters of this story are complete and edited. The third chapter is 75% complete as of this statement's writing (22/12/11) and will undoubtedly be finalized and published before Christmas Eve given the extent at which I write. The final chapter - as usual I follow a four-part story structure to avoid stringy plotting and lack of action - will be completed and distributed before New Year's Eve. The reason I have told you this is in order to force myself to meet the deadline. Please read and review.
With it being Christmas and the season of goodwill, I would prefer plenty of reviews to cheer me up through the holiday season.
Comfort
This fight is an uneven contest. Felling seven of our opponents inside of four minutes makes this a clear fact. As I disable yet another assailant with a crushing uppercut, I find myself questioning the credibility of this operation. These men are supposed to be trained; they are not. The transportation of these firearms is supposed to be slick; it is plagued with fundamental errors in handling, shipping and distribution. Either the individuals behind this illegal trade are amateurs or novices in this particular field or there is something more intelligent behind it. My instincts direct me to the latter possibility, but all intelligence suggests the former. It is a difficult situation to diagnose with any certainty. During this brief analysis, I have incapacitated another four men with relative ease. My partner is doing the same.
As we begin to draw these proceedings to a close, I am aware that something is wrong with the boy. His movement is sluggish and somewhat laboured. Despite these handicaps, he is still putting his share of degenerates down with little resistance. Eventually, the numbers are overcome and we stand as the victors. For the third time this night, we have instigated a brawl and come away on top. Our mission to close down the arms trade in Gotham is gliding along at a decent pace. I have no doubt we will see significant results and a substantial drop in illegal trading and gun crime on the city streets. We just have to be patient. At present, we need the GCPD to attend to these lowly thugs. I ask the boy to radio it in while I tie up the unconscious crowd at our feet.
As he speaks, I make a note of observing how he speaks and moves. Looking at him again, I earmark all the classic signs of fatigue and physical trauma. His knees are weak and his posture is slumped, his voice is strained and he appears disorientated. I am by his side in moments. He confirms that several squad cars are already on route to our location in the Upper-East Side. I tell him it is time to go home. We exit the restaurant.
"How did we make out, Boss?" Robin asks once we are driving back to the cave. Outside rain has started to fall, heavily. The boy has wrapped his cape round his body. I do not know why.
"Three raids, three successful shutdowns; how do you think we made out?"
"We did good, Boss. We really stepped it up a notch."
I am in total agreement with the youth but say nothing to suggest this. My partner looks very much like he wants to sleep. Our nightly operations are becoming far more intense in an increasingly short space of time. I am growing concerned the strain of our workload is too much for a boy of his age to handle. It is not unreasonable to reduce his hours and give him more time to enjoy normal teenage life. I will consider implementing such an action after tonight. There is a prolonged silence in the car. Unusually it is myself who interrupts it.
"How's school, Dick?"
I am aware of the boy's eyes burning a hole in the side of my head; he had not expected such an extreme change of subject. It takes him a while to muster a reply.
"School? You want to know how school is?" He sounds almost bewildered by the question.
"Yes. Do you have something to hide?" I say in such a way as to make it clear to him I am being playful. He instantly relaxes.
"School's great. I'm having a little trouble with my homework assignments in Chemistry and Math, but it's nothing I can't work on." His tone is bright and cheery, as it is usually. I am pleased he is at ease in discussing such matters with me. I have often read in child-rearing literature that some adolescents can be evasive on these sorts of topics or simply uncommunicative in general. The boy is very open with me. I feel very close to him. We have a good relationship.
"Good. How are your injuries? What hurts the most?" I say to switch the focus back to a more critical matter. My partner lets out a deflated sigh. He is loathe to admit weakness, like me. But unlike me, he will not soldier through injury for the sake of his ego.
"I have two cracked ribs, contusions on my abdomen and shoulder, my lip is split, I may have a type 2 concussion and I got a black eye. The black eye hurts the most to be honest though." He smiles at me even though it causes him discomfort. I make a conscious effort to return his smile.
"I'm sure Alfred will be thrilled." I offer to earn a chuckle from the youth.
"Very droll, Bruce, very droll."
Alfred is less than impressed with my partner's numerous new battle scars as it turns out. He scolds me for placing the boy under such duress. Dick finds the whole thing funny. To a certain extent, so do I.
"You will need plenty of bed rest, young man. You will also be requiring at least a week off from school to properly recover. This time I want you to follow my instructions to the letter. Do I make myself clear?" The old man tells the boy in a firm tone of voice. He does not wish a repeat of the Narrows Raid. I am positive he will never be faced with such action again. Both Dick and myself do not want his disappointment to find us; the last time was ferocious to say the least. The boy nods his head.
"No problem, Alfie."
"Good boy. Now I believe it is once again Master Bruce's turn to be patched." Alfred announces, turning to face me as I shed my armour. I shake my head.
"The opposition failed to score any hits tonight, Alfred. I think you will find it is a new record is it not?"
The old man raises an eyebrow exclusively in scepticism. "If such a claim can be substantiated with a physical examination, Sir, then it will indeed be a new personal best. I must warn you now though Master Bruce, my thoroughness is all encompassing."
I raise my arms up to the sky. "Let's go, Alfred; begin the search."
It takes the old man's hawk-like eye less than ten minutes to lay waste to my claim. "One bruised rib, one dislocated shoulder, one bullet graze on the left cheek; we are not doing well, are we Master Bruce?"
"Alfred, you and I both the injuries you have just described are ones sustained last night. They do not count." I counter in a vain attempt to earn my record.
"Yes, Sir, but you have aggravated those injuries through confrontation tonight. Therefore, by your own rules, these injuries count as fresh because they are now slightly worse than previously."
"Come on, Alfie. Just give the man a clean sheet!" Dick says stepping into the arena on my behalf. Although I appreciate his support, the old man is in no mood to be pressured.
"You, Master Dick, are in no position to demand such things! I believe your current best score is four minor injuries on a single patrol night. You may talk only when it reaches a number divisible by one!" Alfred responds, feigning anger. It is always better when he joins in the fun rather than taking the higher ground; the boy can have far more fun when we all play along. Dick pouts in an overly dramatic fashion as a reply. The old man cannot help but smile.
Eventually, I concede to my old friend's ruling and finish turning over the car and equipment. It is close to one in the morning when I finally leave the cave for the house. Alfred has retired to bed, but Dick has not. I find him sitting in the lounge, watching television by firelight. I am sure he is up only because the medication the old man prescribed has yet to kick-in. His injuries must be especially painful if that is the case; he is watching the shopping channel after all. Drawing closer I see the boy is wearing his new pyjamas, the ones I bought for him. They are made from red silk and have a dark green trim, like his circus colours. I am glad he appreciates them as I spent an uncharacteristic amount of time selecting the fabric and colour scheme; I enjoy making him smile.
Even shrouded in shadow and barefoot, Dick is aware of my presence. "Are you mad Alfie robbed you of a perfect score?" The boy asks me without turning round.
"One day he will have no choice but to admit defeat." I answer dressing into the light of the fire. Dick looks at me and smiles.
"Those are some big words, Boss-man; better make sure you can back them up."
I return his smile as I take a seat beside him on the sofa. We watch some poor girl trying to flog non-stick cookware to the masses for almost twenty minutes without saying another word. The lack of conversation does not feel awkward. Both of us are comfortable now with prolonged silences; we do not always need to fill the quiet anymore. Dick inevitably speaks first.
"I think Alfie's drugs are starting to work their magic; I feel really drowsy now." He turns to look at me as he finishes articulating this thought. "How come he never makes you take stuff for your injuries?"
"I prefer to keep a clear head."
"What if I do too?"
"You know you can't sleep without some type of pain-killer after a night like this."
I hear the boy sigh and let his head drop back against the sofa. He is again finding his limitations irritating. "I could try it. There's no harm in trying right?" He is asking for my permission to not take medication after patrol. I do not feel I should allow him such an option. It could provide a detrimental effect on his recovery. I offer him a nod.
"Yes. Next time, we'll try it." I say leaning over to him and placing an arm round his shoulder, "But for the moment, we'll let the pain-killers do their job." As I reach the end of that sentence, I pull the boy over to me and let his head fall on my shoulder. He does not object to such an intimate gesture. "Are you comfortable?"
"You know, you're kind of embarrassing for a dad. You know I'm nearly fifteen right?"
"I didn't ask that question, did I?"
"I'm comfortable, Bruce, thank you for asking."
I do not need to remind I do these things because I love him. He knows that. And, in spite of his advancing years, I know he still likes these sometimes rare moments between us because he is getting older. We have a good relationship. We watch an aging man attempting to pedal a child-sized bike for almost half-an-hour. When I glance down at him, I find the boy asleep. I am careful in picking him up. Even as he now tips the scales at close to 150lbs, I find him as light as when he was twelve. Perhaps I am getting stronger, perhaps not. I gently place him in his bed.
"How much do I owe you?" Dick manages to mutter to me through a haze of half-consciousness. I pull the covers over him. "This time its free." I watch him smile without opening his eyes, "Suits me. No tips then.". The boy has a wonderful sense of humour and mine is getting better. I then go downstairs, put out the flames in the fireplace and retire to bed myself.
