A "What if?" sort of story that
operates on the premise that the Wayne's were NOT murdered. Note
that my vision of Gotham City is quite the blend of images and
locations from Batman, Batman
Returns and elements from the 1980s
and early 1990s comics. I can't guarantee any continuity to
storylines any more than I can claim to own Batman himself. He
belongs to DC Comics and - I'd imagine at some level - Warner
Brothers. That said, on with the tale.
The Path Before You
--sparkvallen
Gotham City - Evening
"I'm sorry, Bruce. But you know the condition of going to see The Mark of Zorro again was entirely dependent on how good your report card was," Tom Wayne said firmly, gazing down at his nine-year old son.
"But Dad!" he pleaded. "It wasn't that bad! Okay, so I messed up on the Language Arts this card marking. A 'B-!' It's not that bad!"
Tom shook his head and loosened the tie he'd had on for fourteen arduous hours. He glanced at his wife - Martha - who nodded fractionally to indicate she agreed. "Bruce, no. End of discussion. We agreed on this weeks ago, that you had to pull those grades up. You didn't, so this is your punishment instead of your celebration tonight."
"But, but--" Bruce looked desperately from his father's grim expression to his mother's soft brown eyes. Mom will override him. She has to! "Mom?"
"No, Bruce. Your father is right. You can't just get what you want. You have to live up to your end of the bargain," she said.
Furious and defeated, he shouted, "Fine!" and stormed from the dining room.
Tom and Martha watched his retreat, hearing the echo of the slammed door reverberate through the high-ceilinged room. From experience, they knew he would rush upstairs and throw himself onto his bed, crawling beneath the covers to sulk.
Waiting a moment longer, Tom asked, "Were we too hard on him?"
"It was only a 'B-,'" Martha admitted. She ran her finger over the rim of the wine glass, thinking as she spoke. "But no. We did the right thing, honey. Bruce has to understand that there are consequences to his actions. He's going to grow up thinking and learning from others that he has a priviledged life. It's our job as parents to see that he grows up to be responsible and accountable."
He nodded and rubbed the bridge of his nose. His tone was resigned. "If we'd allowed him to have his way, it would've set a precedent."
"Exactly."
"I never dreamt parenting would be so difficult at times. Did you?" Tom smiled slightly, but to Martha, it looked more like a wince.
"We were never so difficult, were we?" She winked.
Tom sighed and leaned back in the chair. "Thinking of it that way, we're easy on Bruce."
Silently, Alfred appeared and began to carry away the dishes.
......
Sobbing beneath the quilt on his bed, Bruce's fists were tightened into balls, his fingernails cutting into the palms. His face was contorted with frustration and anger while his body was curled nearly into the fetal position.
"It's not fair!" he hissed, his breathing harsh from crying. "I never get to do anything! It's always their way! I hate them!"
Bruce's mind fixated on his Language Arts grade, targeting his teacher as the root of his problems. "I hate him too! Why did he give me such a low grade? I work hard in there. I know my spelling! Why is everyone so mean to me?"
"Master Bruce?"
"Go away! Leave me alone, Alfred!" he shouted from beneath the quilt.
Still, he heard the family butler enter his bedroom. Though he walked softly, Bruce could hear his footsteps across the thick oriental rug. "Get outta here!" he screamed. His hands were hurting, he had the fists so tightly packed.
"Master Bruce, your parents aren't your enemies," Alfred said once he'd reached the bed.
"Shut up! What would you know about it?"
Firm but with compassion, the manservant said, "I'll not have you taking such a tone with me, young man. I know a lot about what it's like to want something and have someone seem to stand in your way."
"Everyone hates me! You probably do too!" Bruce wailed. He could feel Alfred's gaze on where he lay beneath the quilt.
"You know better than to say that, Master Bruce," Alfred said evenly. He sat down on the edge of the boy's bed. He chuckled and added, "Granted, there was that episode with the riding lesson that could make me want to have issues with you..."
Bruce laughed inspite of himself.
"That sounded more like the Bruce Wayne I know."
Peeking his head out from under the covers, Bruce wiped his nose on his sleeve to the "tsk tsk" of Alfred's admonishment. "Why does everybody hate me?"
"Bruce, you know that your parents don't hate you. And neither does your teacher." Alfred paused, trying to frame the words as best he could. "Everyone - myself included - wants you to become the best man you can be, when you grow up."
"So that means everyone gets to be so mean to me?" he challenged.
Alfred regarded the boy's blazing blue eyes, seeing the angry fire continue to burn. "Is it mean to want you to do well in school?"
Bruce hesitated, his dark expression clouding over into confusion. Without finding an answer to the butler's query, he shot back, "It's not fair! I never get to do what I want to do!"
"Let me think..." Alfred tapped his chin with his index finger. "As I recall, you were on the soccer team this fall, weren't you?"
Wary, he said, "You know I was."
"Was it something you wanted to do?"
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Of course it was. I was one of the forwards and I worked really hard at it."
"Yes, you did. And you were good at your game," Alfred went on. "Were you good at soccer - doing what you wanted to do - at the expense of studying hard for school?"
His eyes widened in surprise. "Alfred! That's mean! I was having fun playing soccer. You can't use it against me!"
Alfred smiled and offered a wink. "I can, and I just did, Master Bruce. Do you see my point?"
Bruce pouted. "I see it," he muttered.
"All right then. Do you understand that no one hates you?"
With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, "Yeah."
"Then, I'd suggest you do something about that Language Arts homework, young Sir," Alfred said with a smile. "Perhaps with the next card marking, you and your parents will find yourselves in agreement about your grades."
Bruce scrunched up his face, then rolled across the bed to his desk by the floor-to-ceiling windows. "Work work work..." he grumbled. He could hear Alfred's chuckle down the hallway.
......
"I'm actually glad Bruce's grades were what they were," Martha admitted after Alfred had excused himself to talk to Bruce.
Tom had prepared to follow his son upstairs, but Alfred had insisted on taking the time to speak man-to-man with him himself. He crooked an eyebrow at his wife and took a sip of wine. "You are? Wait - let me guess. The crime statistics, right?"
"What else? I can't help but notice the figures and the reality of those figures, helping out on the Foundation's projects," she said. "It's getting really scary downtown."
"At night," he corrected.
"And night is when we would've been seeing the film, Tom." She glanced at the grandfather clock. "The show would be starting now in fact."
"Gotham's changing."
"It is, and I'm glad we weren't out there tonight. I've had a bad feeling all day."
He turned in his seat to face Martha more directly. "What do you mean?"
She hesitated and broke eye contact with Tom to stare at her glass. "It's just that... well, I was afraid for tonight, if Bruce's grades had been on the mark. I... I'm sure I sound silly."
"Women's intuition is always valuable, honey. I know that from medicine. Women understand things."
"Maybe." Martha sighed. "I'm just glad it didn't work out, no matter how disappointed Bruce is."
He watched her quietly, wondering if Martha would have more to say about her intuition. Tom shook his head. "I hope the police can reign in all the nighttime chaos that is happening. More than petty thefts. Things are getting really violent, at least, according to the Globe."
"I know. I keep seeing more and more..." she paused, searching for the right word, "...vagabonds who come into for help. And I don't think they really need the help. They're trying to abuse charity."
"From what Leslie has said, her clinic's activity has nearly doubled in the past three months," he added.
As Dr. Leslie Thompkins clinic was already in a rough neighborhood of Gotham, for its business to double, the area was getting even worse. "That's terrible," was all she could manage to say.
The Wayne's lapsed into silence, pondering the city and the direction it was heading. For all their social and professional influence, no money in the world seemed like it was going to turn around Gotham City.
"Thank you, Alfred," Martha said as he re-entered the dining room. She and Tom had yet to adjourn to their offices to handle the necessary work-from-home.
He offered a simple smile and nod at them both then proceeded to manage what was left of the dinner dishes. "Master Bruce is now happily -- well. Not happily engaged, but engaged nonetheless in his studies."
Satisfied, Tom stood and pushed his chair in. "Thanks. How angry was he?"
"Oh, no more than usual," the manservant relayed. "He merely felt that he has no indepdendence to his young life. I countered that opinion with his participation in soccer."
"Oh, Alfred! That is wicked!" Martha couldn't help but laugh. "To use soccer against him! I'm sure that just topped Bruce's evening."
"It did. Still, he did understand the point I was striving to make and he consented to studying harder." Alfred set the last of the dishes on the cart, then turned back to his employers. "I should mention that I did rather encourage him to talk to you about negotiating another deal for this card marking. He seemed to understand that he would have to take more an active role in his education and would be willing to bargain once more."
Tom nodded. "If he pulls through, it's to the movies - or wherever else - we go."
Martha looked at him meaningfully, then said, "Perhaps we can suggest to Bruce that a trip to do something in Bludhaven or Europe would be a better reward?"
He resisted a chuckle and settled for a wink. "Bludhaven or Europe? Let's not spoil Bruce too much, shall we?"
The Path Before You
--sparkvallen
Gotham City - Evening
"I'm sorry, Bruce. But you know the condition of going to see The Mark of Zorro again was entirely dependent on how good your report card was," Tom Wayne said firmly, gazing down at his nine-year old son.
"But Dad!" he pleaded. "It wasn't that bad! Okay, so I messed up on the Language Arts this card marking. A 'B-!' It's not that bad!"
Tom shook his head and loosened the tie he'd had on for fourteen arduous hours. He glanced at his wife - Martha - who nodded fractionally to indicate she agreed. "Bruce, no. End of discussion. We agreed on this weeks ago, that you had to pull those grades up. You didn't, so this is your punishment instead of your celebration tonight."
"But, but--" Bruce looked desperately from his father's grim expression to his mother's soft brown eyes. Mom will override him. She has to! "Mom?"
"No, Bruce. Your father is right. You can't just get what you want. You have to live up to your end of the bargain," she said.
Furious and defeated, he shouted, "Fine!" and stormed from the dining room.
Tom and Martha watched his retreat, hearing the echo of the slammed door reverberate through the high-ceilinged room. From experience, they knew he would rush upstairs and throw himself onto his bed, crawling beneath the covers to sulk.
Waiting a moment longer, Tom asked, "Were we too hard on him?"
"It was only a 'B-,'" Martha admitted. She ran her finger over the rim of the wine glass, thinking as she spoke. "But no. We did the right thing, honey. Bruce has to understand that there are consequences to his actions. He's going to grow up thinking and learning from others that he has a priviledged life. It's our job as parents to see that he grows up to be responsible and accountable."
He nodded and rubbed the bridge of his nose. His tone was resigned. "If we'd allowed him to have his way, it would've set a precedent."
"Exactly."
"I never dreamt parenting would be so difficult at times. Did you?" Tom smiled slightly, but to Martha, it looked more like a wince.
"We were never so difficult, were we?" She winked.
Tom sighed and leaned back in the chair. "Thinking of it that way, we're easy on Bruce."
Silently, Alfred appeared and began to carry away the dishes.
......
Sobbing beneath the quilt on his bed, Bruce's fists were tightened into balls, his fingernails cutting into the palms. His face was contorted with frustration and anger while his body was curled nearly into the fetal position.
"It's not fair!" he hissed, his breathing harsh from crying. "I never get to do anything! It's always their way! I hate them!"
Bruce's mind fixated on his Language Arts grade, targeting his teacher as the root of his problems. "I hate him too! Why did he give me such a low grade? I work hard in there. I know my spelling! Why is everyone so mean to me?"
"Master Bruce?"
"Go away! Leave me alone, Alfred!" he shouted from beneath the quilt.
Still, he heard the family butler enter his bedroom. Though he walked softly, Bruce could hear his footsteps across the thick oriental rug. "Get outta here!" he screamed. His hands were hurting, he had the fists so tightly packed.
"Master Bruce, your parents aren't your enemies," Alfred said once he'd reached the bed.
"Shut up! What would you know about it?"
Firm but with compassion, the manservant said, "I'll not have you taking such a tone with me, young man. I know a lot about what it's like to want something and have someone seem to stand in your way."
"Everyone hates me! You probably do too!" Bruce wailed. He could feel Alfred's gaze on where he lay beneath the quilt.
"You know better than to say that, Master Bruce," Alfred said evenly. He sat down on the edge of the boy's bed. He chuckled and added, "Granted, there was that episode with the riding lesson that could make me want to have issues with you..."
Bruce laughed inspite of himself.
"That sounded more like the Bruce Wayne I know."
Peeking his head out from under the covers, Bruce wiped his nose on his sleeve to the "tsk tsk" of Alfred's admonishment. "Why does everybody hate me?"
"Bruce, you know that your parents don't hate you. And neither does your teacher." Alfred paused, trying to frame the words as best he could. "Everyone - myself included - wants you to become the best man you can be, when you grow up."
"So that means everyone gets to be so mean to me?" he challenged.
Alfred regarded the boy's blazing blue eyes, seeing the angry fire continue to burn. "Is it mean to want you to do well in school?"
Bruce hesitated, his dark expression clouding over into confusion. Without finding an answer to the butler's query, he shot back, "It's not fair! I never get to do what I want to do!"
"Let me think..." Alfred tapped his chin with his index finger. "As I recall, you were on the soccer team this fall, weren't you?"
Wary, he said, "You know I was."
"Was it something you wanted to do?"
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Of course it was. I was one of the forwards and I worked really hard at it."
"Yes, you did. And you were good at your game," Alfred went on. "Were you good at soccer - doing what you wanted to do - at the expense of studying hard for school?"
His eyes widened in surprise. "Alfred! That's mean! I was having fun playing soccer. You can't use it against me!"
Alfred smiled and offered a wink. "I can, and I just did, Master Bruce. Do you see my point?"
Bruce pouted. "I see it," he muttered.
"All right then. Do you understand that no one hates you?"
With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, "Yeah."
"Then, I'd suggest you do something about that Language Arts homework, young Sir," Alfred said with a smile. "Perhaps with the next card marking, you and your parents will find yourselves in agreement about your grades."
Bruce scrunched up his face, then rolled across the bed to his desk by the floor-to-ceiling windows. "Work work work..." he grumbled. He could hear Alfred's chuckle down the hallway.
......
"I'm actually glad Bruce's grades were what they were," Martha admitted after Alfred had excused himself to talk to Bruce.
Tom had prepared to follow his son upstairs, but Alfred had insisted on taking the time to speak man-to-man with him himself. He crooked an eyebrow at his wife and took a sip of wine. "You are? Wait - let me guess. The crime statistics, right?"
"What else? I can't help but notice the figures and the reality of those figures, helping out on the Foundation's projects," she said. "It's getting really scary downtown."
"At night," he corrected.
"And night is when we would've been seeing the film, Tom." She glanced at the grandfather clock. "The show would be starting now in fact."
"Gotham's changing."
"It is, and I'm glad we weren't out there tonight. I've had a bad feeling all day."
He turned in his seat to face Martha more directly. "What do you mean?"
She hesitated and broke eye contact with Tom to stare at her glass. "It's just that... well, I was afraid for tonight, if Bruce's grades had been on the mark. I... I'm sure I sound silly."
"Women's intuition is always valuable, honey. I know that from medicine. Women understand things."
"Maybe." Martha sighed. "I'm just glad it didn't work out, no matter how disappointed Bruce is."
He watched her quietly, wondering if Martha would have more to say about her intuition. Tom shook his head. "I hope the police can reign in all the nighttime chaos that is happening. More than petty thefts. Things are getting really violent, at least, according to the Globe."
"I know. I keep seeing more and more..." she paused, searching for the right word, "...vagabonds who come into for help. And I don't think they really need the help. They're trying to abuse charity."
"From what Leslie has said, her clinic's activity has nearly doubled in the past three months," he added.
As Dr. Leslie Thompkins clinic was already in a rough neighborhood of Gotham, for its business to double, the area was getting even worse. "That's terrible," was all she could manage to say.
The Wayne's lapsed into silence, pondering the city and the direction it was heading. For all their social and professional influence, no money in the world seemed like it was going to turn around Gotham City.
"Thank you, Alfred," Martha said as he re-entered the dining room. She and Tom had yet to adjourn to their offices to handle the necessary work-from-home.
He offered a simple smile and nod at them both then proceeded to manage what was left of the dinner dishes. "Master Bruce is now happily -- well. Not happily engaged, but engaged nonetheless in his studies."
Satisfied, Tom stood and pushed his chair in. "Thanks. How angry was he?"
"Oh, no more than usual," the manservant relayed. "He merely felt that he has no indepdendence to his young life. I countered that opinion with his participation in soccer."
"Oh, Alfred! That is wicked!" Martha couldn't help but laugh. "To use soccer against him! I'm sure that just topped Bruce's evening."
"It did. Still, he did understand the point I was striving to make and he consented to studying harder." Alfred set the last of the dishes on the cart, then turned back to his employers. "I should mention that I did rather encourage him to talk to you about negotiating another deal for this card marking. He seemed to understand that he would have to take more an active role in his education and would be willing to bargain once more."
Tom nodded. "If he pulls through, it's to the movies - or wherever else - we go."
Martha looked at him meaningfully, then said, "Perhaps we can suggest to Bruce that a trip to do something in Bludhaven or Europe would be a better reward?"
He resisted a chuckle and settled for a wink. "Bludhaven or Europe? Let's not spoil Bruce too much, shall we?"