Disclaimer: If I owned them, I would not be writing this. I would be out swinging in Gotham while the Bats went to therapy.
This is an AU of the Justice Lords' world.I watched it, and started yelling at the top of my lungs 'OMG where is Alfred? Where are the children?'. Well, since they didn't seem to be there….
Batman's head was bowed, eyes closed over the ivory. His fingers stroked the keys, the melodies and harmonies coming as naturally to him as breathing.
Music was, after all, very close to higher-level mathematics.
And piano was, after all, good for coordination and training the memory.
Those things explained, logically, why he played. But they did not explain, at all logically, why he needed to play, why he needed this now.
And no, he was not thinking of his mother, of how she had played this piano, of how she had taught him to play his first tune (Joyful, joyful) nor was he thinking of how she looked as she laughed, and told him the piano showed the soul of whoever played it.
A slight smirk. Well.
His soul was dark, full of complex melodies, but always at the edges of the music there was a certain beauty, a certain rich sadness that pulled the heart of all who heard. No longer did this song live up to its name. Heh. Beethoven would understand, he figured.
The tune changed.
No, he was not playing 'The Impossible Dream' because he missed Alfred. He wasn't playing it so that he could remember how Alfred would smile when he played it, or how he would sing it while making dinner, his old voice still strong and full.
No.
He was playing it for memory training purposes.
He opened his eyes. It made no difference. The manor was dark, empty and lonely. Just like it had been last night, and the night before that, and the night before… like it always had been.
He didn't need memory training to remember that.
Appalachian spring, and he heard laughter, the boy swung from the chandelier, crying 'catch me, Bruce, catch….'
He abruptly closed the piano. Playing usually calmed him, soothed him. Right now, he was anything but calmed or soothed.
Anger boiled in his blood.
Silence.
He padded down the hall, heading towards the old clock. Why did he even bother? Bruce Wayne was… gone. According to the tabloids speculations, he was a druggie.
He was ashamed.
His heart had broken, that was all.
He had lost what he was trying to hide.
Batman was a means to an end. So was Brucie. Without Alfred, or anyone else to care about, there was no real reason for Brucie. Bruce was somewhere, but these days he couldn't seem to stop screaming… which left him… with the Bat.
Not that he cared, but it was all so wrong.
Wrong!
Bruce hissed the word aloud, his voice rough from disuse (screaming).
WRONG!
This world was wrong! It was wrong, it wasn't supposed to hurt, he wasn't supposed to be alone, and…
Alfred was supposed to be there. Alfred wasn't supposed to leave him, ever.
He had understood when Dick had left him, really he had. After all, birds leave the nests (caves) eventually, right? He had not, however, understood why Superman had… had… it wasn't execution, it was murder… his son. His son wasn't a traitor. His son… Oh, God, his son.
"Dick." He whimpered. "Oh, Dick, my son, my son, would God I had died…"
Standing alone in the center of his cave, he let out a choked sob. No tears; after all, he could not cry anymore.
But there was no one to be brave for, no one to show strength to. It was just him, and the Bat.
He fell to his knees, wrapping his arms around his frame, desperate for a little warmth in this cold, cruel, wrong world.