Patience

Glancing at the clock, he shook his head. Not believing the red, glowing numbers that mocked him with the reality of how early in the morning it really was. Truly, three-thirty in the morning was a little early even for Clark. Looking to the right of the clock, he met two sets of eyes. One set was framed by black curls. The other was partially covered by a thick wave of auburn hair. Both sets were wide-open, blue and staring directly at him.

A quick check over his shoulder assured him that the repetitive chant of "Papa" and "Pop-Pop Clark" had not roused Bruce. Turning back to the kids, Clark raised a finger to his lips and shushed. They fell silent and backed away as he sat up. Rubbing his hand over his face, he continued to shush as he grabbed his robe. Pulling on the robe, he stood up and gestured for the two children to follow.

Once out in the hallway, he knelt down until he was eye level with both children and asked, "What are you two doing up?"

"I had a nightmare," confessed the smaller of the two.

Looking down at the small boy with red hair sticking out in all directions. Before he could ask what the nightmare was about, the girl standing beside him added, "I heard him crying in his sleep and I went to his room."

"Alright. J.B.. Marty. I understand nightmares are scary, but you really need to go back to your rooms."

"Wait, Papa," exclaimed Marty, grabbing at her nightgown and bouncing up and down. "We need your help."

"Yeah, Pop-Pop Clark, come with us," cried J.B. as he began to hop up and down like Marty. "Come with us. Come with us."

Shaking his head at the anxiousness in their eyes, Clark placed a firm hand on each child's shoulder and asked, "What's wrong?"

For a moment, the two children exchanged glances. After a moment, Marty stepped forward and curled her index finger at her Papa. As he leaned down to her, she placed her hands on his cheeks and turned his head so she could whisper in his ear.

"Alfred won't wake up."

The smallness of her voice gave him pause. The words sent a chill down his spine. Standing up, he took both children by the hand and led them down the hallway. They descended the stairs and crossed over to the west wing. There, they found the suite of rooms belonging to the Graysons. Knocking on Dick and Barbara's door, Clark waited patiently and listened to the rustling of fabric and the soft footfalls as they reached the door.

With the door cracked open, she saw her father-in-law standing there with his daughter and her son. Opening the door more, she whispered, "What time is it?"

"Three-thirty."

Sighing loudly, she rolled her eyes before placing her hand on her hip and saying, "James Bruce Grayson what did I tell you about leaving your room during the night? Didn't I tell you people need their sleep?"

His head hung low, he glanced upwards warily, peeking at his mother through his hair. Quickly, he nodded. Looking at the ground again, he softly replied, "Sorry, Mama."

Shaking her head, she lightly grabbed his shoulder and pulled him toward her. As Clark let go of his tiny hand, she ushered him into her room. Meeting Clark's eyes, she sighed, "I'm sorry about that, Clark. I'll give him the talk again."

Slowly, she narrowed her eyes as he continued to stand there. A shiver ran through her as his mouth formed a grim line. As his dark expression reached his eyes, he extended the hand holding onto Marty. Handing his daughter over, he explained, "I need to check on Alfred. Could you watch her for me until I come back?"

"Of course," she assured as she shepherded the girl into her room.

It would be fifteen hours before he saw his daughter again.

What waited for him wasn't really a surprise. He knew the instant Marty mentioned it. He sought out the familiar heartbeat and found nothing. It reminded him of the day Lois died. Leaning over Alfred's still body, he placed a heavy hand on cold skin. Despite the tremor running through his body, he managed to gently pull the sheet up, covering the man's face before he left to break the news to the family.

Of course, he told Bruce first. Upon hearing the news, the man nodded once and left the room.

For the next two hours, he had a phone plastered to his face. He called Dick and Barbara and updated them. He called the coroner's office and informed them of the basic facts. He called Commissioner Gordon and was assured the police assigned would be discreet. Next, he called the same funeral parlor he used before with Lois. Finally, he phoned Lucius at Wayne Enterprises and explained Bruce would be out for an undefined period of bereavement. Accepting Lucius' heartfelt condolences, he hung up the phone.

Then, a 6.7-magnitude earthquake hit Los Angeles, California. He raced off knowing he wouldn't be back for hours. By the time he returned, Bruce was gone, already on patrol. He found the children in the kitchen nook being fed diner by Dick and Barbara. Standing in the doorway, he watched as steaming plates were placed down on the table and for one moment things seemed normal.

Then, Marty said, "This isn't how Alfred makes it. Where is he anyway? Why isn't he here?"

All the adults exchanged anxious glances as J.B. chimed in, "He's not sick, is he?"

The funeral took place two days later.

During the viewing, Marty and J.B. sat beside Barbara in the front row. They tried to be good. They tried to be still when those surrounding them turned disapproving eyes upon them, but their attempts only made them squirm more. Just as giggles threatened to erupt again, the casket appeared.

As expected, Bruce and Dick were the lead pallbearers. Behind Bruce were Clark and Jonathan Kent. Meanwhile, Jim Gordon and Lucius Fox followed Dick. They stepped slowly down the center aisle, gently placing the casket down on the display slab. Taking a step back, they all bowed their heads for a moment before the funeral director stepped in to open the casket.

As the rest of the pallbearers backed away, finding their seats, Bruce and Dick advanced on the silent figure before them. Gently, Bruce placed a hand on Alfred's forehead and slowly shook his head. A hand on his arm brought Bruce back to the present just in time to catch Marty being chastised by Clark for her behavior.

Shrugging Dick off, he stormed over to the front row and said, "It's time to say goodbye, Marty."

"Bruce..." whispered Clark as he watched Bruce lean down and pull Marty into his arms. Conflict arose in his breast as they approached the casket. Holding his breath, he saw the confused way Marty tilted her head as Alfred came into view. Held tightly in her Father's arms, she stared down at the lifeless shell. Feeling tears sting at his own eyes, he saw the moment she realized Alfred was dead. He heard her cry out for Alfred while clinging to her father's jacket. He watched her turn away and hide her face as her body shook with sobs.

And, for just a moment, he hated Bruce.

Then, he saw Bruce turn around. He saw the grief pushed behind a chiseled mask. He could practically feel the pain Bruce wouldn't show and realized he couldn't hate him. Helpless. He sadly recognized that there was nothing he could do.

That night, Dick decided not to patrol.

As was so often the case, the moment Marty started doing something, J.B. quickly followed. Seeing her cry in Grandpa Bruce's arms at the funeral brought tears down the boy's own red cheeks. Roughly, he wiped his eyes with the back of his hands as Marty was placed on the seat beside him. Inching closer a little bit at a time, he eventually reached over and grabbed her hand. She quickly latched onto him. Even though she held his hand so tightly at times that he was forced to wince, he never attempted to pull away. Instead, he just sat beside her through the rest of the proceedings, offering a silent strength that should have been far beyond his years.

Now, back at Wayne Manor, Dick couldn't stop marveling at how it seemed both children had gone from five to twenty-five in the span of a few hours. It bothered him how much it reminded him of the day his own parents died. As he offered what comfort he could, he recalled how big Wayne Manor looked that first night. How scary it seemed. He remembered the gentle way Alfred led him to a guest room, staying to tuck him in. As he raised a blanket to let the two children slide in bed, he could only grasp onto the hope that filled him as he watched them cling to each other as he tucked the blanket in around them.

It was good that such warmth filled the old Manor because outside hope was in short supply.

On the dark streets of a dirty city, the criminals of Gotham fled the vicious onslaught of the Batman. Already, the night was filled with their cries for mercy. Shortly after sunset, a common thug found himself strung up five stories off the ground. He screamed until he passed out, but by then, the Batman had moved on to bigger game. Waylon Jones had just slithered out of the shadows with mischief on his mind, hired to kill a local businessman by Black Mask. Within a few feet of his target, he felt a bat-lasso wrap around his ankles. The subsequent electric shock flooded his every nerve ending and left him a paralyzed heap on the ground.

A couple of hours before sunrise found the Batman still hard at work. By this point, he had electrocuted three henchmen, strung up four minor criminals, beaten down a pair of drunken, joy riding teens and gassed one cat-burglar who he watched fall thirty feet down into an open trash bin.

At present, he was having fun on a rooftop. Smashing his fist repeatedly into the face of an attempted armed robber, he ignored his victim's pleas. The hapless man begged for help, for mercy, for the first several minutes of the beating. After that, he just groaned in pain each time he was kicked or punched. At last, he was so far gone that he didn't even protest when he saw Batman's fist recoil, setting up for a death blow.

That probably would have been the man's end except for a last minute flash of red and blue. Strong arms wrapped around Batman and pulled him away from the unconscious man who hit the pavement with a sloppy splat.

"Batman, stop this. Batman!" cried Superman as he wrestled with the Dark Knight. Spinning him around, he grabbed the cowl and yelled, "Get a hold of yourself!"

"Get a hold of myself?" Wrapping his hands around Clark's, Bruce stepped back and gracefully flung Superman across the rooftop. "Damn you. This is me getting a hold of myself! Can't you see that?"

"There are better ways," reasoned Clark as he stood up.

" How do you know?" sneered Batman as he slowly advanced. "What do you know of loss? Birth parents that you can't remember except through holograms? A wife who saw being tied to you as a burden?"

"Br...Batman..." stuttered Clark. As Bruce came toe-to-toe with him, he searched for some part of the man he knew. "I know Alfred-"

"No! No, you don't. You don't know anything. Your life has been so damn idyllic. Your loving, supportive parents. The small town you grew up in. Your powers. All those goddamn powers you have. All the things you can do that you didn't have to work one bit to learn."

"Self pity? Really, Bruce?" asked Clark as he watched Bruce turn away. "This isn't like you."

"Don't you get it?" Whirling around again, he let his cape wrap around him as he said, "I'm not who I was supposed to be. I was just a boy when they died. I was a perfectly normal boy. I had the world at me feet. Until that night. In that alley. The only thing at my feet was their blood."

"Please, let me help you," whispered Clark as he carefully approached Bruce with his palms up and his hands spread wide.

"He said that once. Alfred did. He said it after my parent's funeral, as he took off my shoes. He was going to return to England the next day. Didn't know that, did you? No. We never spoke of it afterwards. He never said anything about how I raced after him that morning. How I grabbed him by the coat when the taxi arrived. I refused to let go, but he didn't get mad. He just held me and sent the taxi away."

Kneeling on the rooftop, Bruce looked over at the unconscious criminal he beat up. Resting back on his heels, he looked up at the night sky and continued, "He was all I had. Don't you see? Without Alfred. It could have been so much worse. There were so many times I almost went astray. He always managed to pull me back. In his quiet, gentle way, he'd guide me back from the brink."

Bowing his head, Bruce thought back over the many years they shared. Their return to Gotham. The years they spent in Japan. The months following his parent's deaths. The many times he woke up as Alfred carried him to bed after he had fallen asleep below his parent's portrait. Curling his hands into fists, he recalled the firm hand Alfred placed on his shoulder at his parent's funeral. A comforting gesture so like the one he offered after Jason's death. The kind face that held such pride whenever looking at him. The smile Alfred sported as he held Marty for the first time. The one so filled with joy. Squeezing his eyes shut, he remembered the many lectures, the wise words, the patient voice; All the things he would never hear again.

As his mind grew blank, he felt hands on his shoulders. Unresponsive, he remained perfectly still as he felt hot breath against his ear.

"Let me be that gentle hand, now."

Looking up, Bruce nodded once. Slowly, he stood up and waited as Clark called the Watchtower with a request for medical help for the unconscious man at their feet. Once Clark was sure help was on its way, he turned to his husband again. Wrapping a comforting arm around Bruce, he gently pushed off the roof.

Several minutes later, they landed on the balcony to their room. Wordlessly, he helped Bruce out of his suit. He laid him down on their bed before slipping in next to him. Spooning behind him, he pressed against his back. Gently sliding his hand over Bruce's arms and chest, he whispered, "You don't have to be brave here, Bruce. You don't have to be strong all the time. Not with me."

"What is it exactly you want me to do?"

"Whatever you need to do. Cry. Yell. Punch me if you have to. It's okay. Just don't keep it inside."

"I'm not going to punch you. I don't exactly want a broken hand," he replied with a quiet, steady voice. "I can't yell. I'll wake Martha. As for crying, I didn't even cry when my parents died."

"Still, maybe you should."

Without another word spoken between them, they laid there in comfortable silence. After several minutes, Bruce buried his head into his pillow as Clark slowly wrapped his arms around him. Gently, lazy circles were traced over marred flesh as a strong leg draped over a muscular frame. As he followed the scars, Clark felt the first hitches of breath, followed by shoulders wracked by sobs.

Clinging to his bondmate, he pressed a kiss against the back of a trembling neck and finally let out the breath he'd held for days.