Bat Appétit
A Batman Begins/Dark Knight/Dark Knight Rises Fanfic by SouthernImagineer/ecto1B
Chapter Two - dedicated to Sergio Grom, the Italian tour guide that lead my choir group around Rome, and the inspiration behind my character, Giorgio De Luca.

"A hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is braver five minutes longer." – Ralph Waldo Emerson

Giorgio, who had been sipping at a glass of orange juice, found himself hacking and wheezing, coughing up the liquid as he read the newspaper headline. Hastily, he placed the cup on the table along with the paper, and rushed through the apartment to find his wife, still pounding his fist against his chest in an effort to clear his system of the shock. Nancy needed to know. She needed to know what the black and white letters boasted, and Giorgio needed to be there to hold her when she cried.

She never cried. The woman was strong and tolerant. She could take anything that was thrown at her.

But not this.

She would not be able to handle this.

"Nancy?" Was there hoarseness to his voice? He didn't care; he tried again, this time louder. "Nancy, where are you?"

She responded almost immediately, calling from the master bedroom. "I'm here, dear. What is it? Is something wrong?" When he saw her head poking out the doorway, the man felt his heart give in his chest, falling deep into his ribcage. Her aging face, clear of any makeup, sleep still tugging at her eyes, was one he loved with all his heart, and one he feared destroying.

He absolutely dreaded telling her.

She would cry.

Perhaps he would join her.

"You haven't read the paper this morning, have you?" He stopped just in front of her, panting, and noticed her bathrobe and slippers. She was awake when I went to the kitchen. She must be heading to the shower… "You haven't seen the news yet, have you? No one called you last night? No one's told you?"

"No, I only woke up a few minutes ago…" Now her eyes steadily grew wide with fear as she registered his panicked words. "What is it? What happened?"

Doing his best to remain coherent, Giorgio leaned forward and gripped his wife's shoulders.

"It's Thomas and Martha."

Nancy cupped a hand atop her mouth.

Giorgio shut his eyes.

"They're dead."

Note: This scene is lifted directly from Batman Begins.

Slowly, Alfred treaded through the doorway of the bedroom. His feet were light against the floor, almost as soft as his words were when he finally spoke. "I thought I might prepare a little supper," he offered.

The boy he was addressing, ten-year-old Bruce Wayne, stood like a sentinel at the window in his black suit; his eyes, locked to an unmarked place outside, remained vigilant and unmoving, unblinking for moments on end. No response was given to the butler or even an acknowledgement of the provided meal, and Alfred, understanding the boy's reticence, knew there was no use forcing anything upon the young master. Glancing downward, he began to turn around.

"Very well," he murmured, swallowing.

Just as he stepped beyond the door, there came a feeble noise, one cloaked in the lamenting remains of a sob.

"Alfred."

It was Bruce, his cheeks stained crimson and his lips plump from crying.

Alfred was almost startled to hear the boy speak. He pivoted back around and reentered the room. "Yes, Master Bruce?"

Instantly, the fortified walls the child had worked so hard to build came crashing downward. Unable to hide his sorrow any longer, Bruce began approaching the man, bubbling words that resembled his wounded mantras the night before.

"It was my fault, Alfred—"

"Oh, no, no, no—" Alfred quickly tried to rebuttal the boy's self-accusations.

"—I made them leave the theater. If I hadn't gotten scared—"

"It was nothing that you did," Alfred said gently, now close enough to Bruce to peer downward into his sad eyes. He reached to the boy's chin with a finger, lifting the quivering face so he, too, could see eye-to-eye with him. The gravity of his words, he knew, would help Bruce cope. "It was him, and him alone. Do you understand?"

Watching Bruce's neck bob into a gulp, Alfred removed his hand and stepped back, awaiting a response. He would wait forever if he had to, only to see the ten-year-old boy he cared for so much finally accept his own innocence.

Bruce worried his lip, shut his eyes to hide the tears, and swiftly fell into Alfred's arms, curling tightly to the older man's torso.

"I miss them, Alfred," he wept. "I miss them so much."

Alfred, finding his gaze locking elsewhere, did his best to fight his own tears.

"So do I, Master Bruce."

Faintly, Alfred winced.

"So do I."

The day after the funeral, things were eerily quiet in the De Luca household. The image of ten-year-old Bruce Wayne standing besides the coffins of his parents was one to be ingrained in Giorgio's mind as long as he lived. The boy had withdrawn from human contact, only allowing a gentle pat on the head from his butler or a hug from Sgt. Gordon, a mustached police officer that had apparently been very kind to Bruce at the GCPD. This haunting visual snapshot drove Giorgio to do something he hadn't done in a long time.

"Philip?"

Never before had his son's voice rang so brilliantly in his ear.

"Hi, Dad. Long time no talk!"

Giorgio clutched the receiver. He took a seat in the chair beside the end table, making sure to keep the phone cord from tangling. "It has been a long time, and I'm sorry, son. I'm sorry it's been a while."

"Dad, I understand. The restaurant keeps you busy. Everything going well there? Business as decent as usual?"

One of Nancy's larger sobs echoed through the apartment.

"Business is fine." Gritting his teeth, Giorgio winced a bit. "It's your mother I worry about."

"Mom? What's wrong with her?"

"Did it not show up on the news there in Kentucky? Thomas and Martha Wayne were murdered."

There was a pause on Philip's end.

"Th-The Waynes? You're kidding, Dad… not the Waynes…"

Giorgio sighed. "I wish I was kidding."

"I'm sorry, Dad. I remember the Waynes. Good people who knew how to change lives with their wealth. They deserved every penny they had. Mom was friends with Mrs. Wayne… that's so sad. They had a son, right? What's happening to him?"

"The family butler became his guardian, I believe."

"I hope that boy grows up to be like his parents. It's a shame to lose them." He coughed. "So Mom's not taking it well?"

"She couldn't be taking it worse," he replied softly. "The Waynes were in our restaurant on the night they died. They stopped by for dinner before they went to see an opera. When they left the opera early, a man approached them." His voice cracked. "I saw it in the newspaper the next morning. Your mother is devastated."

Giorgio could almost hear his son frown. "I'll give her a call later."

"She'd appreciate that, Phil."

"I know."

Taking a deep breath, Giorgio chose to switch topics. "How's Lillian?"

"Sick. Stomach flu. I'm glad it's the weekend though, or I'd have to take a few days off. Monty needs company, and Lillian's been bed and bathroom-ridden since Friday night."

Monty. His granddaughter. The lively six-year-old was an incredibly gregarious child with a docile demeanor and an almost industrious mindset: an odd combo of traits for one so young. Giorgio and Nancy had been there for her sixth birthday, and had watched in amusement as she demanded her father refrain from assisting her as she assembled her newly acquired LEGO set.

In such a mournful time, Giorgio relished in that memory of his granddaughter.

There was still goodness in the world.

"Is Monty doing well? Is she ready to turn seven?"

"You know her. She's a teenager trapped in a six-year-old's body. She's ready. Heck, she's more than ready." At last, the young man released a chuckle. "You should see her, Dad. She's just like Lillian. Precocious, intelligent… she's reading to us, for God's sake."

"Just like Lillian," Giorgio agreed. "That's wonderful, Phil. Of course you would breed intelligent children. I didn't expect anything less."

The two men spoke for a few minutes more, until Philip had to go; Lillian was in the bathroom again, puking, and Monty was calling for her father.

"Tell Mom I'll call her later, okay? I'm really sorry about the Waynes."

Biting his lip, Giorgio wiped his brow and stood from his chair. "Thanks, Phil. I'll tell her."

"Love you, Dad."

The words were so simple.

He was grateful to hear them.

Thomas Wayne would never hear them again.

"I love you, too, son."

"Bye."

"Bye."