The sun has dipped halfway below the horizon by the time Bruce is finally let out from the cell they placed him in after the GCPD officers had streamed into the underground atrium the Court had chosen to hold its meeting of the month at. All he has on him is the pale, bone-smooth mask, and his dark clothing, and his phone. The officer who lets him out does so with a sneer on his lips. Bruce ignores him, taking measured steps out of the cage-like cell, and threading his way between desks to get to the exit, tamping down, ruthlessly, the urge to flee incited by having his back to so many people.
Once he gets far enough from the precinct, he pulls out his phone; refusing to let his hands shake as he dials Alfred's number. The line only rings twice before there's the click indicative of the other end picking up.
"Alfred," Bruce says; and then stops, swallowing, throat dry; uncertain of what to say. Perhaps waiting two days before engineering his release wasn't the best idea—the time spent in the holding cell seems to have left his mind frazzled.
Alfred, bless the man, seems to understand his scattered thoughts without him having to say a word. "Do you need me to pick you up?" he asks; rough voice almost painfully gentle; and Bruce nods before remembering that the other can't see him.
"Yes," he says, finally; shivering slightly. It's summer, almost, but the warmth flees in the tail of the sun, and he's always run cold no matter what the weather. "Please," he adds on, after a beat.
"Master Bruce," Alfred says; still painfully gentle, "you haven't told me where you are, yet."
Bruce blinks. "Oh. Right. Sorry. Um, I'm..." he glances around; looking for the closest street signs, and when he finds none, resorts to the shopfronts around him. "Next to the delhi two blocks from the GCPD precinct," he says, finally, once he manages to parse the grey on black writing on the closest building.
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," Alfred promises; and then, "don't get into any trouble while I'm on my way."
That makes a smile crack across Bruce's face, involuntary; and he says, "I promise I'll try not to," and lets Alfred hang up. Shoves the phone into his pocket, and nearly jumps when the mask catches in the corner of his eye. It's almost ghostly in the twilight. He fights the urge to throw it as far from himself as he can, because, for reasons he can't properly articulate, doing so feels like—a disservice, almost. To what, he's not quite sure.
As promised, Alfred pulls up fifteen minutes later; and Bruce, who's been loitering in front of the delhi, passersby occasionally casting him distrusting, curious, and annoyed glances in equal measure, practically leaps off the curb to open the passenger door and settle into the rich, dark leather of the car's interior.
The ride back to the manor passes in silence; broken only by Alfred's occasional attempts at starting a conversation that don't go much of anywhere, as Bruce finds himself far too tired to engage with them. Finally, as they pull into the driveway, Alfred seems to accept that he's not going to be able to pry Bruce out of the shell that's sprung up around him, and lets out a gusty sigh. "There's a tray of dinner for you in the kitchen," he says, finally. "You ought to eat something." He casts a glance at the mask still in Bruce's hand; fleeting, almost imperceptible, but Bruce has known the man long enough to catch it.
Bruce offers him a thin smile. "Thanks," he says, and, clutching the pale, smooth mask in one hand, he climbs out of the car and makes his way up the wide, white marble steps to the front door; slipping inside and down to the kitchen. As promised, there's a tray with a plate of fried vegetables, rice, and meat, as well as a bowl of soup, and a thin slice of babka on a small, teacup plate. Bruce makes his way through the food as efficiently as possible, though he does take time to savour the desert at the end of it.
Afterwards, he rinses his dishes off and loads them into the dishwasher, before picking up the mask from where he'd set it down on the counter and makes his way out into the gardens.
He follows the thinnest, most winding path for as far as it goes; and then ventures out into the tall grasses beyond the artfully overgrown garden, letting his mind wander as he takes the path his feet turn towards.
He doesn't even realise that the moon has risen high in the sky, casting its silvery light over the land, until the sound of footsteps approaching makes him twitch, head jerking around to find Thomas bathed in pale moonlight. He blinks, once; the action mirrored by the other teen. "What are you doing out here?" he says; voice coming out slightly raspy, and he considers the fact that he may be somewhat dehydrated.
Thomas shrugs; the motion suddenly, painfully reminiscent of his father. Perhaps that's why, when Thomas says, "You've been gone for hours. Alfred was worried about you. I...was also worried about you," he laughs; high and sharp.
"You have no reason to be," he says; and then, perhaps unkindly, "you're not my father."
Thomas hums; circling him; and the movement should make Bruce feel cornered, but it doesn't. Too much of his father echoes in the other's mannerisms for Bruce to possibly feel anything but, at most, reassurance, and a heavy ache. "No," Thomas agrees, "I'm not your father. Your father is dead."
Bruce's throat tightens; tears stinging at the corners of his eyes; and he fights them back. "But," Thomas says; and his expression, usually so blank, softens a touch, "I'd like to think that I'm a friend."
The tension in Bruce's shoulders reaches a crescendo; and then, realising it, he forces them to relax; tracks Thomas' movement around him. Unwittingly, his grip around the mask tightens.
Thomas must notice it; that infinitesimal movement; because his gaze sharpens, suddenly. "What," he says, "is that?"
"A mask," Bruce says; and then, before he can stop himself, lifts it to his face. "It's supposed to be an owl. Barn, I think, going by the heart shape."
The other scrutinises him. "You're going to keep it?" he asks; as if gauging something Bruce wouldn't even begin to know how to describe.
He hesitates; for a long moment, silence settling between them, before, finally, he drops it to the ground beneath; stepping on it, hard, watching it shatter into a hundred tiny pieces. "No," he says.
A phantom of a smile flits across Thomas' face. "Probably for the best," he says; and then, "Jon's going to put on a movie. You should come. Alfred has already said he will."
"Alright," Bruce agrees; and follows after Thomas back toward the manor.