Son
3
Bruce had tons of meetings he shouldn't postpone. His secretary and his board of directors were going to kill him –and for good reasons. But Diana was offering the presence of his son for a few hours, because she had no choice –and a part of him was oh-so glad she had promptly asked –and he would take whatever opportunity he had. Diana had made it clear they would be flying back to Paris no matter what. Still, he had no idea how to care for a toddler.
"Where are we going Mister Bruce? Are we soon there?"
Hippolyte was on the backseat of his car, strapped in the children-chair Diana had graciously lent him, staring at him through the rearview. Bruce felt his hands clammy a little. He could stare down at monsters and murderers, but the thought of keeping an eye on a toddler unnerved him…mostly because he had no idea where to start.
"Uh…your mom told you I was keeping you today?" the little head bobbed forward. "Okay…what do you do with Ethan?"
Hippolyte hummed, thinking.
"We go to the park," he said. "We play with legos. When Ethan has to work, I draw. And mother says I don't have to nap when I'm with Ethan."
Now that was one big fat lie. Hippolyte napped two to three solid hours during the afternoon: Diana had warned him that he would not like her retribution if her son didn't catch some sleep.
"Nice try kiddo. I'm bringing you to my house. There's this huge lake –it's a bit cold to swim, but you can play in the water after the nap. Sounds good?"
Hippolyte put a finger over his small mouth, pretending to think.
"Okay." Pause. "Are we soon there?"
Bruce cringed. He had a feeling this would not be the only time he would hear this question –they did have a little bit of road ahead.
"About an hour," he replied matter-of-factly, racking his brain to figure out how to keep the child busy for one full hour.
"Oh, okay." The boy said, looking contemplative. He glanced out the window for fifteen seconds. "Can you tell me a story?"
Bruce stiffened. A story? What story? A child's story? He could remember quite a few, but he didn't have the practice of storytelling, not unless he was bullshitting his way out of some trouble or had a book to read from. Unfortunately, his audience was a four-year-old boy, not an adult!
"Uh…" his brain racked for something quick. "Do you know the four little pigs?" Hippolyte frowned in distaste. Bad choice. Another idea, fast. "Peter and the wolf?" the scowl deepened. "The ugly duckling?"
"That are bedtime stories!" the boy chided. "Mother tells real stories."
"Really?" Bruce was growing annoyed. "Like what?"
Hippolyte hummed again.
"Susanoo and the eight-head dragon!" he clapped happily. Bruce blinked. The fuck? "You don't know Susanoo and the eight-head dragon?" he sounded horrified. Determination settled on his small face as he declared. "I will tell you!"
It turned out Susanoo was a Japanese legend and one of Hippolyte's favorites. A Japanese god was helped by villagers to slay a gigantic eight-headed dragon. It took him a good ten minutes to narrate the whole tale and once he was done, Hippolyte offered to update him on many others. Bruce spent the rest of the drive listening with fascination as the four-year-old narrated edited versions of foreign countries' myths and legends. His favorites tended to Greek, though it made sense as Diana was the curator of the Antique Division.
"And –and then she turned her into a spider!" Hippolyte cheerfully concluded the tragic ending of Arachne. "Because she tried to be…Mister Bruce, what's the word for someone being smarter than another?"
"You mean outsmart?"
"Yeah! She tried to out-smart a goddess," he repeated the word carefully.
His son's speech also left him…well, speechless. He articulated properly, used words Bruce wasn't quite sure four-years-olds were supposed to even know, and aside from a few syntax mistakes and word-searching, he expressed himself quite well. Diana had a very elegant speech, come to think of it. Even when she had been obviously angry at him, she hadn't cursed or elevated her voice –though it might have been a close thing. Did she keep a close eye on her son's speech too? Bruce made a mental note to carefully watch his own swearing around his son.
When they arrived an hour later, Hippolyte had gone quiet, peeking with curiosity out of the windows. Bruce felt even more nervous than before; he had warned Alfred beforehand, and while the butler hadn't said much, he could hear his excitement as to meet the little boy. He truly hoped his father-figure wouldn't make a smart comment on Diana; he had a feeling Hippolyte would understand it and not take it lightly.
"What's that?"
Bruce glanced on the side and winced at the sight of Wayne Manor burned to crisps.
"My old house," he replied. "There was a fire and it burned down."
Hippolyte frowned.
"That's sad. You never built it again? You don't have money?"
The genuine concern nearly made him laugh: Bruce Wayne was filthy rich. Then he realized a child so young would make the connection between new construction and finances. How did his mother bring him up exactly?
"I didn't want to rebuild it," Bruce replied softly. "It was a house, not a home."
Hippolyte frowned in puzzlement. He opened his mouth to speak again but was soon distracted by the forest, much to Bruce's relief. They arrived at the lake house. The little boy was suddenly much more awed at the calm waters than interested in pursuing his line of questioning. Alfred was already outside expecting them when they stepped out of the house. Bruce helped him out of the car. Hippolyte stared up at Alfred, then back to him. Bruce patted his shoulder gently.
"This is Alfred, he's a friend. Alfred, this is Hippolyte."
The boy hesitated a moment before shying away behind Bruce.
"Hi," he said from behind his leg. The two men exchanged a bemused expression.
"He's not going to hurt you, Hip," Bruce cooed. "C'mon, do you think I'd let you with someone I didn't trust? Your mother would kill me."
At the mention of Diana, Hippolyte reluctantly left his hideout. He faced the butler with all the bravery of a four-going-on-five year old and extended his hand:
"Hello Mister Alfred," he articulated clearly. "It is nice to meet you."
That phrase had definitively been picked up from Diana. Alfred couched to be at his level and shook the small hand with full British solemnity.
"It is very nice to meet you too, Master Hippolyte."
The boy frowned.
"Are you a servant?" he asked, puzzled.
"He's a friend," Bruce nuanced. Hippolyte twisted his neck to look up at him and whispered:
"But he called me master."
Alfred released his hand, hiding his amusement behind a small smile.
"I am Master Wayne's butler."
The boy seemed even more confused.
"What's the difference?"
"I care for the whole house maintenance," Alfred explained. "I do the cleaning, take care of the garden, the food storage-"
Hippolyte's little face brightened.
"Oh, you're his caretaker!" Bruce hid his laugh behind a cough. "Miss Gisbon is our caretaker in Paris. She bakes cookies all the time and she was a fat cat named Robert. Do you have a cat Mister Alfred?"
"I am afraid not," Alfred replied very seriously. "But I do bake cookies occasionally." That seemed to win the child over. "Speaking of which, would you like to eat anything in particular for lunch, Master Hippolyte?"
The child blinked in awe.
"You can bake cookies and cook too?" Bruce bit his inner cheek while Alfred nodded seriously. "Uh…knakies and mash potatoes please?"
Alfred's slightly dismayed expression have having to prepare something so simple was almost priceless.
"Of course." He'd have to make a quick jump at the grocery store, but Alfred's pride wouldn't allow him to disappoint the little boy. It would have to be quick though; Hippolyte usually ate around twelve, and Diana insisted he kept a regular meal pattern. For his own sake, she had added, else he would meet Cranky Hip, and Cranky Hip was not fun. The butler had about forty-five minutes to get the job done.
"What do you want to do in the meantime?" Bruce asked. The little boy blinked owlishly.
"Can we visit the attic?" he asked shyly.
"Why the attic?"
"There is always something in the attic," he explained. "You do have an attic, right?"
"The house is rather new, we don't have much up there," Bruce said apologetically. Had Wayne Manor still be up and standing, he might have found wonders.
"Oh," he looked disappointed. "Do you have a basement?"
A very large basement with plenty of high-tech toys he would never let a four-year-old approach within a pole distance. Besides, he had a feeling his mother would likely viciously take away his ability to have children if he did.
"Just wine unfortunately."
Hippolyte sighed, looking bored again.
"Okay. Can we go to the forest?"
"I'll be going with you," he warned. The little boy grinned, hyped up again, and hurried off to the closest trees. Bruce spared a few seconds to turn to Alfred: "Can you buy a huge stack of legos and construction blocs? He likes to build things."
Alfred smiled at the tidbit information.
"Of course Master Wayne."
Bruce hurriedly joined the little boy, who was already pacing impatiently, and walked him to the path leading into the woods. They weren't thick, per say, but the trees stood close enough to hide the house from an outsider's view. Hippolyte seemed fascinated by everything. He would run to the plants he'd see, crouch and name them –and if he didn't recognize it, ask Bruce for the name. Then he'd squint through thick bushes, checking for birds or insects or wounded animals.
"Wounded animals need to be found and then treated. Then they're happy with you and become your best friend for live," Hippolyte explained when Bruce asked why he was so determined to find something injured.
"You do realize animals won't become your friends just because you heal them?" he pointed out. Four-year-old or not, he wouldn't raise his hopes up.
"You don't know till you try, Mister Bruce," Hippolyte chided him. "There is a cat I named Moustache always lin-ger-ing in the streets around my home. I gave him food once and he purrs every time he sees me now."
Bruce wanted to point out again that stray cats and wild animals did not fit the same category, but gave up. If it made him happy to scan through the woods for stuff, he had no right to hold him back.
Hippolyte suddenly stopped by a tree with a large trunk and stared at the lower branches contemplatively.
"No climbing," Bruce warned. The boy grinned innocently and resumed trotting around. When they returned at the houselake, about an hour later, Hippolyte was showing signs of tiredness. Bruce picked him up and carried him the rest of the way. The little boy made a token sound of protest but clung to his coat and rested his head on his shoulder, not unlike how he had held Denver earlier that morning. Bruce tried not to let the gesture affect him too much.
Alfred was back and given his self-satisfied expression, had completed the little boy's demand. Bruce could only hope Hippolyte wouldn't fall asleep on his plate before finishing it. Thankfully, the smell of cheap industrial sausages and mash potatoes seemed to pull him out of his lethargic state. He took off his muddy shoes and ran to the living room, paused in front of the table before asking for a sink to wash his hands. Bruce had to hold him by the hips so he could reach the water, which seemed to amuse the boy. He later devoured his plate, claimed it was the best food he had ever eaten in his entire life, and tried to argue he still had time to play outside before the nap.
His blinking eyes and drifting attention told a complete different story. Bruce didn't have to work hard to coerce him to his own bedroom for a well-deserved rest. He himself was about to sleep for a bit in prevision of tonight's activities but figured he'd crash the couch instead. Hippolyte found the bed to his taste, babbled about the formidable view, and then demanded a story to help him sleep.
Bruce was starting to wonder if the boy would ever tire of hearing stories, especially since he knew so many already.
"Or I can tell you a story of my own!" Hippolyte claimed proudly, after Alfred's own list of potentials was exhausted.
"One of your own?" the butler repeated, intrigued.
"Yes, a story no-one knows." The little boy assured him. "It's the story of The Man With No Home. Sit and listen please. Both of you."
Alfred pulled a chair while Bruce sat on the border of the bed obediently. Hippolyte puffed with self-importance –for some reason, Bruce recognized a little bit of himself in that gesture -and began:
"Once upon a time, there was a man with no home. He travels all the time, all over the world. He's very big and very strong but very kind and he always helps people. But he is very sad and lo-ne-ly too. And then one day, he wakes up in a house with a lady and her baby. The lady tells him: 'I found you sleeping outside and brought you in because it was cold'. And she tells him too: 'You can stay a few days to rest.'"
Bruce expected a 'and he stayed there and was happy with the woman and her child because he found a home'.
"The man with no home stays because the lady is nice and she is not afraid of him. He plays with the baby and helps the lady do her chores. But one day, the lady tells him he has to go."
Hippolyte paused to mark a dramatic effect. Bruce realized he was leaning forward to hear more.
"So the man asks: 'Why do you want me to do? Am I not good? Do I not help?' And the lady tells him: 'Yes, you are nice and big and strong'. And so he asks again: 'Do you not love me? Because I love you and the baby'. And she tells him: 'We love you too, but you are a man with no home and will not be happy until you find that home. So go.' So the man with no home leaves again. He travels all over the world again, until…"
Another pause for suspense. Bruce felt surprisingly irritated and motioned for him to continue. Hippolyte smirked smugly.
"One day, the lady gets a phone call. It's the man with no home. He tells her he is stupid because he re-a-li-sis he always had a home, with his mum, just like the baby and the lady in their house. And he wants to see the lady again and asks her if she wants to start a new home with him. But the lady says 'no'."
"Why not?" Bruce blurted without thinking. Hippolyte and Alfred stared at him reproachfully for interrupting.
"She says 'no'" and his voice turned quieter and sad: "Because she cannot make him happy. She lost her home too, a long time ago, and her baby is her new home and she doesn't want to share. So they say goodbye and he never calls again. That's it," he concluded abruptly and far too cheerfully.
The two men exchanged a glance.
"That's not quite a happy ending," Bruce noted. Hippolyte gave him a puzzled stare.
"Stories no-one knows about are not all happy, Mister Bruce," he replied patronizingly, and Bruce wondered again how did Diana raise her son.
"So did the man with no home find a home in the end?" Alfred asked.
Hippolyte's confusion turned on the butler.
"He always had a home, he just didn't know it."
The butler smiled.
"Ah. Then I hope his mother was not too upset when he returned."
The boy shrugged.
"I don't think so. Mother is happy when she sees me. Why should the mom of the man-with-no-home not be happy to see him too?"
His words sounded so simple and naïve, and somehow profound at the same time. Bruce felt his throat thicken, finding an odd parallel with himself and the man with no home. He had lost his parents, had gone touring around the world leaving Alfred behind. And yet, Alfred had still been there upon his return.
"Can we go play outside?" Hippolyte demanded pleadingly. "I want to play by the lake now!"
"Nap first," Bruce said softly. "Then we will play by the lake. That was the deal."
The little boy pouted, but then he finally relented and curled into the covers. Within seconds, he was out like a light.