Author's Note: Rush job, me? Perhaps slightly, but I have to leave for the shops before they close and I run out of edible combinations of food. Here is the next instalment of the story entitled Family. Enjoy.
Lunch
I wake up in the morning to a ringing cell phone. I don't want to look at the caller ID in case it's work; I really don't need any corporate gibberish right now. So I just press the answer button and stick it to my ear without surfacing from the covers.
"Hello?" At least I sound half-awake instead of half-asleep. There's a snigger on the other end before I hear a familiar voice.
"What did you do to freak him out?" Tim asks me sounding highly amused. I blink.
"What?"
"What happened when Bruce visited last night? Did you come to the door naked or something?"
"And what business is it of yours if I did?" I really don't want to picture how that scene would play out. It's like the nightmares you have as kid, coming to school having forgotten to get dressed before you left. Everyone always laughs in those dreams, laughs and points. If it were Bruce there would be no laughter. He'd probably stare and shake his head in disappointment. Okay, stop thinking about things that weird; it's too early to start being strange. I'm so wound up in my own unhealthy imagination to hear Tim's reply. It was probably something half-witty. I can either ignore him or be sarcastic. As usual, I go sarcastic.
"Does your daddy know you're talking on the phone, Timmy boy?"
"Why? Do you want to speak to him? He's right next door; I can get him if you want."
"No, don't do that, Tim."
"Yeah? You want to speak to Bruce?"
"Tim, don't put him o—"
"You got out of bed early, didn't you?"
"Only for some water."
"Are you feeling better, Dick?"
"Yes, fine. When and where are we meeting for dinner?"
"Brigands on Stanley Street, half-twelve. You know it?"
"Is that the place with the award-winning clam chowder?"
"I know you don't like seafood, Dick. It's got other dishes as well."
"I know. I just saying I know which…"
"I suggest you get ready. You have forty-five minutes to meet the deadline." I freeze in place.
"It's quarter-to- twelve?"
"Can you make it in forty-five minutes, Dick or should I move the time?" I smell my armpits; I could probably skip a shower if I put on deodorant and washed my hair in the sink…
"No, that's fine. See you in a while." I don't wait for a reply. I push the end call button and drag myself out of bed. Normally I need two hours to get ready for any public appointment; I knew excessive preening was going to get me in trouble one day. I can't do half my usual routine in the time I've got. I skip most of the facial stuff, save for an electric shave and quick application of moisturiser. I begin washing my hair over the kitchen sink before realizing I should've shaved AFTER doing my hair; yep, I'm panicking. I don't like the coconut shampoo/conditioner Tim got me for my birthday last year, but it's all I've got left. Tim sucks at buying me presents; I specifically told him mango and he goes and buys me coconut, short-ass idiot. I finish styling my hair; spray on some deodorant that Damian 'selected' for Christmas and throw on the dress shirt from last night.
Should I wear a tie? Is Brigands that fancy or is that my imagination? Can I wear jeans? Can I wear sneakers? Would he really be impressed if I turned up dressed like a teenager? Am I sure I'm twenty-six with these stupid thoughts? I opt for slate suit pants and black dress shoes, along with a buckled belt and the corresponding suit jacket for the pants. I DON'T wear a tie…although I stuff one in my pocket, just in case. When I finally get out the apartment, it's almost quarter-PAST twelve. I have to get across the city at rush-hour in less than fifteen minutes. In the car, it's impossible. On foot, it's impossible…for anyone who isn't a prodigiously gifted acrobat with more than a decade of crime-fighting experience and a blueprint of the city layout in his head. Oh yeah, that's me.
I go back into the apartment and scale the roof. Moments later, I've flung myself over the side of the building, landed onto the adjacent rooftop and began a mad dash sprint to the restaurant. After two-dozen jumps, eight changes of direction, seven forward-somersaults, four backflips, a very nice cartwheel and a general all-around display of why I qualify as a 'superhero', I land in the shrubbery in Brigands outdoor seating area with ten seconds to spare. Am I even sweating? Yes, horribly; my shirt is soaked with fresh sweat and I'm pretty sure my hair is a lost cause, but I'm here and on time!
"You're late." Bruce informs me when I find our table. He displays the silver Rolex on his wrist to me, showing I'm four minutes late. I glance at my watch and realize I managed to break it during my journey here around the half-twelve mark. I'm about to offer an apology only to be pointed in the direction of the men's bathroom. "Tim's waiting for you with a fresh shirt and some deodorant. I suggest you go clean yourself up before we order." Did he really guess I'd do something that stupid to get here on time or did he just hedge his bets? And Tim? He brought Tim here? I am definitely not expecting much fun today.
I ignore the occasional stare at my appearance on my way to the bathroom. As Bruce said, Tim is standing by the sinks with a still-packaged dress shirt and some deodorant; he looks ridiculously suspicious, but doesn't seem to care. He's wearing a tie. When he makes eye-contact with me, he gives me the biggest grin he can manage.
"How is he always right about you? I said, Dick'll take the car and be here on time. You know what he said?" My kid brother hands me the shirt before continuing, "He said that you'd do free-running from your apartment roof to here because you didn't think you'd make it in the car and you're too proud to just call and say you'd be late." I nod my head whilst whipping off my shirt and throwing it in Tim's face. He catches it before it hits; I hate the reflexes in our family. You can't do anything fast enough. "Which route did you take? Jefferson or Salvador?"
"Armstrong." I reply, quickly spraying deodorant whilst checking out the condition of my hair; it's actually still passable in normal society.
"With the Macy's building on the corner of Fielding Street? Isn't that like quarter-of-a-mile longer than Jefferson?" Tim asks as I pull on my brand-new, perfect-fitting but totally un-ironed shirt. Does it matter how I got here, really?
"Well, I didn't exactly have the right tools to go cross-country, just my wallet." I adjust the collar, tuck it in and then throw my jacket over the top. "Is he mad?" I say straightening my lapels. Tim shakes his head.
"You wearing that coconut stuff I bought you?"
"Do not make a big deal out of it, Tim."
When we return to the table, the big guy gives me the once over. He nods before gesturing for both of us to sit down with a sweeping hand gesture. I want the chair directly opposite him, but Tim takes that. So I have to sit between the two of them, like a kid would with his parents.
"Don't pout Dick." For a second I think its Bruce talking to me, but it turns out to be Tim imitating him. I glare at him briefly before realizing whose company I'm in and how old I am. Bruce is too busy perusing the menu to bother himself with our behaviour, something I am praying Tim will not try and take advantage of; the kid used to be so serious until the boss man came back from the dead.
"I think I will have the steak." Bruce announces to us both. He smiles, a gesture both Tim and I find suspicious. "What about the two of you?" Tim answers without even having glanced at the menu.
"Thai fishcakes."
"Dick?" I toss the menu back on the table.
"Pepperoni pizza." The big guy does not approve of my unhealthy selection and it shows on his face. He won't say anything though; he understands I'm actually an adult now and have been for almost ten years. He just inclines his head. The waiter appears a few minutes later and, after having to clarify which Mr Wayne he is addressing (Bruce, obviously), our orders are on the way to the kitchen and our drinks (mineral waters for Bruce and Tim and a big hazelnut latte for me) are on the way to our table.
"So what do you want to talk about in this extremely public place, Bruce?" I ask as the waiter places our drinks on the table.
"Can I not just enjoy a meal with my boys, Dick?" Bruce replies sipping his water. I lean over in his direction whilst indicating Tim with my thumb.
"Yeah, why did you bring Tim? Do you have any idea how annoying he is at parties?" The kid's reaction is to smirk.
"At least I don't greet my dad dressed like an escapee from Arkham."
"I was under the impression we are all adults nowadays. I expect both of you to act accordingly."
"What can we actually talk about, Bruce? Between the three of us, we're kinda strapped for topics, given where we are."
"Not every conversation of ours has to concern work-related matters. I mean…" The man pauses to clear his throat, "Is no-one here just happy to see me?" But Tim and I exchange confused expressions. Tim shrugs before answering for both of us.
"You've been back a while; the novelty's sort of worn off." Bruce shakes his head.
"Not that. I mean, I've been away for four months. Did you not miss me?" Again, Tim and I are not quite sure what is going on.
"We were more concerned about why you came back. Usually…" I begin before shaking my head and starting over, "You coming here unannounced ALWAYS means trouble. It's normally something like 'the world's ending' or 'there's been a very suspicious murder we need to pool our resources on'." Bruce frowns at us, looking as perplexed as we are.
"But there is NO danger at present; I merely came here for a social visit. Tim has been trying to find some kind of problem to explain my presence here as well. Let me repeat: there is NO danger, no mission, no murder, no Earth-shattering proclamation; I am here to spend time with my children. That would be you two and Damian. Are we clear?" It's obvious neither of us believe him, no matter how hard he is trying to convince us otherwise. Tim ventures out again.
"But, there's always something…"
"Have I really made you both so paranoid?" Suddenly Bruce's hand is on my shoulder. He puts his other on Tim's shoulder and squeezes the flesh firmly. His eyes are deadly serious. "I am here because I love you both and I miss you both. I have no qualms about standing up in this restaurant right now and announcing that to the whole room if you would like further proof." When neither of us answers him, the big man begins to stand up. We quickly stop him.
The next hour is spent engaging in light conversation. Tim talks about work at Wayne Towers…then I talk about work at Wayne Towers…then Bruce talks about work…you get the idea. I want to tell him about the new move I added to my fighting repertoire. I want to explain how amazing the new car is. I'm pretty sure Tim is bursting to inform him about the new surveillance network he's rigged up in the cave and all its technical aspects. I got case-loads of investigations to walk him through, even though he's probably already scanned the files. Being normal is hard…and boring. But we can't risk compromising security by saying anything unusual for three ridiculously wealthy businessmen and financiers. Lunch passes quickly. I think it took me five minutes to eat the whole pizza, Bruce not far behind on his steak. It's hard to enjoy food when you need the calories so badly. Tim is the slowest eater, but still finishes inside of eight minutes.
After a while longer, normal conversation dries. Then Bruce says something really weird.
"Did I ever tell you about my childhood before my parents died?" The answer is no. He never talks about his parents or mentions stories from his time with them. Tim and I have probably spent hundreds of hours chewing his ear off with stories about our lives with our parents when we were Robin. He always listened to us, never seemed uninterested or tired of hearing about our lives. But as many hours as we spent talking about ourselves, we probably spent twice as long trying to imagine his early life and his relationship with his parents. I know Tim and I have had endless discussions on what the big guy's ambitions used to be or his hobbies. It's trivial crap for most people, stuff you couldn't care less about, but we're talking about the boy who became the most amazing, dangerous man on the planet and our saviour for the darkest hours of our lives. I'd love to know if he liked a Tyrannosaurus Rex better than a Triceratops or enjoyed skipping stones in the park. Because it's Bruce, it's always going to be fascinating.
Because we never get the opportunity to hear this, we both urge him to talk. And, astonishingly, he does. He has an incredible memory, recalling things from as long ago as thirty-six years, when he was barely four. We sit and listen in silence for the next hour, absorbing every minor detail he offers up. He tells us about his fondness for drawing. Not drawing schematics or blueprints, but actual drawings, stuff like robots and tigers. He regales us with his first trip to the theatre, his first day of school, his love of the outdoors and stamp-collecting. He remembers the rainy days the most and his mom reading Alice in Wonderland to him. He talks more of his mom than his dad, but not by a massive amount. His dad, he tells us, was always working, but still would find some time for him on the evenings or weekends. His dad, he said, would sit with him in his study while doing case studies and often answered his most complicated questions on the world without any trouble at all. He thought his dad was the smartest man who ever lived when he was seven, just because he could explain why the sky was blue. I've never seen this side of him before, never guessed he was ever someone else but who he is now. Tim, I'm sure, thinks the same. Eventually, he finishes.
"I'm afraid that's all I have to offer." He informs us with a slightly sheepish shrug, "I hope I didn't bore you too much." Tim looks over at me in such a way that I know he wants me to express both our opinions in one statement. I oblige him.
"That was…amazing, Bruce."