I do not own Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, or J'ohn J'ones/Martian Manhunter. DC does.

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Wayne Manor Rose Garden Eleven Years After Waynes' Deaths

John picked up the watering can and poured its contents over the un-weeded patch of flowers bordering the weeded one (more roses). Then he knelt down and went to work.

Bruce watched. His lips pressed together and eyes narrowed. The newly wet earth gave easily. John shook the dirt off the newly revealed roots before tossing the weeds away from both him and the watching Bruce.

Bruce nodded to himself. Just like he taught me. Almost like he never left. Maybe I've gone mad. Is this merely my desperate wish appearing before me while I'm isolated? The old friend I thought dead or in horrible circumstances visits and is revealed to be fine? Doesn't seem possible. I can always bring Alfred here, when he gets back and see if he also sees this area of the garden has been weeded … unless … I "am" weeding them myself … and don't realize it …

Within another hour and a half the beds were thoroughly watered and weeded. John then stood to his feet and met Bruce's stare holding a half-full watering can in one hand. "Did you want me to move on through the inner gate to the vegetable garden?"

"No. There's barely anything planted there anymore. What is, Alfred usually takes care of. He's more willing when the results will end up in his kitchen. I was weeding these, because they've been neglected."

"I must admit, I'm surprised. You never used to neglect your mother's flowers."

Bruce kept a straight face and flat voice as he responded. "I only recently got home."

John nodded. "Ah, that explains it."

"Why don't you come inside and get something to eat with me as we discussed?"

John gave a wide grin. "That sounds nice."

Bruce kept a straight face and remained silent as he turned and led the way.

And if the food is gone when Alfred returns home that will be even more evidence you are, or by then were here. I wonder what he'll say ... I wonder if he'll resent me feeding you again especially if your appetite is the same.

Diner Gotham City Two Years After Waynes' Deaths.

The Sunday after they found the arsonist, they went to a diner upon leaving church. They made a habit of eating there after Church Alfred, John, and him. John seemed happy enough to do so despite never having made a confession of faith Bruce had heard. Bruce wondered if Alfred encouraged it so as to not leave John alone with their valuables. The gardener seemed more nervous, but less disapproving that day as Bruce read the article on his discovery of the arsonist and quotes from police and hospital staff about their findings.

Bruce paraphrased a bit for Alfred and John. "The bruising on the suspect's throat is described as 'light.' So is some more on his upper arms and chest. Other than some abrasions from you tying him up with his belt Alfred, he didn't seem to sustain other injuries, which is considered curious due to his remaining unconscious even for some hours after he arrived at the hospital."

Alfred had turned toward him to listen and asked, "So, he woke up then?"

"Eventually. Then he didn't seem to want to cooperate with the police till they let him know how much evidence they found. He confessed after that."

"So, it seems like a solid case then."

"Seems like it."

Bruce frowned. He expected Alfred to ask why, and indeed he heard his godfather breathe in as if to speak, but John jumped in making them both look at the gardener. "Why do you seem confused rather than happy?"

Bruce recovered from his surprise and answered. "The article brings up some of the earlier arson cases that had a significantly different M.O. than this one. So, they think maybe a second arsonist is still on the loose."

John flinched. Bruce grimaced. "Sorry."

John face relaxed and he shrugged. "It's alright child."

Bruce's frown deepened. "It's not."

John sighed. "No, what happened to my wife and daughters was 'not' right, but it 'should' be alright for you to speak of such things before me."

Bruce shrugged. In truth, he was a little disappointed in John. He'd said he'd smelled gasoline and apparently had turned and moved quickly in another direction rather than investigate. But, "he" didn't like to go into the room Grandpa Wayne's gun collection was kept, so … maybe it "was" permissible, at least forgivable. The sermon that day had been on forgiveness. The pastor made it seem like they ought to even forgive the arsonist, which Bruce found hard to swallow. It was easy to swallow the food when it arrived though. As usual the food placed in front of John was about the same amount placed in front of him "and" Alfred combined.

Alfred glanced at John's portions and muttered, "I hope you work hard for all that."

John murmured without looking up. "I intend to."

Wayne Manor Kitchen Eleven Years After Waynes' Deaths

Bruce watched John drain perhaps his fifth cup of milk over an empty plate. "Your appetite hasn't changed."

John set the glass down. "I wish I could do some more work to pay you for all this."

"I'd be glad to let you stay and do just that. My mother's rose garden looks better than it has since you left."

John gave him a sad smile. "I truly wish that could be …"

Bruce studied the soft complicated expression on the older man's face. "Has the pain of your losses eased more since you left here?"

John's smile fell away. He turned his gaze away from Bruce's to look out the window over the sink. "Leaving behind all of you, created a new loss and new pain. Running away as you put it, for a long period of my life, after putting down roots a few places while earning my keep … It adds up the grief …"

"Why do you do it?"

John rose from his seat, stepped behind his chair, and began pushing it in. "For the same reason everyone, everything, that runs away does so, I suppose."

"And that is?"

"To keep from being caught by something else."

"Would that have been so bad, you had to do what you did to me even after I saved your life a second time?"

John froze and slumped bowing his head. His hands tightened on the back of the chair.

Gotham Soup Kitchen Two Years After Waynes' Deaths

Bruce was again cleaning the tables while Alfred mopped. John was again in the kitchen finishing the dishes. Then another volunteer, who'd been helping and had just left ran back in shouting "Alfred! Your car it's being vandalized!"

Alfred dropped the mop. He began running out, but then paused to look back at Bruce. "Stay here! Go to John if you see anyone else except Leslie or me come in!"

Bruce nodded numbly before watching Alfred continue running after the volunteer and out the doors. He then turned toward the kitchen. Alfred had told him to go to John if someone else came in. Did that mean he didn't want him to go near John otherwise? Also, Alfred chose the car he drove him in here, because it was old and nondescript, therefore unlikely to gain attention …

A BOOM came from the kitchen. Bruce threw himself to the floor. Then he smelled something burning. Then another sound like a CRACK came from the front door followed by even more cracking followed by crackles. After uncovering his head Bruce looked up to see flames eating away at the doors hanging on broken hinges as well as the floor in front of them. He rose to his feet and began backing away.

Then he turned and ran for the kitchen. On pushing the door to it open, Bruce saw John standing stock-still staring at a growing fire coming from cupboards and eating up at the counter above them. Also, a pool of flames was spreading across the floor cutting off access to the door to the alley and creeping toward the toes of John's shoes. The smell let Bruce know the flamed were feeding off cooking oil.

Bruce ran to John's side and grabbed his arm hard. "John! John! We need to move!"

He looked up and saw … a very blank, drawn face as if "No one was home." He looked to the burning oil pool again. He turned, leaned back as far as he could, reached out, and pushed the door to the dining area open. Smoke was coming from there too.

The corners of his eyes were caught by the bright silver door of the walk-in freezer. He planned to take a moment to unplug it. But dragging the catatonic John proved to keep them going near the speed of the spreading oil. By the time he shoved John it, the flames were at the back of his shoes forcing him in too. So Bruce pulled the door shut behind him.

The cold hit him. It didn't seep, but flashed through his flesh. Reality slammed through his mind with it.

Bruce fell to his knees on the frosted floor. His breath came out a steamy cloud. He shut his eyes in frustration and to keep them from freezing over. "What did I just do? We're just gonna die slower in here."

He automatically pulled his legs up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and set his chin on his knees. Then he felt a large warm presence come up behind him. A big hand landed on his head and ruffled his hair. "No child, we're going to be fine …"

Before Bruce could reply derisively, bravely, or sadly, he blacked out.

Gotham Central Hospital Two Years After the Waynes' Deaths

When he "felt" again ... Bruce felt cold ... He'd never been so cold. He'd never 'Stop' Being. Cold. How could anything as cold as his flesh ever thaw out let alone grow warm again? It certainly felt like forever as it did just that. Hours, longer? Shorter? He wasn't sure. He groaned and pried his eyes open seeing light. Then, Aunt Leslie's face filled his field of vision. Then her voice filled his ears.

"Bruce. You're awake."

"Aunt Leslie?

"Yes, it's me Bruce."

"What's … where am?"

"You're at the hospital. You're suffering from hypothermia and some slight smoke inhalation, but it could have been a lot worse. It's a miracle you lived."

Bruce tried to make his sluggish mind move toward putting these statements together with his memories, which seemed hard to retrieve. When he had, he refocused on Leslie's face. "John?"

Leslie pressed her lips together. Bruce tried to take hold of more memories, dragging John, getting him into the freezer with him. "He" had lived, apparently so … "Where's John?"

Leslie sighed as tears filled her eyes. "Bruce let's concentrate on …"

"Where's John!"

Leslie sighed, her breath wavering and hitching slightly before she replied. "We don't know ..."

"He's sick?"

"We don't know."

"Dead?"

"Bruce … no one has found him. So, we don't know!"

Then, he knew the inside of his body had warmed up, because hot-pricks of tears came out of his eyes. He tried to speak, but sobbed as the words came out. "But I got him into the freezer! I saw, felt, and heard him in there with me!"

Aunt Leslie ran her fingers through his hair. "The firefighters found you in the freezer and carried you out, but they didn't bring him out, or say they saw him there too. They're trying to clear the site of debris …"

"They think he's dead?! Did he leave? Did he leave because of me?! Kept me alive with warmth and then left to save the air?!"

Bruce began to sob harder, but still went on. "He had pyrophobia! His wife and daughters were burned alive! If he left the freezer to save me, he might have too! Like them! Do you know how hard that would be for him?! How horrible?!"

Leslie hushed him, but he told her how John had shared the smell of gasoline the night he found the arsonist had made him remember bad things. Then there had been the catatonic state John had been in as he tried to drag him away from the flames.

Leslie finally went silent. She didn't argue but kept trying to comfort him by running her fingers through his hair. This made him think of John's slightly rougher ruffling of his hair.

He realized later, he'd cried more for John than his parents. In trying to understand why, he developed theories. Perhaps the first loss prepared him to believe in the later one immediately.

Leslie had told him for days after his parents' deaths he'd seemed to be in shock. Then, of course, came the anger, at the shooter, at himself, even at his parents. Then he began to plan and work toward how he would get vengeance …

But in that bed, his limbs still thawing out … he'd barely been able to move and definitely not get up. As they warmed, they hurt, and still felt heavy and unresponsive. So, he'd been helpless, believing what Leslie said, unable to do anything about it, knowing he was unable to do anything about it. All he could do was sob.

Maybe his body unconsciously knew that would warm him up further, faster too. It did. With the warmth came more physical pain, which in turn helped drag his consciousness away from thinking up scenarios for what might have happened to John.

Finally, Bruce felt drowsy … things got blurrier … and he lost consciousness again.

Whumptober prompt Oct 10th 2024: I can't think straight.

What do you think now?

God bless

ScribeofHeroes