I do not own Bruce Wayne, J'ohn J'ones/Martian Manhunter, and Alfred Pennyworth. DC does. Please enjoy this for free.

Gotham City Soup Kitchen Two Years After Waynes' Deaths

Bruce's eyes grew large. He swept the long room with his gaze once more. It stopped on the phone on the wall. He was pretty certain the cord had hung differently before. It looked less bunched up and more stretched out. Had it been used?

Bruce ran to the pantry, peeked in the closet, and even looked in the walk-in freezer. No John. Then he glanced toward the door to the dining room. If he didn't return soon, Alfred would come in after him. Alfred might not mind that John had disappeared. If they just left him, would John return to being homeless?

Bruce set his jaw and narrowed his eyes. He walked to and opened the door of the closet before taking out a flashlight. Then he walked as silently as he could to the door to the back alley. After opening it, he poked his head out. He called in a much lower voice than he had shouted in before. "John?"

There was no reply, unless a manically barking dog in the distance counted. Then he heard a rattle of trash cans to his left. Bruce turned on the flashlight and shone it in that direction. A dirty yellow and orange striped tail disappeared around the corner.

Bruce glanced back into the kitchen. No Alfred, yet. Bruce slipped the rest of the way out the door and gently closed it behind him. Maybe Alfred would check the pantry, freezer, and cupboards for him before coming out here too. Perhaps by then, he'd have found John, and they could take him home instead of leaving him to sleep under bridges again. Bruce scowled. For the past several weeks, he'd endured Alfred's doubtful stares. No way was John just gonna leave him without saying goodbye or telling him why he was going or why he was being so ungrateful!

Bruce dashed down the shortest part of the alley that led to another narrow alley. John had grimaced while walking alongside them next to roads with traffic and busy sidewalks. He'd found him before in a more deserted place.

"John!" John was a pretty common name, what if someone else in the alleys answered? That could get awkward … or dangerous.

Bruce pressed his lips together, swallowed and waited while trying not to breathe. There was no answer of any kind. Bruce swept his light and gazed down both alleys. Alfred was definitely worried and looking by now, which made him both more nervous for his task and less worried about his safety. Bruce pressed himself up against a building wall and out of sight from the view of the soup kitchen's door. He scowled. He was going to be in so much trouble. Where was John? Was he doing something criminal like Alfred always seemed to suspect? Alfred was smart. Did John actually have a bad habit that had finally gotten too hard for him to deny anymore?

Bruce blew out a breath. Then he dashed down the right branch of the alleyway that intersected with the one behind the soup kitchen. He could always double back around as long as he kept track on an inner map in his mind. Glancing around for signs or other markers wouldn't hurt either, so he did that. He also tried to keep moving because of well … Alfred.

Then, along with distant traffic and the barking dog, Bruce heard a … splash? He … he smelled something too … Gasoline? Bruce's eyes widened. He turned and ran in that direction of the smell and sound.

This time he didn't shout for John. He tried to keep even his even more hurried steps and quickening breath quiet. He also kept the flashlight beam low right in front of his feet.

The smell was strongest down an alleyway opening on his left. Bruce turned and flashed the light beam around. Along the bottom of a wall of wood paneling was an obvious damp streak, coming from it was the smell alarming enough to break through the usual sewer and garbage stenches. Bruce carefully swept his flashlight beam from there over the rest of the alley. He stopped when it revealed a body lying on the ground.

Bruce froze. He stopped breathing for a moment. Then he carefully edged closer. The figure was in very dark clothing. Light, navy blue jacket, very stained and faded black dress pants … probably second-hand … dark, but heavy boots. Hot clothing to wear during hot, dry or sometimes muggy weather.

Bruce swept his flashlight up the body before the beam landed on a head of shaggy dark hair. A pale lax thin face beneath it lay on the ground showing its profile. Bruce knelt down by it. Then he licked the tip of his own finger … Yuck … He tasted the cleaner he used on the tables. Next time, he'd just spit on his finger pad. Bruce held the newly damp fingertip under the unresponsive person's nose for a minute. He felt breath, warm, deep, and steady. He also took the man's pulse on his exposed neck. The pulse was steady and strong. During both procedures, the man did not even slightly stir. Bruce had kept the relatively bright beam on his face too, but the eyelashes didn't even flutter.

Bruce swept the beam in a tight circle around the head and noticed the hands on either side also lying on the ground in white elastic gloves. To be objective and charitable, Bruce supposed someone could wear them in this area, to protect themselves from germs … but … the smell of gasoline, the clothing not right for the weather, but correct for blending into the night …

Bruce noticed a bulge in the pocket of the jacket. Reaching into his own he brought out the handkerchief Alfred made him take one everywhere. Thankfully, he hadn't found a use for it since leaving the manor ... till now. Wrapping his fingers in it, Bruce reached in and lifted the top of the pocket. The wad of cloth he was using forced him to pry out what was inside to get a look at it. Despite not being shocked, his teeth clenched when he exposed a matchbox. He slid it back into the pocket.

Bruce stepped back and swept the flashlight beam over the surroundings, finding a gas-can lying on its side. Nothing more was pouring out of it. Bruce swept his beam over the drying wood-panel wall nearby un-surprised. Finally he put the beam back on the seemingly unconscious culprit.

What made him cease his crime to lie so unresponsively on the ground? Was he faking it? At the sound of "his" approach, had the man simply flopped over and played possum? Would his breathing seem so normal if he was awake and afraid? Sweeping his flashlight's beam over the figure while wondering if he should wait for Alfred, Bruce remembered why he came.

John … he'd come out looking for John and found this man, who thankfully, was very much 'not' John. The stranger was a whole foot shorter with darker hair, paler skin, and an even slighter frame. John had gained some muscle mass and a tan working in the gardens.

What should he do? He should report the crime, but should he risk leaving this criminal with his crime almost finished, 'seemingly' unresponsive, but otherwise healthy? Should he disturb evidence more by at least taking the matches?

Hurried footsteps behind him made Bruce spin. He aimed his flashlight toward the sound. The beam revealed a squinting red-faced Alfred. "MASTER BRUCE! Do you mind telling me …"

Bruce turned the flashlight beam on the unresponsive body. Alfred froze and stopped speaking. Then he approached slower and looked at the gasoline soaked wood. Bruce heard more than saw, since he'd turned the flashlight beam away, his butler sigh and murmur, "Oh dear …"

At Bruce's concern about leaving the man alone, Alfred went ahead and used the suspect's own belt to tie an ankle and wrist together leaving the man assuredly uncomfortable if he felt anything in his state, but hopefully less capable of causing mischief if he awoke. Then Bruce and Alfred started heading back to the soup kitchen to call the authorities. On the way, though, they saw a police car with its lights flashing and flagged it down. As it turned out, the police inside were just checking the area after a called in anonymous tip. They seemed surprised to have further assurance there was indeed a real crime to investigate.

The unresponsive seeming arsonist had not moved by the time Bruce and Alfred led the police to him. One officer took Bruce some ways away to question him. The other looked over the criminal and crime scene.

Alfred stood back and by, trying to watch the officer with Bruce while not overhearing the questions and answers exchanged between them. So, he neither got to see nor hear the police officer's surprise at Bruce's rather detailed recounting of how he'd come to the neighborhood to do community service, then went looking for John, and then found this man unresponsive. He also admitted to looking for and finding the matchbox, but also using a handkerchief to touch it, which the police officer was relieved to hear.

The same officer then questioned Alfred who kept his eyes on his godson standing by alone like he had been before. The butler gave more curt answers. The other officer, after looking over the suspect, had radioed for an ambulance. The paramedics arrived around the time Alfred was finishing his statement. That officer looked up at the newcomers and said "Looks like some bruising around the throat area."

Bruce stiffened. His eyes widened. He'd missed that? Maybe the bruises hadn't appeared yet when he examined the arsonist?

Alfred glanced at the unresponsive arsonist, then the paramedics, and back to the officer who'd taken his statement. "Since I assume you can find Wayne Manor or find other officers who can, if you need us later, may I please take my ward home?"

"Yeah, yeah, I think we're done here. We'll get this guy to a hospital bed with a pair of cuffs keeping him to it, corner off the area with tape, and try to keep away anything that can make a spark. You got a pretty interesting kid there. Thanks for bringing us and answering our questions. Not everyone would."

Alfred nodded. "Indeed." As he began to step toward Bruce still standing several feet away, the ten year old cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. "And can you keep an eye out for John: six-foot, brown hair and eyes, tanned skin, thin rectangular face, worn and stained work clothes …"

"Yeah, yeah kid, we'll look out for him don't worry."

Bruce put his hands down and scowled as Alfred began pulling him away. But his godfather made sure his tone was the gentlest it had been for a while. "Come on Master Bruce, it's nearly your bedtime. We can always come back and look for him ourselves tomorrow …"

Bruce looked up at his butler eyes wide again. "You'd do that?"

"Well … other than disappearing the man hasn't done anything too suspicious yet. And, the streets around here are 'obviously' not safe."

Bruce sighed in some relief, but still looked every which way hoping to see John. They got back to the soup kitchen and both combed through the building once more. No John. Then they put away the flashlight, turned off the lights, and locked the doors.

Bruce closed his eyes, hung his head, and stuffed his hands in his pockets as they walked to the car. He felt a hand rest on his shoulder and heard a soft voice say above him, "I'm sorry Master Bruce."

Bruce sighed. Then he raised his head to look toward the car. As he did, he felt Alfred stop and stiffen beside him. A moment later, a huge grin lit Bruce's face. "JOHN!"

The man was leaning against the inexpensive looking vehicle, the only one parked in the lot, watching them approach. Bruce took off toward him. He slid to a stop right in front of the man. Then his face wrinkled into a scowl. He shouted with his fists clenched at his sides. "Where have you been?! Where did you go? I went looking for you! Then I found the arsonist instead passed out. So we had to call the police! Then it was very late and Alfred found me! He said he had to take me home! I thought we'd have to leave you behind! And there was an arsonist loose till about an hour ago!"

John stiffened slightly at Bruce's fast approach and torrent of words. Then he relaxed a bit. "I went for a short walk. When I returned, the doors were locked and lights out, so I looked for and found the car here and decided to wait."

Bruce tilted his head and raised an eyebrow still scowling. "You just went for a walk?"

John shrugged. "I felt a bit … unnerved and thought perhaps a walk would put my mind at rest."

Bruce released a frustrated burst of breath. "I called you a few times while searching for you."

"I might have heard you, but … in truth, I … wasn't in a good frame of mind to answer."

Alfred huffed behind his godson. Bruce just raised his eyebrows. "Why not?"

"I'm afraid the walk might have hurt rather than helped my frame of mind … I smelled gasoline, which brought back … bad memories."

Bruce sighed. The anger washed away from his face and body as he let both go lax. He nodded. "I see."

Alfred's tone sounded even harder than before as he asked. "Will our smelling of gasoline disturb you on the ride home?"

"I should be fine, particularly if we keep the windows down."

Alfred nodded. "I'm not certain 'I' could stand the long drive home otherwise. However, Bruce will sit in the backseat while you sit in the front with me in case there are any further problems."

Bruce sat beaming behind John all the drive home. He'd found an arsonist, who would now be contained and thus unable to set more fires. And John had returned. Things felt strangely right.

Wayne Manor's Rose Garden 11 Years After Waynes' Death

Bruce scowled at his visitor. "What's your explanation this time?"

John bowed his head, shut his eyes, and sighed. "I … feared the attention I would get if I stayed."

Bruce blinked again before rising to his feet, his face going red and his voice deathly quiet and tense. "That's your only explanation?"

"I'm afraid so."

Bruce snorted and shook his head. "This is definitely worse than the first time you disappeared and reappeared. What are you doing here now?"

"I'm here to apologize."

Bruce's already narrowed eyes narrowed and hardened even farther. "Now? Nearly a decade later? You couldn't write or call years ago?"

John kept his eyes shut and head bowed as he replied. "I'm sorry."

Bruce blew out a breath. Silence reigned between them for several moments. Then Bruce released a longer, deeper breath and asked, "How long are you staying?"

"I … think it would be best if I remained only a few hours."

Bruce's glare darkened. "Why?"

John closed his eyes and sighed. "Please Bruce … I wish to leave you better than I did last time."

"You wish to relieve your guilt."

John slumped and let his head hang. "Yes, that is true."

"You always were a coward."

Silence hung between them once more. Bruce clenched his fists tighter and clenched his jaw harder. Then he closed his eyes and took a in deep breath before letting it out slowly. As he did, his clenched fists relaxing. His voice likewise was softened when he spoke again. "Have you kept working and off the streets?"

"Yes, though, I left my last job rather suddenly."

Bruce straightened. His gaze became more intense. "So, you're out of work now?"

"For the moment."

Bruce sighed. "I think there's enough food in the house to feed you once and still have some leftovers. Would you mind finishing up here in exchange? It should take less than a few hours."

John stared at Bruce a long moment before glancing at the flower garden still mostly un-weeded and un-watered save for the small corner Bruce had been working on. He cocked his head as if giving it even more thought. Then he gave a slow nod. "Yes, I would like that."

Whumptober Oct 9th 2024 prompt "Obsessed." Young Bruce is obsessed with keeping John in his vicinity and safe.

God bless

ScribeofHeroes