InsaneJournal

Current mood:	cheerful
Current music:	Blind Melon: "No Rain"

Yay! I finished another story.
It's 250,000+ words, because apparently I have issues. It's a love story! It's really creepy! It's a high school AU! I'm SO SORRY!

Anyway, have a snippet:



There are times, now, when Bruce's sense of place seems almost heightened, as if the world -- or some part of it -- is waiting impatiently for Bruce's attention, for Bruce to *see*.

Sometimes, it's a simple thing -- the way shadows become fluttery and strange on a windy moonlit night, and how that will help with the mission --

(And sometimes, he wonders if that shouldn't be capitalized.)

Sometimes it's something much larger and more frightening than that, as when he'd been placed perfectly to watch Adrienne Huttersmith's friendship with Erin Bailey shatter into something with far too many sharp edges when the former spoke mockingly -- visibly heedless of the danger -- of the boy the latter had recently decided to marry.

They were older, and not truly his friends --

(Friendship has many dangers.)

There was nothing Bruce could do, not after he'd watched the moment pass from possibility to inevitability. A part of him is only curious as to why the world had stopped, had seemed to *demand* that he witness that argument -- it had nothing to do with *him* -- but the rest...

(Everything is important. You must know as much as you can.)

And so he is careful today, watchful as he moves through a manor that seems too silent, even for the way it's only inhabited by Alfred and himself. There's a *quality* to the silence that speaks of a danger Bruce knows he might not be strong enough to face --

(Patience. Patience.)

A sound -- a breath?

Bruce moves more quickly, noting that he's near to the West library, the solarium, the study --

It will be the study. He knows this the way he knows the many different qualities of silence in this, his home --

"I say again. Who are you, and why are you here."

Alfred, and he sounds angry. An intruder?

(Think. Observe.)

The door is slightly ajar, but it's dim enough in this part of the manor that it's difficult to be sure of the shadows and how they're moving. He can't see the intruder, but he can see.

Alfred has a gun. It's --

It's a shotgun, and Bruce had known Alfred had it, he remembers his father --

("Security? Don't be ridiculous, Earl. We have *Alfred*.")

If Alfred had been there that night --

Alfred has many skills, and a deeper, stranger history than what Bruce had imagined when he was younger, and --

It's only a gun. It's not even a thirty-eight. It's -- Alfred sounds neither frightened nor anxious, and while Alfred has always been circumspect about his emotions, Bruce thinks he would know if Alfred felt threatened, as opposed to simply angry at their home being invaded --

"Answer me."

"I'm -- Alfred, you *know* me."

A boy's voice. Bruce's age by the sound, though the voice has a much higher pitch --

(Patience --)

Bruce pushes in, noting that the shotgun doesn't waver, that --

"Master Bruce. Do you know this boy?"

The boy looks at him, eyes wide and a blue Bruce finds familiar -- no, it's not the color. It's something *about* the eyes which seem familiar, something about secrets and --

He doesn't know. The boy's eyes seem to shutter themselves *quickly*, and Bruce is left with only what he can learn by looking at everything else. The boy is lean and somewhat shorter than he is, and is either Bruce's age or looks younger than he is.

There's something about him which makes Bruce think he *could* be older, but Bruce knows that he's not very good at making that sort of judgment. He's at an age when most of the world seems impossibly old or impossibly young, and --

He doesn't know. He would guess that the boy hasn't had much sleep lately, but the pinched look to his features could be something as simple as hunger.

His *hands* look very old, and as though they've been worked hard, but the boy certainly doesn't seem --

"Master Bruce." Alfred, and his brand of patience often feels like something that has nothing to do with *actual* patience.

"I... I don't know him," Bruce says, and -- "why are you here?"

"An *excellent* question, boy," and Alfred doesn't *really* tighten his hold on the trigger, but he does a very good job of making it look like he has --

Except that the boy doesn't seem any more frightened than... he doesn't seem frightened, at all. Or -- not of *Alfred*. Bruce *looks* at him, knowing that he's being too obvious, that --

(The shadows will be your partner, for I am always in them.)

There's something almost practiced about his stance --

(Yes.)

Something that looks... dangerous?

"Alfred, I don't think --"

"My name is Thomas Wayne, Jr. I go by Tom," the boy says. "And I think something is very wrong, Alfred."

If anything, Alfred seems even *angrier* --

"Master Bruce. Call the authorities."

"Wait, I --" The boy looks back and forth between them, and *now* he seems anxious, though his eyes are still...

There's something *there* --

"Look, you -- you can ask me questions. About Bruce, about the manor," the boy says.

Tom says?

"*Alfred*. You've known me since -- since you came back from England. You knew me as an infant --"

"Master Bruce --"

"And me? Do you know me?"

The boy closes his eyes for a moment before turning to face Bruce. There is... there's a *plea* in his eyes, but that's not the only thing, and it seems as though, if Bruce could just look *long* enough, he'd understand something more important than everything else --

"Bruce, you're my *brother*," Tom says, and a part of Bruce is insisting that he could've seen that coming, that really he *had* seen that coming, and thus that there's no reason for Bruce to feel as though the world is shifting beneath his feet.

The rest is just trying to stay *still*, and -- "I don't. I don't *have* a brother," Bruce says, and knows that his voice is all wrong by the way Alfred cuts his eyes at him.

"Master *Bruce*, this is utterly ridiculous --"

"*Ask* me," Tom says. "Ask me anything. I don't -- I don't know why you don't know me, and I don't know why *Bruce* doesn't know me, but I'm *me*, and I -- please, Alfred."

Alfred narrows his eyes, and this time he *does* tighten his finger on the trigger.

"Alfred --"

"Be *quiet*, Master Bruce. All right, 'Thomas --'"

"You always -- you call me 'Master Tom,'" Tom says, and smiles ruefully. "Thomas is our *father*."

Alfred's eyes get harder for a moment, and -- "Where do I keep Bruce's mother's things?"

Tom swallows, and for a moment Bruce thinks he won't know, that it's not *true* --

"You decided it was better for them to be out of sight, Alfred. You... her clothes are in the East attic, except for the furs, which are in storage. I don't know where. Her favorite books are still in the library next door. They're out of order from the other books. She -- she always said..." And Tom looks at Bruce again.

Bruce can't read his expression, but he thinks... he thinks Tom might be able to read his own.

"She said that books shouldn't *be* kept in rigid order, because that meant you might not ever pick up something new."

That --

("Oh, honey, I *know* you find it frustrating -- you're *just* like your father that way. But reading is an *adventure*.")

Alfred's expression hasn't changed, at all, and Tom looks down.

"Her jewels are all in safe deposit boxes. Except --" Tom looks at Bruce again -- shakes his head and turns back to Alfred. "Except for her pearls."

Oh.

("We know this is hard, Mr. Pennyworth, but we need you to keep quiet about Mrs. Wayne's pearls. We're not releasing that detail to the -- oh, hell, kid, you're still here?")

Bruce swallows and turns to Alfred. "Alfred --"

"One. One moment, Master Bruce. Tom."

"Yes," Tom says, and looks at Alfred again.

"Why did... your father leave the Caduceus Club?"

Tom blinks and steps back. "We didn't -- we didn't talk about that."

Alfred firms his grip on the shotgun. "If you are who you say you are --"

And Tom looks at Bruce again, frowning as if he wants to *protect*, or --

Bruce doesn't know, but he wants to -- he wants to make sure Tom knows it's *okay*, so he nods. Tom bites his lip and turns back to Alfred.

"It was a disagreement over medical ethics --"

"More. Detail," Alfred says, and he looks and sounds almost shaken --

"It. Our father -- he was working out of one of the clinics in the Ironbound. He was performing abortions for women who couldn't afford to go to the larger clinics, and he didn't *leave* the Caduceus Club. He was thrown out. He didn't stop giving abortions until he was murdered, and it was an argument he never stopped having with Leslie."

Bruce only remembers overhearing them once, but he has to admit that it hadn't seemed like the first time they had the argument --

("The system as it stands is *classist*, Les. If we're going to try to provide an equal standard of care -- don't walk *out* on me --")

Bruce had had to look up the word, and then go through his father's books until he knew *exactly* what it was, and why it was so terrible that Leslie refused to talk about it. He'd never asked his father. Maybe --

Maybe Tom had.

Alfred lowers the shotgun and looks at both of them. He doesn't seem shaken or angry anymore, but he does seem tired. "Well. Why are you *here*, Tom? How did you get here?"

Tom shakes his head. "I think... I don't know what I think. It's all kind of science-fiction in my head, Alfred," he says, and glances at Bruce again. "You don't know me, even though I'm... I guess I don't exist here? Did our mother -- um. Did Bruce's mother *not* have twins?"

Bruce reaches out -- stops. "Fraternal twins?"

Tom's smile is light and small and quick. "You got all the *size*. But... you did always say that I took the brains."

Bruce smiles because -- it *happens*. "You... always?"

"All right, *I* say that I took the brains," and Tom crosses his arms over his chest and looks down at the floor. "You should know all of this."

Alfred frowns at both of them, but it seems to have less to do with any negative emotion, than...

Well, sometimes Alfred frowns like that when he thinks Bruce is being strange and secretive, and he's trying -- again -- to figure out how to *stop* it.

"Alfred, I..." Tom hugs himself a little tighter. "I was just -- here, in the study. And everything is the same, except..." He laughs and turns to the clock, brushing a spot on the side of it that doesn't look any different from the rest. "I suppose this... universe was saved my brief experimentation with woodcarving."

"Woodcarving?"

Tom smiles at Bruce again, still small, still quick. "We were three. You preferred finger-painting."

Bruce smiles again and walks closer, just a little. He wants --

He has a brother.

"Master Tom. I... was not privy to the circumstances of... your mother's pregnancy. She was in your father's care." Alfred frowns. "Perhaps Dr. Thompkins knows more."

Tom nods. "I -- I need to get back home. But I'm not sure how, exactly, that will work."

"You're home now," Bruce says, and that was too quick and maybe too loud --

Tom looks at him, searching Bruce's face -- his eyes. "Bruce..."

"For now," Alfred says, "we will find you a place to sleep. Have you eaten?"

"Ah... I had lunch a few hours ago. I'm not hungry."

"Then you will have dinner with Master Bruce in one and a half hours. It shouldn't be challenging to make enough for... three."

"I -- thank you, Alfred. I don't know what I'd do... thank you," Tom says.

Alfred nods to him, and then to Bruce. When he looks up, *he* searches Bruce for a moment, but he doesn't say anything before he walks out.

Tom stares after Alfred for a moment, and Bruce stares at him. There *is* a resemblance. Their hair is almost the same, and Tom's eyes...

No, they're a little larger. Wider. And his mouth isn't the same, and his nose isn't the same, and --

"We haven't looked the same since we were babies," Tom says, and smiles ruefully. "This has to be... very weird for you."

"Not for you?"

Tom's smile gets sharp and oddly familiar even as it's distant. "I... I think I'm going to try not to..." He laughs softly and shakes his head like a dog, then stretches up onto his toes --

He's really very muscular for someone his size. Is he an athlete? "Try not to...?"

"Think about it. For now, at least. I --" Tom reaches out -- and doesn't quite touch Bruce's arm. "Sorry."

Bruce shakes his head and steps closer, until Tom's hand is on his arm.

"I'm -- okay," Tom says, and smiles again. "I'm glad you're here."

He has a brother. "We're... close?"

"We... ah. Fight, sometimes. Mostly when we do, we just don't get in each other's way for a while. It's... a big manor."

Bruce nods and... his eyes hurt. He's not blinking enough, again, and that must... he doesn't want Tom to think he's weird. He --

(You must always be careful around others. They may not know your secrets.)

"Bruce? Are you... okay?"

"That's... that's what you call me? No nicknames?" Some brothers have nicknames for each other, some *families* --

"Sorry. You're Bruce, I'm Tom. We... we might be a little boring," Tom says, and this time when his smile fades, Bruce realizes that it's still in his eyes.

It's... warm.

*

Oh, yes, and it has *two* endings.