hello so drawing on some things said to me and making it more extreme for bruce
what if bruce talks about his special interests very passionately but to his kids he rambles and hes embarrassing
so they sit him down and say let's draw up a code to let u know when ur talking too much
maybe its simple 'B' but drawn out or lilting im not sure
and then they tell bruce thats his priot to say "sorry im rambling" or something along those lines and shut up
and bruce views it positively as its something Alfie did for him to train him for society
and hes thankful "I dont know when to stop talking sometimes, I dont pick up when I've become boring, thank you for this"
and maybe it spirals to the JL using it and the kids teaching their teams
maybe its used so often bc bruce was comfortable enough to ramble passionately and now he realises people were finding excuses to leave and were half asleep
maybe bruce goes back to the non verbal state he was in as a child with Alfie's corrections and rules
and no one really notices theyre just grateful he's learned and it was never intended to be cruel it was ignorance
maybe Harvey does or Harley or Khoa im not sure..
I've had half formed ideas about this but im not that coherent with words so if this is something you'd like to build on please do, im always in awe by your writing. but please dont feel any pressure and ignore if not something you're interested in, its very long
I really hate to stray from anon's preferred characters, but can I do Talia? Please? You can't answer before I write this so I'm sorry.
"B."
"Bruce."
"Beeee."
"Bruce."
"B."
It's a sound that is familiar. All the way back in time to when Richard was young, and he would tear around calling beloved's name for attention, full of wonder, and joy, and childish jealousy.
But that is not what she hears now.
No.
It is not a call for attention, but for silence.
A reprimand for daring to express himself.
Her beloved is a quiet man. He has been, ever since they were teens together under her father's watchful eye, but she misses his loudness. Those moments inbetween, where he would laugh, or cry, or make those cherished noises when none of the languages he new would suffice for the emotions he felt.
She understands why his cackle left. Why he hides that away, after she saw him flinch at his own laugh, memories of a white face and stretched red lips stripping the joy from the moment.
She remembers helping him form a new laugh, a muted chuckle that was nothing like the one he had before, one he trained into himself so firmly you would never be able to tell it wasn't his real laugh.
She does not understand why his voice has left. His smile. Him.
She does not recognise the man before her.
She married Bruce Wayne, and has loved every iteration of him, even with their differences. She does not love this man. He makes her heart ache, her stomach twist, her very bones itch from discomfort.
It is like standing toe-to-toe with a mimic. Everything looks right, but it is hollow. Dispassioned. Dead.
She waits, biding her time, until she cannot anymore.
Bruce's bedroom door is not locked when she tries the handle. It never is. He would not deny his children access to him, and she curses his selflessness. He truly has nowhere to be his own space.
She steps in, closing the door behind her, and the figure on the bed slumps back, a shuriken clattering onto the bedside table.
"Tee."
"Bruce."
She locks the door before padding across the soft carpet, sliding onto the bed. He lifts the duvet for her, and she presses close, enveloped in warmth beneath the plush bedding.
"You okay?" he murmurs sleepily, pressing his lips to the side of her head, and she allows him to wrap her in his arms.
That is one thing she cherishes about the two of them. No matter how many times he is shut down, or dismissed, or reshapes his relationship with someone, with everyone, and he pulls back, stops touching, stops talking, stops hugging, and kissing, and being, it does not touch the two of them.
"No, beloved." He tenses beneath her, and she strokes his thigh. "Calm."
He does as she says, relaxing again, through she can still feel the worry in his stare, searching her face in the darkness. "What can I do?"
"You can come back to me." She presses closer, sliding into his lap, cupping his face. "I do not know why you are not allowed to talk anymore, or express excitement, or simply be yourself within your own home, but beloved..." She strokes a hand across his cheeks, tugs almost teasingly on the top of his ear. "You are not yourself. I know the man I married, I know the man I had a son with, and I know the man I love even if we have been separated for longer than our son has been alive. That is not the man I have seen for the past week." She looks into his eyes, imploring. "Where did he go?"
He cries.
He cries, and she holds him, and eventually he tells her about being too much, and not enough, and he knows that he needs it, that he doesn't know how to act right, but their training feels cruel, he cannot make himself welcome it, he feels like an intruder on his own family.
Talia cries.
She cries, and he holds her, because she cannot fathom how he has been living. How he has been believing he acts inherently wrong, and must be corrected and trained like a wild dog. Talia cannot fathom treating an animal like that, let alone a man. A friend. A father.
They cry.
They cry, and they hold each other all night, until the sun is creeping around the curtains, and their eyes have run dry.
The butler raps on the door and Bruce calls an acknowledgement, so he bustles off again to ready the rest of the morning.
They shower together, not quite ready to part yet, he smears moisturiser on her nose and they giggle together, his electric toothbrush dies halfway through and she chokes on her toothpaste at his indignant expression.
He ties a towel around his waist and lets her borrow his dressing gown, and she closes her eyes as he combs through and blow dries her hair. He signals he's done by inserting a slobbery finger into her ear and the doorway to his walk-in chips as the brass statue on his shelf becomes abruptly airborne.
He locks himself in there and she steals his slippers to return to her own room, but when she exits, he is there with a sheepish grin to press a kiss to her cheek, and she lounges on his bed as he styles his own stubborn hair. Nearly forty years of existence and he still fights with his mother's cowlicks just as fruitlessly, cursing his Kane lineage until she cannot breathe for laughing.
Time ticks on through the morning, and Talia sees the door handle twitch. And again. Bruce does not notice, but she does.
They go down to breakfast at time that has never even heard the word 'punctuality', and all sort of suspicious looks are earned.
Bruce tenses but does not address it, and Talia plucks Damian out of his seat next to Bruce's own, sliding into place. Her son gapes at her, and she presses a kiss to his cheek, stealing his hashbrown before he snaps to and snatches his plate away, kissing her cheek in return before stomping off to the next available seat.
The butler is stiffly silent as he delivers their plates, radiating disapproval, but Talia just thanks him demurely and smacks at Bruce's hand when his fork creeps onto her plate.
Conversation around the room resumes stiffly, and some time in, she sees Bruce's attention snap to Timothy's conversation with Richard.
She pokes his ankle with her toe, and for a moment she thinks he won't do anything, but then he turns to her, a shy smile on his face.
"Do you remember the summer we spent in that conservation centre in Australia?"
She tilts her head. "Yes?"
He launches into an explanation, and she slowly sees the links form between the memories and the conversation across the room.
They give him two minutes.
The rage that fills her as a lilting "Beeee~" comes from further down the table is incandescent, but she contains it within herself.
Bruce falters, but only for a moment, and keeps talking. She twines their ankles together, hoping he can feel her pride in him, and listens.
Another minute.
"B."
Firmer this time.
Bruce swallows, discomfort flickering through his eyes, and keeps going.
His point begins to conclude, but Talia can feel confused, indignant stares coming from her other side, so she asks him how the land formations affect the migratory patterns, and watches his eyes light up.
He launches into the new branch of the topic, and she allows smugness to suffuse her.
She will stay however long it takes for her beloved to be allowed to exist in his own home again. They will not stifle him.
