-- Unwillingly, I feed my weaknesses --
Thomas stared at his phone unblinking for a moment, only to slowly register the unfamiliar tug of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. He went still. That hadnāt happened in a long time.
Heād been reading a message from one of the multiverseās many Bruces when a memory hit him with enough force to stun.
Bruce had mentioned something about Thomas dragging his younger self around the Manor, and suddenly he was thirteen againāalready being shaped into the man he would become, already training under his Alfred in secret. But at thirteen he was still a child, still soft around the edges, still naĆÆve, still learning how to wear the masks he would later perfect.
The Kanes had been visiting his parents, and he hadnāt yet learned to hate them. Little Kate and Beth had tagged along with him and Bruce, tottering after them across the grounds.
Theyād worn themselves out after playing all afternoonāsome silly game Thomas remembered dismissing as childish even then. But heād indulged Bruce because he had never been able to refuse those big blue eyes and that quiet, hopeful āplease, Tommy.ā
A weakness. One he wouldnāt manage to cut out for years still.
The girls, barely toddlers, had ridden on his shoulders, giggling against his ear while Bruce clung to his midsection and tried to steer him like a horse.
Then came the questionāāCan we go for ice cream?āāand the girlsā exhausted heads shot up in immediate interest. Heād said no, because he was supposed to be the responsible older brother. But the chorus of please, please, pleeease had grated at his nerves until he finally sighed and relented.
Theyād snuck out. Heād taken one of his fatherās cars. Dented the back on the return trip.
The next thing he remembered was falling asleep in the living room, only to wake hours later beneath the heavy warmth of three children curled on top of him. He had shoved them off, annoyed, furious with himself for missing his afternoon gun-handling session with Alfred. But nowānow, as the memory flickered through himāhis heartbeat changed.
A tightness. A warmth he couldnāt categorize.
A single stolen afternoon of bliss. Of fun.
And yet he couldnāt pretend it left him untouched.
Weakness. He was letting āfeelingsā ferment, fester, root themselves. Like mold, they would grow until they choked his logic and ruthless clarity.
He couldnāt allow that.
He slipped out of the apartment in civilian clothes and made his way up to the rooftop. The cold air bit at his bare face, needling into his bones.
Up here, he wasnāt Owlman. He was justā¦Thomas. Tommy. TJ.
He should punish himself for letting such foolish thoughts worm their way in, he thought as he stared down at the street below, gray eyes hidden beneath wind-tossed hair.
And yet all he wanted was to chase that warmth once again.
