They were wrong. The old saying.

It's better to have never loved at all.

You and I see differently.

The fight for justice is more than winning the war. Blood will spill. Casualties will happen. The moment you pick up that knife with intent to kill? You become part of the problem, part of the war. You become the enemy.

Don't make yourself my enemy.

The exercise goes beyond enjoyment. One might say it has become a discipline. The weights in the gym are available to stretch his muscles. The newspaper opened in front of him is there to expand his knowledge. Knowledge of what? Gotham and the people that call it home. He pays especially close attention to the reports of criminal activity. He forces himself to read the social pages.

Even in the middle of a hot Gotham summer, the library is cool. The fireplace will not see use for another couple months. He'll sit in the leather chair another half an hour before discarding the spent paper on the side table.

Five hours. Complete silence in that amount of time is enough to drive most men to distraction. Bruce Wayne however is not "most men". His eyes are fixed, his posture rigid. The hands shoved into his trouser pockets are clenched. On his face is a mixed expression. Anger does battle with sorrow. Loneliness shadows them both.

He breaks away, turning his head skywards. A deep breath of warm air fills his lungs. It does little to relieve the pressure in his chest. Only time will heal what he has locked away.

He scowls at the irony. Time... All men fall prey to its degrading effects. Yet it remains the only effective cure for the worst of ailments.

The headstone before him is in immaculate condition. It will remain that way for as long as the name Wayne has any influence in this world. He swears it. To himself. To the memory of his parents. To the man who lies in this ground beneath him.

Beside the granite he crouches. A hand reaches forward hesitantly. Fingers hover above the name engraved on the memorial. Suddenly his mouth is dry. So many things he should have said. So many things he wants to say now. So much that passed unsaid yet communicated clearly. No one knew him like this man did.

Calloused fingers fall on the name of Alfred Pennyworth.

Oswald Cobblepot runs a legitimate business. Or so he would have you believe. The last of the late night stragglers are wandering away from the Iceberg Lounge. The patronage has no idea that the owner's most lucrative endeavors take place after closing hours. The persona of Penguin, long since forgotten in the eyes of the public, thrives in the shadows of his insatiable greed.

He's unaware that his establishment has two new visitors.

[Open to robin_at_flight in follow up to this scene. Also open to _robin_3.]

Fire has a mind of its own. It breathes, consumes, and reproduces. Some scientists have even stated that fire is alive. As he rushes through the burning building, the dark knight is not sure he disagrees. The flames seem to reach for him, anticipating his every decision. It blocks his advancement. It cuts off avenues of escape. It carves the two story building into pockets of uninhabitable space.

He can still hear the screaming. A child, he judges. Female. No more than ten.

Always mind your surroundings. His mind is only on the fire and finding the girl. There hasn't been time to formulate doubt. There hasn't been time to answer two simple questions. Why would a child be present in this building? An office building just off the port district. In the dead of night. In what would have been a locked facility. Also, the child's cries are becoming familiar. Like they're...

"Looped," he mutters.

He turns sharply to escape the trap. An explosion of pain greets him. It's followed by the awareness of extreme heat and finally a blanket of darkness.

The brief case has seen better days. My eyes are glued to it though. Lucius lent it to me. Just something to keep the papers together. Employment records. For the plant in San Diego.

"Something wrong, sir?"

Alfred's voice almost startles me. Not sure why. We talk frequently on the trips back from the tower. I look up at him in the rear view. His gaze shifts from the road to the mirror in regular intervals. He looks concerned. I guess I've given him reason to be.

If I grip this brief case any harder, I'd rip the handle off.

"I just finished attending a meeting with the head of our aerospace division. Something Lucius asked me to sit in on. The west coast plant seems to be making quite a profit."

There's a pause from the front seat. My eyes go to the brief case again but I can feel Alfred looking me over.

"One would assume this is good news, sir. You don't appear to be pleased."

There's a burning sensation at the pit of stomach. After a deep breath, I tell him the rest of the story. "They've been cycling through the employees. Hiring them on as temporary workers then letting them go after a year."

"Not an uncommon business practice, sir," he reminds me. He knows where I'm going though.

"I don't care how common it is," I spit. "Doesn't make it right. Those people receive no benefits. Whatsoever. Even after the management staff took a raise, they had a pretty profit to report."

My jaw begins to ache. Workers are being gouged in my company just so that some pencil pushers can protect their bottom line.

"What do you intend to do, sir?"

"Have a plane ready for me tomorrow morning, Alfred. I'm making a trip to San Diego." A silence hangs between us in the Bentley. "I'm going to fire every last one of them. Then I'm going to find people to replace them that care as much about my company as I do."

I turn my head away from the mirror. Out onto the fields as we come into Bristol.

Nothing like coffee to jump start the brain. There's a full pot waiting in the kitchen when I poke my head in. Alfred offers his usual morning salutation and an announcement that breakfast will be served in 15 minutes. He leaves it up to me to gather the troops. So much for "Head of the House".

When I left the bedroom, Christine was already in the shower. That leaves Alex. When I passed his room earlier, the door was standing wide open. Empty. There's only one other place he can be.

Coffee's good and hot. Looking forward to the rest of the pot. Once I've made a trip. The cave is nice and cool. Good place to do a work out. Alex has gotten used to slipping down here in the mornings to catch some time alone.

I find him on the rings. The shadows are a good place to wait. With my coffee. He's got a couple minutes left. Let him have his time.

For a fifteen year old, he's got an unbelievable amount of strength. He's agile. Flexible. A lot like Dick was at this age. I see some of Dick and Tim's influence in everything he does. One father, so many teachers. Alex lowers himself down slowly into a position of difficulty. Both of his arms are now parallel to the mat.

I can see his eyes shift. He's spotted me. It doesn't detract from his concentration though. He holds the form. The muscles in his arms relax and he swings down, using the momentum to initiate a flip that turns into a mid-air twist. It's followed by a perfect landing.

Wouldn't be a Robin if he didn't show off every now and then.

"Breakfast," I announce.

He gives me that smile.

Kids.

Crime in Gotham City rarely confines itself to the city limits. Before being rudely deposited on the pavement, Johnny Carmen fessed up to the location of the next cocaine shipment. It took a fair amount of persuasion. Nothing that suspension over the side of ten story building wouldn't solve. Carmen might feel the bruises for a week or so. If the syndicate allows him to live that long... A chain is only as strong as its weakest link.

Bludhaven's protector is not difficult to find this night. Nightwing has his favorite spots. Trouble spots that need an extra eye. The younger man will find he's no longer alone.

There are rooms in the Manor we tend to gather in. The kitchen, the study, the nursery, the master bedroom. The rest are maintained but rarely used. I checked all the normal spots. No Christine. No Alex. Instead of searching the house, I found Alfred. He had the answer.

He wasn't startled all when I bolted up the stairs. In retrospect, he was probably involved.

The door was standing wide open to the extra bedroom at the end of the east wing. Running slowed to a walk. Walking slowed into baby steps. I turned in front of the opening and there they were.

With the trains.

I gripped the door frame so hard my knuckles turned white. I have no recollection of how long I stood there watching, struggling not to retrieve them. My wife and my two year old son. Playing with the trains. The trains my parents had given me. To Alex, they're toys. Instruments of a healthy childhood.

They stopped being that for me a long time ago.

Chris looks up at me. She knows. I've told her. I've asked her. Please don't disturb this room.

"Come play with us." There's a hint of desperation in her voice. I forget sometimes just how intimidating I can be. Even to her. The woman that I've sworn my life to. The woman who evokes the deepest of emotions. The mother of my blood.

I stand in the door a moment longer before venturing into the freshly aired room. On the floor I drop next to Alex.

"Daddy! Train!" He holds it and waves it in the air. The trains are new and exciting to the eyes of small boy.

I can't take that away from him. He deserves more.

"These," I handle the collection on the ground, "were given to me by your grandfather."

April first. April Fool's Day. The Joker. Chemical manufacturing. Large crowds of people. The Mayor and guests. It all equals bad news. Surveillance of the Gotham City Convention Center has gained them nothing. Activity from the exterior has already either happened or will not happen. Time to shift their focus to the interior.

He fires a line and moments later, he's on the appropriate roof. He can't help but think of "The Last Laugh" as he looks to his partners.

"The security office," he instructs.

For ease of navigation (and the sanity of the mun), listed below are all relevant links to the story tagged "The Last Laugh" in order of events.

http://wayne-memoirs.livejournal.com/6724.html - The Last Laugh

http://users.livejournal.com/_robin_3/43954.html - Confrontation between Robins...!

http://wayne-memoirs.livejournal.com/7720.html - Pain and Pondering

http://users.livejournal.com/_robin_3/43497.html (Alt.) - Family Reunions...

http://wayne-memoirs.livejournal.com/8463.html - Progress

http://evil-robin.livejournal.com/302.html - Never Again...!

http://wayne-memoirs.livejournal.com/8837.html - Verify

http://wayne-memoirs.livejournal.com/9436.html - Joker's Last Laugh

The assignments were split. The catering staff went to Robin. The decorating staff went to Nightwing. The in-house security he took for himself.

No hits. Not even a suspicious "new hire". It meant one thing. No inside help. Joker and his goons would go it alone.

With four hours left to spare, the trio makes its way to the Gotham City Convention Center. It's a grand structure, built in the gothic style common to the city. Gargoyles adorn it's flat roof line. Giant glass windows crown its second floor. A flood of light escapes the room. From their perch across the street, they can see the room is already outfitted with tables, chairs, a stage, and a plethora of decorations. Music equipment is set up but no band members can be seen. There's already security and greeters stationed at the front door.

The chances that Joker will show with an invitation in hand... Zero.

Painstaking effort is spent crawling, climbing, and repelling through the cave. Three pairs of eyes and five hours later, the cave is declared secure. No unexpected visitors this night nor on any other. With this task complete, they're free to move to more pressing concerns.

Bruce lets out a sigh and glances over at Tim and Dick. They're dirty, dusty, tired, scrapped, bleeding... A sorry sight. He doesn't look much better himself. The t-shirt he's thrown over Alfred's handwork is drenched in sweat. His ribs are screaming for relief. He sweeps a forearm across his face.

Above the subterranean cavern, the early morning sun is rising above the horizon.

"Get some sleep," he finally orders. It's as much for himself as it is for the boys. "Tomorrow we start the real work."

Title: Lonely Is The Soul
Fandom: Phantom of the Opera/Batman
Characters: Bruce Wayne (Christine Wayne)
Prompt: (078) Refreshed
Word Count: 318
Rating: G
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Summary: Coming home never felt so good.
For 100moods

( Read more... )

["Friends will keep you sane, Love could fill your heart, A lover can warm your bed, But lonely is the soul without a mate." - David Pratt]

The trip home is passed in silence. His mind is only marginally on the road. What consumes him are the events of the evening. Not one but two problems. Joker and Jason. So intricately entwined. Both still at large. Both threats to Gotham and now to his family.

When the vehicle comes to a stop, he sits in the driver's seat longer than necessary. He can feel Tim's eyes on him. Wondering. Searching maybe. Thinking about opening his mouth to question his mentor and now father. Before Robin has a chance to say anything, the dark figure pops the hatch and climbs wearily from cockpit. He makes no attempt to conceal his injuries or the pain from his ribs. It's a clear signal that his thoughts are elsewhere. Out of the corner of his eye, he registers the fact that his son has also pulled himself from the car.

Alfred is standing nearby, his hands stoically clasped behind his back. No doubt the medical supplies are already laid out and ready for use. He utters neither sounds of surprise or greeting. He simply leads the battered pair into the Medical Bay. A recap of the evening, he knows, will be forthcoming.

Title: The Blink of An Eye
Fandom: Phantom of the Opera/Batman
Characters: Bruce Wayne (Christine Wayne, Alex Wayne, Sarah, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake, Leslie Thompkins, Alfred Pennyworth)
Prompt: (017) Confused
Word Count: Over 100
Rating: G
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Summary: The waking moments of an injured man.
For 100moods

( The Blink of An Eye )

They have the best vantage point possible. Three stories up and across the street. The light rain is more of a nuisance than a hindrance. Otherwise they have a clear eye shot to the front entrance of The Last Laugh. A sign above the front door reads "Novelty Items, Gifts, and The Occasional Gag."

Like the gargoyles that grace the ledge, they wait motionlessly.

Never has he imagined his life so full of grace. Crystal clear are his blessings as he sits in silence. Christine is in bed resting not ten feet away. The drapes are drawn to protect their privacy. In his arm as he lounges in the leather chair is a baby of three days old. It's not the most natural of positions for Bruce. He's forcing the muscles in his shoulders to relax. His gaze rests downwards on the newest member of this unorthodox family.

Alistair Thomas Wayne. So small. So fragile. So vulnerable. Completely and utterly innocent. So unlike anything Bruce has ever experienced.

His gaze drifts to the picture of his parents on the nightstand.

Old manuscripts and first editions. It was his first passion in life. It was as a child that the thrill of the chase began. He and Alfred would combine their skills and scour for information on the whereabouts and condition of a chosen classic. Weeks or months later, it would be delivered by certified post. For Bruce, the arrival was joyous but nearly anti-climactic. The hunt made the process worthwhile. The book itself was merely spoils of a well fought war.

He finds it eventually. She's chosen the perfect spot. When all is said and done, he returns each day to this spot. Even the most steadfast must sleep. At first, he's only conscious of the writing itself. The care and placement of the words on the paper. Her flowing cursive. A distinctive penmanship. Nowhere on the parchment has she signed her name. There wasn't any need.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

He stops. An involuntary cycle of information floods his brain. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. From a collected edition first published in 1850. In the periphery of his vision, he can see a copy resting on her nightstand. Facts. They're nothing but facts. His mind still seems to fall into the role of the detective so easily.

He starts over again.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

He allows the words to be formed in her voice. He hears her every inflection, every dip in emotion. The piece becomes more than just the object of a hunt or a prize to be obtained. They speak clearly. A wife's love for her husband. It's a love that grows deeper and stronger with each passing day. A love meant to withstand the test of time and trial.

With the sonnet still in his hand, he wonders what right he has to be so loved. He replaces it gently on the table where he can see it always. And be reminded.

[In reference to an original post by a__nightingale.]