Lilac is fully aware that the extremely rare left-hand drive 1964 Aston Martin DB5 waits for her only living uncle with a big purple — at her insistence — bow on its hood, yet gasps for Bruce and drops her jaw once the crypt that is Wayne Terminal illuminates. Her platinum blonde pigtails swing as she clasps her hands over her mouth and shouts, “Grandpa’s! Car!” with such zeal, the bat colony wrenches from their slumber and swarms the abandoned station’s ceiling. Joker preemptively ducks should one fly too low and smack him in the head.
“Irinka!” before his three-year-old bolts toward the parked vehicle that Nix spent the past three months fighting with a Belgian collector to repossess for a small fee of thirteen-thousand dollars to ship it back to the states, Joker slides his cigarette between his lips and scoops Lilac off the concrete by her waist. She giggles and swings her feet as if it were gymnastics practice as he flips and shelves her on his hip. Lilac loops an arm across the backs of her father’s uneven shoulders and rests her crown against his. He’s regretting giving her pigtails. The elastic cleaves a trench in his scalp.
Now that his toddler’s bulldozed what should’ve been a surprise, Joker pivots on one heel and adjusts his hold on Lilac so she bumps higher up his right hip. A red polyester curtain falls behind her as she waits for her father to sashay backwards without a sound across the concrete that took him, by him he means Gary, an obscene amount of time to coordinate logistics so it’d arrive unspoiled.
“There’s…” Joker pauses to lower Lilac.
She sprints toward the DB5 and wrenches the passenger door open. Its bright red leather interior pops even under the cave’s scarce light. The child disappears inside the passenger seat and waits for her father and uncle to approach. In the meantime, her iPhone slips from her coat pocket so she can set the PopSocket on its dashboard and track their Grubbs delivery.
Joker tosses a glance over his shoulder to ensure his little daughter’s staying put, then plucks the cigarette from his mouth so he, still walking backward like a tour guide, can punctuate with it, “Only 899 of the model left on Earth…so…” he clears his throat, “Naturally…” Werewolf gestures inside the vehicle once he stands parallel to it, “Your three-year-old birthday twin carved the dashboard with a rock she found on the way in.”
Lilac points out a very long, sad horizontal line that she’s hashed out at the end. Venting a plume of smoke from his nostrils, Joker lifts his eyebrows so the false comma-like pair painted on his forehead vanish.
He clarifies, “She says it’s you.” Another feature catches his eye. Joker throws a finger toward the gearbox on Lilac’s left and further explains, “Apparently Dad swapped the automatic out for a manual. It’s um…” his mouth quirks, “Road-ready, though…” out the side of his mouth he adds, “Not the way you drive. I…”
The placard on the dashboard spells, ‘Thomas Alan Wayne.’ Joker’s hands go up, tossing a smoky thread between the brothers.
As he says, “I-I’m not…exactly…the president of Dad’s fan club either,” Joker’s free hand, though trembling beyond his control, slips a long dark strand behind his little brother’s ear, “But…” His eyes avert, tracking the concrete as if any stagnant shadow might somehow lunge and tear what remains of his throat apart. When no such respite arrives, he blinks until he can feel Melpomene’s elongated diamond begin bleeding blue down his cheek. He shifts his torso and shoulders in a subtle oscillation that ripples from his trunk to his nape and reinvigorates him enough to admit, “He gave me you. And for that, I can’t hate him.” The cigarette returns to his lips. Joker’s thumb roves the slope of his little brother’s cheek as his fingers burrow deeper in his scalp. “I won’t.”
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ—ㅤHAPPY BIRTHDAY, BROOSE!
Bruce clocks the model just as soon as he’s got the whip in his sights; Lilac takes precedence, of course, and her uncle anticipates a launch in his direction with all the steady foundation of a base gymnast prepared for his flyer to somersault in the air above his head. She’s not exactly interested in practicing her parkour so much as she’s proud to show off her vandalism, but Bruce stays ready on the very high chance that she’ll change her mind.
Arthur swings into focus next, though it’s difficult for Bruce, a steadfast gearhead, to listen so intently when he’s more hands - on than he is interested in an instruction manual. Or a lecture. @jokethur probably knows it, but if he’s put off by Bruce’s split attentions, he doesn’t ever show it. Maybe that’s the wound of brotherhood, particularly the eldest’s. Or maybe that’s just Arthur. Bruce wouldn’t know either way; he only knows what’s being taught to him now.
The coupé is pristine barring his niece’s artistic upgrade. Bruce can see that without having to pop the hood or get under the chassis. He’d like to, though. For now, he settles for following his big brother’s lead in this orchestrated dance and forgets to ask how he got away with getting it here without his notice. He’ll remember later when his eyes don’t burn.
Bruce came in on his bike. Removing his helmet reveals the caked black caught in his lashes and smeared past his eye sockets. He drops his utility pack somewhere along the path he tracks along behind Arthur and continues to eye the DB5 like he’s half caught in a dream. It isn’t suspicion, but his veneer is too tempered with emotion to parse it one way or the other. Either way, he doesn’t sniffle because he’s allergic to anything in the Cave.
❝ Did you drive it in? ❞ Bruce poses this question to Lilac when he ducks down to admire the interior. His graffiti - style portrait plucks a wince from him prominent enough to dry his eyes for a moment. ❝ Nice, ❞ is all he offers. And then, his mouth quirking, ❝ Thanks. I like my, uh, hair. ❞
If he looks at Arthur, he knows his throat will close up again. He doesn’t need the excuse, but he gives it to himself as he straightens from his fold into the car and wheels toward his brother without warning. Bruce has nearly half a foot on Arthur; he still tucks his face into the eldest Wayne’s shoulder and curves his both of own until he can lock his arms around his more - than - willing captive. ❝ This is– ❞ His laugh is wet and hacking, as if he’s the one that smokes a pack a day. Bruce squeezes, and then pulls back to reflect his brother’s misty gaze back at him. ❝ You won’t really keep me from test driving it now, will you? ❞
