i can’t actually write this until Wayne Manor is done due to important plot points and big reveals (SO LMAO GOOD LUCK WITH THAT, SEE U IN 2050 PROBABLY)
but here is a snippet that will be very confusing to anyone who has not read Wayne Manor, and also to anyone who has read Wayne Manor but has missed my weird subtext clues
“Dad,” Bruce said, and it was so utterly surreal to hear Bruce saying that word in that way, exasperated and scolding as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Is this your kid?” Thomas asked, undeterred, pointing at a wide-eyed and thoroughly unprepared Tim. “He’s tiny!”
“I’m not that short!” Tim said immediately, turning red, any confusion in the face of a man who made Bruce look reasonably-sized forgotten.
“How big was your mother?” Thomas asked Tim, looking him over, his hands splayed out to gesture to him. “How did she survive you?” he asked Bruce, who also started to turn red.
“I’m adopted,” Tim said, too busy being awestruck at seeing Bruce mortified to be offended.
“He’s adopted? You adopted a kid?”
“He adopts lots of kids,” Tim said.
“Legally it’s more of a custodianship–” Bruce began.
“I have grandkids!” Thomas said before he could finish, clearly delighted. He looked to Martha, who’d been watching with her fingers draped over the curl of her mouth. “We have grandkids!”
“You have grandkids,” she corrected, in a way that made clear how she felt about being called ‘grandma’. “I’m still recovering from motherhood.” She smoothed out Bruce’s hair, not deterred by the fact that she had to reach up to do it.
Immediately, Thomas scooped up Tim as easily as he used to pick up Bruce. Tim shrieked a laugh as Thomas put him up on his shoulder like a parrot. “Where are my other grandkids?” he demanded. “I need at least one for each shoulder, maybe more.”
There was the distinctive sound of a tea tray clattering to the floor, its contents shattering. Alfred stood stock-still in the doorway as he absorbed the scene.
“Time travel,” Bruce said before Alfred could react. “It’s real, they’re real. They won’t remember anything when they go back.”
“I see.” The only sign of his distress was the way his flexed his hands, eyes darting from Martha to Thomas like he didn’t know where to look.
“Oh Alfie,” Martha said, finally moving towards him.
“Mrs. Wayne,” he said. “You look–” His voice finally broke. “The same,” he said, his voice strained. “The very same, exactly–”
Martha was close enough to cup his face in her hands, only barely shy of his height. “Alfie,” she said, “what happened to your babyface?”
Alfred flinched, swallowed hard as he remembered all at once every difference between his face then and now. Bruce turned rather than watch the scene, looking out the window. He could see their reflections in the glass. “It has been some years,” Alfred said.
“Not that many,” Martha said, running her fingers over the lines around his eyes, brushing at the translucent white of his hair.
“They have not been kind years,” he admitted.
“I did warn you, didn’t I?” she said, running her thumb over his cheek, and he leaned into her touch. His lids fluttered, wanted to close, but he was staring at her face like the secret to salvation. “And now look at you.”
“Right as always, Mrs. Wayne.”
She stepped away from him, and he nearly followed her hands, but resisted. Thomas had slowly returned Tim to the ground, and Tim got the feeling that he should join Bruce in the Awkward Spare Tires Zone.
“You stayed,” Thomas said.
“Of course, Mr. Wayne.” Mr. Wayne, the one and only and ever Mr. Wayne, Mr. Wayne and Master Bruce as two distinct entities that would never share a space in his voice. Alfred seemed to have a hard time looking directly at his face.
“You raised Bruce? After we…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it.
“You – the will said – I was his godfather, after all, and I…” Alfred’s spine was still straight and his shoulders still squared, but he was wringing his hands in front of him. “I know I haven’t done the best job, as these things go, what with his hobbies–”
He was interrupted when Thomas practically pounced on him from across the room, swept him up as easily as he had Tim in a rib-crushing hug that lifted him off the ground. Alfred let out a brief and undignified yelp that he swallowed almost as quickly, trying to retain some semblance of composure as Thomas spun him around.
“Mr. Wayne, if you could please–”
“Thank you, Alfred,” Thomas said, and his voice was muffled because he’d bent his entire body to bury his face in the crook of Alfred’s neck, finally letting his feet touch the ground again.
“There, there, Mr. Wayne,” Alfred said, his face pink, patting at Thomas’ hair.
“Doesn’t he look just marvelously dignified now?” Martha asked.
“So dignified,” Thomas agreed, simultaneously ruining the effect by letting Alfred go to tousle his hair with both hands. Alfred’s affection disappeared behind that old stiff-spined irritation, batting at Thomas’ hands.
“Be honest, Mr. Nickelfarthing,” Martha said with a flutter of her eyelashes, “did you go seducing any of the PTA moms once we were gone?”
“Mrs. Wayne,” Alfred protested, at the same time that Bruce said, “Mother.”
Tim suddenly raised his hand, even though and especially because Bruce had asked him to stop doing that. “I don’t know about that but I think there was definitely something going on with the music teacher because she’s always asking me about him.”
“Mr. Drake,” Alfred said, scandalized and betrayed. Thomas had not stopped trying to ruffle Alfred’s hair beyond all saving, and Alfred was responding like an angry old cat.
“What a wonderful grandson,” Martha said immediately, putting her hands on Tim’s shoulders to draw him into an affectionate squeeze, bending down to be more at his level. “Now tell me everything,” she said seriously, “but especially anything scandalous.”