“It’s barely even bruised.”
Bruce hmmed, still leaning against Tim’s doorjamb. Alfred, behind him, was giving even less away. There was a possibility he was in trouble. That possibility was growing less and less likely with every second of silence.
“It isn’t bruised yet,” Alfred corrected over Bruce’s shoulder. “It’s swollen.”
“It’s just going to stay swollen,” Tim said defensively. “Don’t freak out, okay? I’ll figure out a way to cover it up. I’ll borrow some of Steph’s makeup or something.”
“Freak out,” Bruce repeated, monotone. That was a bad sign.
“Please,” Tim begged. “It was a solo thing. You don’t need to — intervene.”
“Intervene?” Bruce’s eyebrows lifted, breaking the mask-like expression on his face.
“You always do that. You go behind my back and you just—” Tim trailed off, exasperated. “Intervene!”
“I’m not intervening,” Bruce rebutted. He turned to look at Alfred over his shoulder. “Am I intervening?”
“Certainly not, sir.”
“Do I plan to intervene, Alfred?”
Something charged passed between the two men, unspoken. Alfred cleared his throat. “That would be ludicrous, sir.”
“See?” Bruce turned back to Tim. “I’m not intervening.”
Alfred inclined his head. “With that settled…”
Tim’s eyes narrowed, watching the butler depart down the hallway. “What was that look?”
“What look?” Bruce asked innocently.
“That look you just gave Alfred.”
“I didn’t give Alfred a look.” Bruce’s eyebrows twitched. “I barely even glanced at him.”
Tim pressed his lips together, frustrated. “So where is Alfred going?”
“I couldn’t tell you,” Bruce said, shoulders rising and falling.
“Of course you can.”
“I haven’t the foggiest.”
“Bruce.”
“You asked me not to intervene. This is me — not intervening.”
“Bruce.”
