[ drabble ]
Player: arcesso
Subject: Bruce Wayne
Table: B
Prompt: 016 - Plead
It was Christmas Eve, and Bruce refused to come out of his room - there was absolutely no way Alfred was going to force him to go out there to face all of the gaudy decorations and the forced, liquor-induced cheer. But, when Alfred finally wrestled the young Master Wayne from his room, none of the decorations were what was to be expected from the Wayne Manor. Red and green and silver tinsel, tastefully adorning banisters, and gold ribbons and bells and all kinds of wreaths filled the manor, but there wasn’t a hint of eggnog, or an echoed, falsified laugh to be smelled or heard. Bruce was confused when Alfred set him down, and he immediately began to move through the rooms, followed at a distance by the butler, intent to find out the source of the silence.
When he reached the family room, it became apparent why Christmas at the Wayne’s had gone missed this year - and would continue to in the decades following. One lonely present sat beneath the well-lit, ostentatious tree that was decorated like every year, and by the hearth, two stockings were missing - had it not been for the presence of the stocking-holders on the mantle for decoration, their absence may have been overlooked by any visitors to the manor.
Young Master Bruce, on the other hand, had frozen up in the middle of the carpeted room, fingers wrapping into tiny fists around the cuffs of his flannel, superhero print pajamas. This wasn’t right - even at the young age of nine, he knew that this wasn’t how Christmas was supposed to look. Where was his mother’s smile? Where was the stern but reassuring grip of his father’s hand on his shoulder? Big kids weren’t supposed to cry, but over the past year Bruce had come to realize that it didn’t count as long as you didn’t make those girly noises while you did so. He hit his knees and reached his hands over his mouth to make sure that even if there was a hint of a sob, it wouldn’t be heard by Alfred, who had just come to stand in the doorway.
In a barely audible voice, watered down by his crying, Bruce asked; “When are they going to come back? I don’t like being alone, Alfred, I hate it. I want them back.”
Alfred just put a hand on his shoulder, kneeling beside him and not saying anything as Bruce burrowed his way into the butler’s arms, breaking into sobs as the contact made him remember that they weren’t coming back.
Subject: Bruce Wayne
Table: B
Prompt: 016 - Plead
It was Christmas Eve, and Bruce refused to come out of his room - there was absolutely no way Alfred was going to force him to go out there to face all of the gaudy decorations and the forced, liquor-induced cheer. But, when Alfred finally wrestled the young Master Wayne from his room, none of the decorations were what was to be expected from the Wayne Manor. Red and green and silver tinsel, tastefully adorning banisters, and gold ribbons and bells and all kinds of wreaths filled the manor, but there wasn’t a hint of eggnog, or an echoed, falsified laugh to be smelled or heard. Bruce was confused when Alfred set him down, and he immediately began to move through the rooms, followed at a distance by the butler, intent to find out the source of the silence.
When he reached the family room, it became apparent why Christmas at the Wayne’s had gone missed this year - and would continue to in the decades following. One lonely present sat beneath the well-lit, ostentatious tree that was decorated like every year, and by the hearth, two stockings were missing - had it not been for the presence of the stocking-holders on the mantle for decoration, their absence may have been overlooked by any visitors to the manor.
Young Master Bruce, on the other hand, had frozen up in the middle of the carpeted room, fingers wrapping into tiny fists around the cuffs of his flannel, superhero print pajamas. This wasn’t right - even at the young age of nine, he knew that this wasn’t how Christmas was supposed to look. Where was his mother’s smile? Where was the stern but reassuring grip of his father’s hand on his shoulder? Big kids weren’t supposed to cry, but over the past year Bruce had come to realize that it didn’t count as long as you didn’t make those girly noises while you did so. He hit his knees and reached his hands over his mouth to make sure that even if there was a hint of a sob, it wouldn’t be heard by Alfred, who had just come to stand in the doorway.
In a barely audible voice, watered down by his crying, Bruce asked; “When are they going to come back? I don’t like being alone, Alfred, I hate it. I want them back.”
Alfred just put a hand on his shoulder, kneeling beside him and not saying anything as Bruce burrowed his way into the butler’s arms, breaking into sobs as the contact made him remember that they weren’t coming back.