FIC: Exorcism (REMADE: Alfred, Dick, Bruce)
TITLE: Exorcism
AUTHOR: Demon Faith
SERIES: Remade
CATEGORY: AU, Angst
CHARACTERS: Alfred, Dick, Bruce
RATING: PG-13
WORD COUNT: 978
SUMMARY: An old manor hides many ghosts
NOTES: The second of the Remade 'Fragments' - one more step on Dick's path to becoming himself.
Thank you to everyone for supporting this series; I'm glad you love it as much as I do, and I thank you for bearing with its painfully drawn-out "conclusions".
It was a perfect mechanism, practically silent, but Alfred always knew by the disturbance of the air and the breathing of his charge.
Tonight, however, was different. Because there was someone else.
Bruce held the young man in front of him, cloaking him in a grey wool blanket, nodding to Alfred as they moved forward.
"Two cocoas please, Alfred," he said softly.
"Very well, Master Bruce," he said, mind twirling and crashing and burning. For he'd know those eyes anywhere, the fractured eyes of a twelve-year-old Richard Grayson who had watched his family plummet to their deaths.
He had found him. He was home.
In the drawing room, the flames danced light over the walls but kept his face in shadow. Bruce had sat away from him, allowing space, and Alfred wondered how the little bird had come to rest with them again.
However, this was not a time for explanations or interrogations. He set down the tray on the coffee table and made to leave.
"Alfred?"
It was a test of the word on his tongue and Alfred turned to meet the boy's eyes, seeing only shadows.
"Master…Dick?"
He did not start; nor did he smile.
"Thank you," he said, before turning to watch the fire.
Bruce met his eyes uncomfortably and Alfred suspected something more to this story than was being told. He nodded and walked to the kitchen, shutting the door quietly behind him. Only then did he allow himself to sigh, to pause, to gather himself.
A man was sitting in the drawing room, but who he was, Alfred couldn't say.
~
Bruce left him at the door. He pushed it open slowly, talking in the scene like a venue to be scouted, a stage to be set by him, the director of murder.
He had lived here. A different him. There was a poster from the circus and the bed was unmade, a room frozen seven years in the past. He slid open the wardrobe-
A formal gown. Gloves. A pair of stilettos.
A kiss in the hallway. The promise of death.
He shut the door.
The blanket feel to the floor and he unbuttoned the blouse, let the mangled padding fall away with the linen. The trousers came away, the underwear and hip pads, the stockings. The hairnet and the earrings.
He needed a shower.
It was like he remembered, everything untouched except for a vigilant butler's touch.
The water was warm, the temperature exact, and he stepped under the torrent.
And Amie trickled down the drain.
~
"And she confronted Wilson?"
Bruce nodded heavily and took another sip of coffee. Alfred pursed his lips.
"It was…breath-taking, Alfred. I never could have taught her- him-". Bruce sighed. "But she wanted to…to kill him."
"You could not let that happen."
"He stopped when I called his name."
"His name?"
Bruce set down the mug and scrubbed his face with his hands. "I don't pretend to understand it, but it's as if…this was the thing, the…" He sighed again. "I don't even know what I'm saying."
Alfred touched his arm and Bruce smiled up at him. "Call me when he wakes?"
"Certainly, Master Bruce."
"Thanks, Alfred."
He let Alfred help him with his jacket, before shutting the front door behind him.
Alfred hesitated.
"There is no need for reticence, Master Dick."
He slipped round the doorframe, and avoided Alfred's eyes. He wore his old training clothes and they hung from his artificially slim figure - a necessity of his guise, no doubt. It still hurt to see.
"Pancakes, Master Dick? And a glass of orange juice?"
"Please," he said, slipping into the seat Bruce had just left. Alfred watched surreptitiously as he picked up the coffee mug, passing it between his hands like a baseball, seemingly drawing more that warmth from its surface.
He set down the pancakes.
"Alfred…will you sit with me?"
It was a child's request, but Alfred complied, drawing his cup of tea towards him. They sat in silence whilst Dick ate half the stack of pancakes before pushing the plate away.
"Not used to it," he said and Alfred nodded.
"I'm sorry…about what I thought."
His confusion must've shown on his face because Dick sighed and looked down.
"He told me that…he said Batman…that he'd…it was all to get rid of me. And I believed him."
When Alfred didn't respond, Dick looked away.
"God, I was so stupid. He was an assassin! But…it hurt…and…I should've done better."
"It is my understanding, Master Dick, that you were kidnapped, tortured and brainwashed into believing Master Bruce was responsible. That is not something for which you should berate yourself."
"You make it sound like I didn't have a choice," Dick said thickly. "I've killed people, Alfred. Some guilty, some innocent - all because I was paid. And…I enjoyed it."
"Master Dick-"
"No, Alfred, hear me out. I used these people as practice, as training for my final murder. I wanted to…to kill Bruce so badly that I didn't even…they weren't people to me, Alfred. They were…experiments."
He lapsed into silence and Alfred resisted touching him.
"Do you regret it?"
Dick looked up, aghast. "Of course, I do, every minute, every moment-"
"Then you are not the monster you think you are. It is in the past - let it go."
"Alfred, these were people's lives-"
"Before I became butler to the Wayne family, I was in the service of Her Majesty the Queen. During that time, I did things-" He cut himself off, closing his eyes against the memory. "I will not forget the men I killed, but I will not let them haunt my steps. Do not let yourself die with them, Master Dick. We have experienced enough death for one season."
Dick fell into his arms, like the child he had been. Alfred embraced him, hoping for a time to chase away the ghosts.