Work Text:
Excusing yourself from Christmas dinner halfway through the second course, you think, is probably one of the more overtly rude things that you've done in Bruce's house.
But still, you slip away as quietly as you can, wandering down the halls of the Manor until the sounds of the family dim down into a muffled sort of hum. The windows that you face, now, look out onto the sprawling acres of land attached to his home, and you halt just a bit at the sight.
It's snowing, you think dimly as you look out, arms crossed as if you can keep the cold out - as if you can feel it seeping through the panes of glass, as if the grand fireplace inside can't warm you, as if you're out there in the cold, alone still, as if -
"It's pretty, isn't it?" Bruce muses, and you flinch slightly as it splits the silence. You hadn't heard him approaching you - a loss in itself as you consider how out of step you feel right now.
"It is," you respond haltingly - and it's kind of him, you think, not to mention your skittish behaviour - not to point out the way you shrink away.
And truthfully, it really is pretty. Snow floats down in huge, crystaline flurries that look so beautiful you have a hard time remembering they're real, and the wind blows them around into swirling little clusters that sweep past the windows.
"Perfect," you murmur. "It's the perfect Christmas - perfect weather for Christmas, I mean."
"It sort of is," he agrees easily, standing beside you with his hands in his pockets, kindly looking out the window instead of directly at you.
You wonder if he'll break the silence, if he'll mention your disappearing act, if he'll tell you that it's unacceptable to run away like that, if he'll -
"No one would be upset if you wanted to call it a night early," is what he says, instead, and the air leaves your lungs in a deep, drawn-out breath.
"No?"
"No," he insists. "This is supposed to be fun. If you're not having a good time, I don't want you to force yourself."
"Everyone will know why I left," you respond lowly, and he hums in thought.
"They might. But even if they did, they'd understand. You're not the only one who… well. It isn't always easy for any of us," Bruce says finally. You glance at him.
"Even you? It's difficult?" you ask.
"Very often, yes," he says honestly. "But I find that it's less difficult when we're all together."
"That's nice," you murmur, something sickening coiling around your ribs. You wish, a bit desperately, that he would just leave you alone, that you could just slink away and pretend that none of this is happening - this holiday, this family, this -
"It is nice," Bruce agrees. "But it takes time - it took time."
"Are you saying I just need to give it time?" you respond, and there's a bit more bite in your voice than you think he deserves. His hand, though, just finds the top of your head, and he smooths down some of your hair carefully.
"Sweetheart, there's no right or wrong way to do this. If you've had enough tonight, that's really ok. I'll have Alfred bring up a plate to your room, because I really would like you to eat a bit more, but that's all."
And maybe it's the option, you think. Maybe it's the out that you've been given, the opportunity to slip away, that makes it all start to crumble around you.
"I don't really want to spend tonight alone," you admit waveringly. "Not when - not when the rest of you are together."
"Then come back with me," he presses gently. "Even if it's just for a bit."
"I can't."
"You can't?" he asks patiently.
"Well, everyone will know, won't they? That I'm-" Wrong, you think. They'll know that something's wrong with me, that I can't do it, that I can't handle something kind, that -
"Do you know what I think?" Bruce asks gently, and you inhale sharply.
"Mhm?" you hum.
"I think they notice when you're gone - and they miss you. And I think they want you there, and that's all."
"That's all?" you echo.
"Yes," Bruce says simply. "The people who love you aren't holding this over your head, sweetheart. They're not. I'm not."
"Bruce, I -" your voice catches. "I think there's something wrong with me. I think that any chance I had at being good, or normal, or made for this is gone. I think I'm ruined, you know. I was the wrong person growing up in the wrong place, and it's too late for me to fix it now."
He's quiet, then, as he listens to you - and you think that maybe this time you've done it, maybe this time you've snapped and snarled and bitten at the hand that feeds you enough that he'll consider you a lost cause and leave you out in the cold once more.
But Bruce just steps forward, turning so that his back leans against the window and he can look at you directly. He says your name gently, and you look up to him as his back blocks out the cold from outside, barring it from your path.
"Everyone at that table has thought that at some point - about themselves," he says gently. "They've… we've all been wrong. This home is proof of that. Sweetheart, there's nothing in you that was put together wrong. You were just treated wrong."
"What's the difference?" You scuff your heel against the carpet, opting to look down instead of at Bruce. He lets you - kindly, patiently, letting you run away when you need to and holding steady for you when you can't.
"There's a big difference," Bruce says firmly. You don't look up, but his hand comes into your field of view as he holds it out to you, palm up. "Come back with me?"
"I don't know how," you admit, staring at his hand, he holds it steady - patient and unwavering.
"You don't have to," he says gently. "No one will hold it against you if you make a mistake."
Somewhere down the hall, the grand doors of the dining room are swung open, and the noise of dinner comes tumbling out - laughter and shouting mixing together into something that sounds distinctly like joy.
Dick's voice is heard before you see him, your name shouted in question until he finally finds you.
"Will you come back here?" he yells towards you from down the hall. "Jason's declaring himself arm wrestling champion, and I think it'll ruin Christmas if no one can prove him wrong."
You look back at Bruce, his hand still outstretched towards you - and you think, in a softening sort of way, that he'd probably wait there forever for you - for any of you.
"Can you beat Jason at arm wrestling?" you ask him mildly. He fixes you with an offended sort of look.
"Of course I can," he says simply, and you let him, finally, take your hand and start guiding you back towards the rest of the family.
Dick's leaning against the wall, grinning at you in a joyful sort of way, and he claps you on the back as you pass.
"About time," he says. "It's too quiet in there without you, come on."
It's not really quiet in there at all, you think, as you hear the sounds of everyone cheering and shouting.
But then you realize, in a way that warms you and wraps around you, that they'd always be able to pick out your voice - and they'd always notice your absence, no matter the noise.