What If After Jason's Death, Alfred Still Found Himself Making Food For That Empty Seat At The Table

What if after Jason's death, Alfred still found himself making food for that empty seat at the table

do you know. The stages of grief I went through after reading that. Hell, I INVENTED NEW STAGES. THIS IS NOT OKAY. WHAT KIND OF PERSON—

If there was one thing in Alfred’s life that he viewed as concrete, it was food. The smells of the kitchen in the early morning, before anyone but himself had woken, filled with sausage and toast. The sound of the oven’s timer going off, alerting him to the fact that he would soon be joined by the other occupants of the house. The slight breeze wafting through the only window he’d cared to open, allowing clear—or at least, as clear as could be found in Gotham—air through, into the house.

There was something . . . special about these moments. The time before anyone else had woken, when Alfred could be sure of his charges’ locations, sound asleep in their beds, and the fact that all would soon be sitting in front of him. Eating what he’d cooked, talking, acting as a family in ways it had taken them years to even attempt.

It was akin in feeling to the moment at dusk when the fires throughout the manor were low and Bruce could be found in his study, bent over a book. Where Jason, forever his father’s shadow—

Well, he would—

Alfred supposed that Bruce would be reading alone, now. Or perhaps not reading at all. None could blame the man if that were the case. The library, in recent years, had become Jason’s much in the way that the kitchen was Alfred’s. An unofficial rule, but a rule nonetheless. A silent promise that the space was theirs to maintain, to hide in, to control and enjoy as they saw fit. It was a unanimous understanding that, were you to enter, you were entering Jason’s space.

Alfred would not be surprised if the doors to the library didn’t open again.

It brought him pain unparalleled to think of that. To picture Jason’s favorite books, still lying on the table, covered in dust brought not by forgetfulness but by remembrance too strong to bear. To imagine Jason’s chair, pulled across the room to stand next to Bruce’s—though Jason would have denied—gone unused, left in the shadows of the curtains no one had drawn back in months.

Jason had always hated the dark. When entering the library, his first action would be ensuring that the fireplace was bright and the curtains held back, allowing for whatever light the day produced to stream into the room.

The easy explanation for this could have been Jason’s personality—bright and clear as the sunlight, and as warm as the fireplace.

Alfred Pennyworth had never been one to reach for the easy explanations. No, he’d worked hard to never be blind to the truth—and the truth, in this situation, was that Jason Todd was afraid of the dark. Afraid in a way that could only ever have been a result of past experiences. In a way that spoke of alleyways during the night and electricity bills gone unpaid.

It had been a week into Jason’s living with them that the elderly butler had deduced this, and less than a day after that, Jason’s room had possessed no less than three new light sources, two of which were nightlights. Jason had never mentioned it, but Alfred had read the boy’s gratefulness in the way he’d smiled as he’d helped prepare breakfast the very next morning.

Preparing meals with Jason at his side had been an honor Alfred would not find the likes of again. To watch the boy go from a silent, timid thing to the grinning, confident teen he—that he’d been later in life.

Earning that boy’s trust had been and would forever be one of the greatest achievements of Alfred’s life. He would never be able to think of his kitchen the same, after it had been graced with Jason’s presence. He saw the boy’s touch in the labels, scrawled in a young hand, placed upon the unmarked spices. In the smaller apron that hung beside his own, colors the familiar red, yellow, and green of the Robin uniform. In the boxed macaroni and cheese that occupied the pantry, waiting to be doused in barbecue sauce for . . .

It was a comfort food of Jason’s, barbecue pasta. Something Alfred would never have thought to make until that boy had shyly suggested it one of those very first months. Now it was one of the most commonly-made dishes in the manor, if only because Alfred enjoyed the smile it had put on Jason’s face.

Another one of the young master’s comfort foods was—had been—orange juice.

Alfred knew logically that the reason for this was his previous poverty. That he’d seldom had orange juice as a child, resulting in a love for it later on in life when it was easily available. That was the logical conclusion.

The one he found himself holding closer to his chest, though, was that orange juice was one of the very first things he’d ever given the boy—accompanied with a large breakfast, yes, but Jason had taken only the juice.

What was it about him that made Alfred so illogical? So willing to turn to emotion rather than truth? Was it that, when faced with a boy who’s emotions had so obviously been both the last rope holding him together and the knife ripping him apart, to fight fire with fire had been the only option? To meet Jason’s anger with kindness and his fear with comfort? Or was it that, after years of watching Dick become distant and Bruce forsake emotion for the mission, Alfred had become tired with such apathy?

Was it, perhaps, that Alfred had taken one look at a scared, lonely boy and decided, I will not allow the same fate to befall him as has the previous two?

It didn’t work, did it, a cruel part of his mind pointed out. In the end, you changed nothing—because it was always going to end this way.

Hugging Jason more often than he had Dick, while wonderful, hadn’t changed anything in the end, had it?

Alfred had done everything he could to stray Jason from the path set before him, and yet he had ended up in the ditch anyway. Bloody, broken, gone.

Gone from the family. Gone from life. Gone from the mansion. Gone from his library . . . and gone from Alfred’s kitchen.

Alfred wondered how many more losses he could take before the kitchen started to feel more like a shrine to the dead rather than a refuge for the living.

It had already started to show, that transition. He could see it now, as he returned from setting the table to find the eldest of his charges standing in the doorway—watching. Silent, still, and dead in all but heartbeat.

Hesitation should never have been the emotion a Wayne was met with when entering the kitchen, especially Bruce Wayne. And yet Alfred could read it all over the man’s face.

He, one who so often hid his face behind masks of indifference or stupidity or cruelty, was saying so openly Alfred found it in every line of his eyes, Am I allowed here?

Alfred almost sighed. He didn’t, though, because giving a sound to the feeling coursing through his chest would have given it a tangibility he was not ready to allow. “Have a seat, Master Bruce.”

Bruce was silent as he walked forward, pulled out a chair and did as he was told. Not a moment later, the middle—youngest—of Alfred’s charges appeared and, glancing at Bruce, did the same.

“Did you sleep well, Master Dick?” The words felt mechanical in Alfred’s mouth, though no one would tell from the sound of them.

“I . . .” Dick trailed off, voice cracking halfway through, and Alfred didn’t turn. If something were truly wrong, he trusted that Bruce would handle it.

Instead, he plated the last of the blueberry scones, gathered the jams and brought them to the table.

Silence was awash through the room. Alfred could have sworn that neither Bruce nor Dick were breathing.

“I was unsure of your schedules today,” he said idly as he worked to place the scones within reach of both men. “So I prepared both heavy and light options for you to choose from.”

“Alfred.”

Alfred paused, abandoning the butter knife he had been situating in the jam, and looked at Bruce.

Bruce’s face was pale, his eyes dark with a pain Alfred would recognize anywhere. He’d learned to recognize it over two decades before and had not forgotten it since then.

“Master Bruce, what—”

“You set—there are one too many plates, Alfred.”

Alfred frowned, slightly insulted at the insinuation. He had been making breakfast for the occupants of the manor for years, and he had placed more table settings in his life than he could count.

“You made a plate for Jason, Alfie.” Dick’s voice was hoarse with pain.

Alfred’s breath hitched. Straightening, he re-examined the table—but he already knew what he would find.

“It seems I have.”

Bruce’s eyes were everywhere but the plate. They seemed glued to Alfred’s cheek, unable to reach his gaze. What was it, Alfred wondered, that he so feared finding there? Anger? Blame? Grief? Pain? “You . . . It’s fine, Alfred. Don’t . . . Just leave it.”

Did he mean to ‘just leave it’, or ‘don’t just leave it’, Alfred wondered distantly as he stared at the plate. It was unused, of course—clean, and placed next to a fork, a butter crock, and . . . a cup of orange juice.

It was such an unassuming thing.

No one would look at it and think, perhaps it shouldn’t exist.

“I . . .” Alfred Pennyworth, former special forces, capable of crimes beyond the comprehension of even the Batman, found that his voice would no longer work. Because his throat had closed up or because he had no words to speak, he was unsure. All he knew was that his voice, usually the pillar with which he displayed his conviction, his strength, was gone. In the face of a mere plate.

“Alfie?” Dick sounded young. Younger than he had in years, and so unsure for it.

For once, Alfred could not bring himself to care.

“I need a moment,” the butler said abruptly. “Excuse me, sirs.”

And before either Bat could protest, he had fled the room.

When he came back hours later, heart calmed not with peaceful breathing but with a chest so hollow that the beats were nothing but echoes, he found the orange juice gone.

It was a painful sort of relief that revelation brought, because he wasn’t sure he would have had the heart to pour it out himself.

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Tumblr usernames are so funny, "the ghost of jason todd started following you" okay well can he stop

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something about a legacy that was never supposed to become one. about a grief never meant to become a title. he drives me insane

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The way this man's entire face lights up when he sees Kory and his eyes shine at her 🥹

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Losing my mind but the prospect of Damian being so otherworldly beautiful and thriving at the face of catastrophe is so tragic to me idk why.

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Like baby boy my baby why are you the sole hope for humanity to exist and the key for peace and co-existence?? Little Damian did you know that your hands are the gentlest in the future where that would cost you?

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Damian al-Ghul Wayne why are you so tragically beautiful when you're not supposed to?

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no thoughts only batfam

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fractalflowers

3 weeks ago

$fractalflowers - Fractal Flowers$

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fractalflowers

1 month ago

Ahhhhh it’s heartbreaking and it’s beautiful!!!!

✮phone call✮ (~3k words) ao3

“This is the voicemail of Timothy Drake-Wayne. If this is an emergency, please contact my secretary, Tamara Fox. Otherwise, leave a message…” “Hey Timmy, it’s Dick! I just wanted to let you know that since like 15 religious holidays are around the corner, we would love it if you could join us for dinner. Uhm, yeah, and we were joking about baking cookies together with Alfred now that we’re all finally in New Jersey. He wants to get all his boys- rustling of clothes is audible OW, CASS- no, no, NO, no tickling- AND GIRLS- Dick laughing Alfie wants all of us together to bake cookies! Please send me a message when you hear this!Buh-Bye.”

Tim knew he had been avoidant toward his older brother ever since he returned. Well, it wasn’t just Tim’s return; it was his and Bruce’s.

Tim also knew that everyone had noticed something was wrong.

He hadn’t been able to rely on anyone from the caped community after he came back. All his former friends and allies were either dead, or worse: acted like he was. Nobody wanted to take the risk of working with a basically exiled, supposedly unstable vigilante.

Another big issue was their fear. Being from Gotham didn’t help his reputation when trying to build new connections. Maybe it was that, or maybe it was his semi-public battle with Ra’s al Ghul that scared them off. The only thing certain was that the ones who’d seen him since had noticed his avoidant behavior toward Nightwing and decided to stick to their more trusted friend's side.

Even at the Manor. Cass, who was barely there anyway, knew he stiffened whenever Dick entered the same room. And Damian? While he’d slowly started to respect Tim, he sensed the tension between the two and clearly chose the eldest brother’s side. It really did seem like everyone noticed.

Everyone but Dick.

It was like they were stuck in limbo. While Dick kept reaching out and inviting Tim, Tim kept trying to dodge and skip whatever new plan Dick had come up with.

He wished everything could go back to how it was before all the bullshit that tore them apart, but having Dick act like nothing ever happened? Expecting the same from Tim? Not even acknowledging the fact that he’d burned all the bridges Tim had left after losing almost all his friends and family- and then also Robin? Nah. Tim wasn’t about to let that go.

He knew better than to repeat mistakes. He was trained to do better. Under Bruce, he learned there was no space for errors. Under Lady Shiva, he learned mistakes could result in death. Under Ra’s, he learned to be better than to make any. He loved his siblings, but feeling that sense of abandonment again wasn’t something Tim could handle. A mistake he wouldn’t make again, he was sure of it.

He needed the hurt and fear, even if it haunted him like an itchy scab that refused to heal. At least, that’s what he told himself.

“A reminder that next time, I might not be lucky enough to get away alive.”

He could stretch and squeeze and keep going through his day, it wouldn’t rip open, it wouldn’t bleed, but he could always feel it. His skin pulling at a weird angle when he moved. The constant urge to scratch at it more but needing it to heal, so that finally all the annoying itching and pulling would stop. He was torn, between the dull ache of betrayal and the yearning for peace. For a hug from his brother.

He couldn’t even remember that sensation anymore. Hadn’t felt it in what felt like years.

Even so, Tim wasn’t angry. Hell, he didn’t even need an apology. At some point, he’d figured he needed one to heal. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe they needed a therapist. Or a lawyer. He didn’t know. What was he actually supposed to do? How was he supposed to act, to fix this? Opening up to Dick like that felt wrong.

He remembered a time when he and Dick were constantly talking. Together on patrol, on comms, in person, on the phone, during Dick’s lunch breaks or during Tim’s free periods at school. There was nothing one didn’t know about the other.

Before Dick gave Robin to Damian.Before he told Dick that Bruce was still alive; and was met with disbelief.

Tim knew that making this mistake wouldn’t kill him. But it would hurt—hurt in a way that most people only felt when watching a dog get abandoned by its owners. Hurt in a way that left him hollow, ripped apart and scraped clean. Afraid he had nothing left to give.

He wasn’t sure how he’d ended up on a rooftop with a Bat-Burger bag in his lap, and Dick sitting next to him. The relentless wind of Gotham whipped at them. The icy rain had just eased enough to let them eat without their food getting soaked.

They’d been eating in silence for a few minutes when Tim finally spoke up.

“Can I ask you a weird question?”

“Of course. What’s up?”

“I have this friend…” Tim shivered, finishing his burger.

“Uh-huh.” Dick raised a single eyebrow, his mask quirking up.

“Well, listen-okay, so my friend kind of feels stuck right now.”

A loud sigh from Dick. “Don’t we all…” he added.

“Look, I wouldn’t come to you if I thought you wouldn’t understand. Maybe this is a bad time for this, but it’s kind of important to me, y’know? It’s just that-”

Suddenly the comms burst to life. Barbara’s voice crackled through.

“Nightwing and Red Robin, Batman is requesting backup for a possible Scarecrow attack. The Batmobile is en route, ETA 30 seconds.”

Tim sighed into the comm. “Affirmative, Oracle.”

The moment was already gone. Forgotten. He stood and began to prepare to scale down the building with his grapple.

Then he felt a hand on his ankle. He looked down. Dick was still sitting at the edge of the roof, looking up at him. Knowing his brother, Tim knew that behind the mask, Dick’s eyes were filled with worry.

“I really appreciate you coming to me for advice, you know. I missed our patrols together,” Dick said, tightening his grip on Tim’s ankle briefly. A small huff of laughter. “Want to talk about it later? I’ll even buy breakfast. From that diner we used to go to.”

Pure relief washed over Tim. This was the chance he’d been waiting for.

“Please,” Tim nodded at the masked man in front of him.

“Of course,” Dick answered earnestly, smiling as he let go of Tim’s ankle. Below them, the Batmobile pulled into the alley.

“This is Dick Grayson’s phone, you know the drill! Message after the beep!” “Hey Dick,uhm- I just wanted to know where you are? See you soon!”

“This is Dick Grayson’s phone, you know the drill! Message after the beep!” Caller did not leave a voicemail.

“This is the voicemail of Timothy Drake-Wayne. If this is an emergency, please contact my secretary, Tamara Fox. Otherwise, leave a message…” “Hey Timmy, just wanted to let you know that Jason said he’s coming to Easter breakfast at Wayne Manor, so Bruce is planning a get-together for the 20th and wants everyone to stay overnight. Alfred assured me that attendance is mandatory, just so you know. Dick chuckles audibly You can bring a plus one if you wish to, maybe Conner has time or something. I was seriously considering calling Kori, but Jason said he really needed a break from both her and Roy since things were a tad bit crazy the last time they talked. Maybe Wally isn’t busy yet actually… OKAY anyway, see youuu.”

“This is Dick Grayson’s phone, you know the drill! Message after the beep!” “Hey… I don’t think I’ll make it to Easter, actually. I have a Wayne Enterprises gala in Paris that day. Yeah… sorry… a shaking breath is audible You know, we never made it to breakfast last week. And actually- I’m kinda sick of this whole thing we keep doing, so let me just say this and let’s be done with it, alright? Honestly, it’s kind of hard to believe you haven’t noticed this before, but- we’re not okay. I get that Jason is back, and that Damian needed you when Bruce was gone, but you-Tim audibly clears his throat -you have to understand that I can’t just forget everything that happened. I know I seem grown and responsible and strong, but I also needed someone. It didn’t have to be you, but I was left with no one on my side. Doing this- the whole ‘asking-my-brother-for-advice’ thing; was me extending an olive branch. Can you believe I made up an entire elaborate story just to talk to you about something? This, all this, I don’t think I’m ready for it at all. I know you didn’t forget me on purpose, but I was there, y’know? The other morning. I sat at that stupid diner for four hours, just waiting for you to show up or to call me or to send me a stupid message. a sigh is audible I love you, man. And I respect the hell out of you, you know that. We’re busy people. We have busy lives. I know this isn’t some elaborate plot to hurt my feelings. I know you’re someone I can trust. But I think, as long as accidents like this make me feel like I have nowhere left to go and no one left to go to, we can’t keep doing this. I can’t let myself trust you like this only to fall on my ass again and again and again. We- I-I’m sick of this. Best option for me is to wait it out, I think. Until this, us meeting and things being weird and different and you forgetting me, doesn’t feel like a punch to the gut every fucking time. I appreciate you trying to invite me. Really, I do.Love you. Say happy holidays to everyone for me. Happy Easter, Dick.”

<(2) missed calls from Dick>

“This is the voicemail of Timothy Drake-Wayne. If this is an emergency, please contact my secretary, Tamara Fox. Otherwise, leave a message…” “Tim- uhm, could you call me back when you get a second? I know you’re busy with WE business, but I think we have to try and talk about this… Please, Tim.”

Tim had avoided Gotham for months now.

He didn’t want to leave Gotham. Not the States. Not indefinitely. But once he sat down in the jet, wearing his stupidly expensive suit, on that windy April morning, he had to swallow down the bile rising up his throat.

He saw the missed calls and listened to Dick’s voicemail and wanted to respond, he really did. But then he opened Instagram and immediately felt a pit settle in his stomach.

It was stupid to feel hurt about this, but looking at the Instagram post Dick had uploaded not three hours ago, he couldn’t help it. It was a nice family photo- Duke and Steph smiling brightly next to each other, and all the other Waynes entangled in some kind of a fight-hug with Bruce standing behind everyone, looking at them with quiet awe.

It was a nice family picture. But the caption, “Waynes reunited again”-that stung.

Rationally, Tim knew feeling like shit about this was dumb. But the sirens in his head were blaring. He had withstood so much- but this? This was his breaking point?

He’d stood tall and waited for months on end, enduring the twisting ache in his chest, convincing himself that if he just held on, it would settle on its own.

But something had to give.

And this time, it was Tim.

This was over.

He put his phone down, asked to exit the jet, and he left.

And maybe he did heal at first. He was sure he did.

He missed everyone at home, especially Young Justice; but he didn’t dare call out to Kon, or try to reach Bart from a payphone. Cassie was probably still pissed at him for leaving the first time, so she wasn’t an option either.

And somewhere in between passing out in a small French forest thirty miles from the Parisian suburbs, and seeing the Mediterranean Sea for the first time, he started to forget. About the people he’d left behind- like they’d left him.

But then he woke up one night somewhere along the Côte d’Azur and felt like he was in his childhood bedroom. Thick clouds hung over the moon, barely letting it peek out for a few seconds before swallowing it in silver mist again.

He just laid there, lost in the memory of a life he lived a decade ago.

When he first opened his eyes, he swore he smelled his mother’s perfume lingering in the air. It was strangely comforting. He wondered if an old bottle still stood somewhere in Drake Manor.

He remembered the times she would wake him in the middle of the night and press a kiss to his forehead, that same scent surrounding her like a cloud. Whispering softly, “We have arrived home, Timothy. Sleep well.”

He thought about the time when Bruce and Dick were living down the street from him, and he would sneak out on icy nights to watch them run across the rooftops. They didn’t know him. And he didn’t really know them.

Their only interactions ever were polite handshakes at galas or parties the Drakes attended.

There were no negative emotions between them. No sense of abandonment.No heavy years of pain and suffering.No kidnappings. No Scarecrow attacks.No drug-ring busts.No fighting.

Just… nothing.

A simple, polite neutrality.

And yet, somehow, neutrality left him with less than nothing. He knew he couldn’t come home yet.

And yet.

One night Tim quietly slipped out of his small, temporary apartment in nothing but a sweat shirt and shorts. He was a mess, almost dizzy with too many thoughts swirling through his head in an endless loop. The wind picked up and within a minute a heavy summer rain engulfed him completely, soaking through his clothing. To his luck he found shelter in an old dimly lit phone booth, completely overgrown with vines on a hidden side street. He was cold, wet, exhausted and wanted to clear his head, or just to stop worrying.

It probably was a stupid idea but he threw the change in his pocket into the old machine and typed in an all too familiar number, one he hadn’t dialled in months.

The rusted display began to glow and to his surprise he heard it ring two times before someone picked up.

“Hello?” Dick’s voice was gruff; probably half asleep and confused. It felt weird to catch Dick in a moment of vulnerability and made Tim want to throw the receiver back at the pay phone and disappear.

“Hey…It’s me.” He instead said softly.

A beat of silence then-

“Tim?”

“Yeah. I’m not- I don’t have reason to call. I just-“ Tim sighed heavily “I don’t know.”

Tim could hear Dick drawing in a breath.

“You can always call me, you don’t have to have a reason.”

Tim couldn’t help but pull a grimace and close his eyes, the words felt like they went from his ear directly to the pit in his stomach. The distance, the guilt, the hurt were still waiting there, ready to be unearthed. Then he told Dick, voice curt to try and hide the hurt, “It wasn’t always like that.”

A heavy silence followed and the static in Tim’s ear crackled as he waited for Dick to say something- anything.

“That’s fair, I probably deserved that.” Dick answered, and Tim couldn’t help but wince at the hurt he heard in the others voice.

“This- I couldn’t sleep. Too many thoughts, I feel like I am struggling under this heavy burden even though all of it’s over. Bruce is back- everyone’s back. It’s just me who’s gone.” His voice was tight and he knew he sounded exhausted, he leaned against the cool glass of the phone booth and bumped the back of his head against the wall repeatedly.

“Are you save?” Dick asked him after another silent pause that felt like years.

Tims voice broke, “Yeah, just trying to be… better? I don’t know…” he breathed out heavily.

“I’m sorry, Tim. For everything, I never wanted to hurt you like this.” Dick said with a raw voice. “You never should have gone through all that alone, and I just-“ his voice broke and Tim’s throat tightened. He didn’t want to cry, not here, not on the phone to Dick, thousands of miles away from Gotham.

“I feel like I lost you, Tim. I never wanted that, I never thought I could screw us up like this…” Tim could almost hear Dick fraying at the edges. And the only growing summer storm, pounded against the phone booth, drowning out the static that rang through the speaker as they both sat in silence again.

Dick spoke up again first, “I’m sorry, Tim.”

And Tim didn’t know what to say, in his ideal world, he’d give his brother a hug and tell him that all was forgotten- but in that world, none of the heavy and soul crushing shit would have happened to him in the first place.

“I- I’m not coming back. Not yet.” Was the only thing he managed to wring out himself to say in fear of breaking down.

“I know,” Dick said softly.

Another pause.

Tim knew what to say, but his tongue felt heavy in his mouth, every word felt like it fought it's way out.

“I might call again.”

“I’ll be here. I’ll pick up.”

Tim swore he could feel something move in his chest like a weight falling off him.

“Goodbye, Dick.” He whispered into the receiver.

“Goodnight, Tim. Love you.” Dick said and for the first time in a long time, Tim believed him.

The soft tone of a disconnected call buzzed in the receiver and Tim stood still listening to it for a moment before he placed it back on the hook.

And the rain outside kept pouring.

PROMPT OF THE WEEK: phone call

its almost 1 am if u find any grammar/vocab mistakes you can keep em. ya no entiendo nada

thank you! @anyknot for the wonderful promt <3

divider by @cafekitsune

don’t forget to like and reblog if you you enjoyed this post!

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fractalflowers

1 month ago

Jason Todd coded

obsessed with the concept of the anti-saint. you will suffer cruelties and humiliations that should be unthinkable and die pointlessly, and if you must be remembered at all, it will only be with revulsion, as if you were a festering scar on reality itself. neither resistance nor submission will redeem you. god will not save you. god has abandoned you. everyone has abandoned you. you are alone in an uncaring universe.

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fractalflowers

1 month ago

I know Jason was dead-set on revenge and sticking it to Batman in UTRH but now I’m making myself sad thinking about a Jason who finally sees Bruce as Batman again after so many years, and he sees Nightwing and another Robin but he can’t hear them. For the first time ever, he’s not on their comm frequency. He’s locked out of Bruce’s quiet field orders and status checks. He can see Bruce but he can’t hear him. All he gets is the mask.

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fractalflowers

3 weeks ago

oh this has the potential to be hilarious