[IN THE END] - DICK GRAYSON - YOUNG JUSTICE

CHAPTER 22A

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It was one a.m. when Bruce walked into the kitchen, his stomach growling.  It had been two hours since he had a snack.  He was binge eating, trying to control his grief, though everyone around him knew it wasn't helping.  As he closed the refrigerator door, what had become a constant expression surfaced.  His eyebrows lay flat, eyes practically closed, the corners of his lips almost touching the edge of his chin.   He started at the red x's on the calendar.  They spread rapidly, taking up the whole page before they attacked a new one.  Each time Bruce flipped the calendar to a new month, he was desperately confused.  How could a month go by so dangerously fast, when each of his days were unnecessarily long? 

He looked to the clock, realizing it was a new day.  He grabbed the marker that sat on the counter beside the large appliance, uncapping it in anger.  He could barley watch the red ink bleed, from pushing down on the paper too hard.  He stood there in disbelief as he finally noticed that he had just crossed off the last box of that month.  The x's, had won yet again. 

He snarled at the calendar, something that become quite common.  He picked up the magnet as he turned the page.  The big bold letters caused Bruce to realize something else.  If the x's won this battle, he would be spending Christmas without Richard.  Something he never wanted to go through again.  The thought overwhelmed him, anger surging throughout his body, and he knew it wasn't long before it would be released.  He jammed the marker back onto the calendar, crossing out 'December' as best as he could.  The product wasn't as efficient as he had hoped, making things even worse.  He wouldn't be able to cross out anymore days, weeks, or months.  It reminded him that Richard was in a coma, unconscious.  But it also reminded him that he was alive.  And he knew that the day he stopped crossing out the small boxes would be the day Richard died.  Unless he gave it up.  He couldn't handle it either way.  Because regardless of the situation, Richard was not with him.

Unaware of what to do, he followed his instinct.  His body took control over his mind as he ripped the calendar from the fridge, the magnet making loud thump as it hit the floor.  He threw the calendar across the room, turning the other way.  He jabbed the cap back on to the marker, throwing that across the room as well.  He opened the freezer to take out a tub of ice cream.  He shivered as it hit his body.  Stomping to the other side of the kitchen he yanked a draw open, almost pulling it out of the slot.  He grabbed a soon placing it in his mouth, so he could free his hand to dramatically slam the drawer.  

Hours later Alfred entered the kitchen to find various objects out of place.  "Master Bruce?"  Alfred exclaimed.  It was one of the few times he had called for him in the past month.  They had close to four conversations since their blowout.  It appeared as though it would remain that way forever.  But after Alfred walked into the kitchen looking like that, he knew it was time to make amends.  They were on the same side after all.  "Master Bruce!"  He tried again.  Still no answer.  Alfred knew it wouldn't be easy, but it had to be done.  He began making his way up the stairs. 

Alfred didn't know what to say when he entered Bruce's room.  "What in bloody hell are you doing?"  Bruce gave the older man a glance.  "Eating."  He said quietly.  "Four cartons of ice cream?"  Alfred yelled.  He began to pick them up. 

"Why are you here?"  Bruce's tone was sharp and aggravated.  Alfred almost chuckled.  "Why are you there?"  Bruce rolled his eyes.  "This is my house."  There was an emphasis on the fact that it was his property.  "Yes, and this is my job.  Where I work."  Bruce ate another spoonful of ice cream.  "And what if you became unemployed?"  Bruce still held an enormous grunge.  "I would still be here."  Alfred snapped back at him.  "Why?"  Bruce yelled.  "You want to know why?"  Alfred was frustrated.  "Clean yourself up and meet me downstairs.  Then we can talk."  It was as if Bruce was thirteen again.  "Why should I listen to you Alfred?"  Bruce could barley push the words past his clenching teeth.  "Because you didn't before.  And look where that got you!"  Bruce looked in the other direction as he tried to deny it.  But with a statement that true, it couldn't be done.  "Fine!"  He yelled while throwing the carton to the floor.  He walked off into his bathroom, angry for multiple reasons.  

Alfred went down stairs, taking a deep breath as he sat on the couch.  He picked up the clicker, turning on the TV to relax.  Roughly twenty minutes later Bruce sat down beside him.  It wasn't long before Alfred muted the television.  Bruce gave Alfred the chance to gather his thoughts.  "When I was hired by your parents, my one job, the only job I had to do, was take care of this house.  Watch over this home... make sure that everything was in order.  Years went by, though you were still a young boy.  Happier than ever at the time.  And even though your smile was permanent, you still had moments in which you were vulnerable.  You were good at faking it, you wore that smile so well.  It was as if you practiced in front of a mirror.  But your father, he knew you too well.  You didn't have him fooled.  And you were accepting of the fact that he knew.  You weren't ashamed.  You needed some sort of comfort.  And in your mind he was the only person capable of giving you that.  He was the only one you let in.  The only one who was allowed to take care of you during those times of despair.  I remember on a few occasions, walking past your room, the door slightly ajar.  I would hear muffled sniffles, and as I peered through the small crack, you were wrapped in your father's arms.  You held onto him just as much as he held onto you..." 

Bruce's eyes began to water thinking back to that time in his life.  He bit his lip trying to stay in control.  "Until the day, he was forced to let go.  And on the day your parents left us, my job description changed.  I found a new job, one much more imperative.  I wasn't worried about taking care of a manor.  Watching over this house was of no importance.  But you... you were still twelve.  You needed a guardian... Needed someone to be there for you.  And I was.  Or at least I tried to be.  Cries echoed throughout this manor for months.  I didn't know what to do.  I didn't know how to help you without making you more upset.  One day I was walking past your room, like I always had.  Kneeling on the on the ground, your back hunched over, you sat there crying...  No one there to reassure you.  I didn't want to intrude, but I couldn't leave you there alone.  So I walked in, taking the same position your father had.  I was expecting you to get angry, and force me to leave.  But you grabbed on to me...  We both finally understood that it didn't matter who was there to help you.  You just needed the comfort."  Bruce gave the older man a small smile.  "I watched you grow Bruce.  And like your father, I can read you.  I know when you need someone there.  And you can't deny that you require that comfort now.  I want to help you.  In fact I need to help you.  You have to understand that I made a promise to myself, to your parents, that I would do everything in my favor to keep you from ending up like them." 

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Oh Alfred!  I wish I had a butler...

Part B will be out in a few days.

Thanks again!