Poker Face | Bruce Wayne

sixteen

Bruce didn't know when Meredith's entire being had become consumed with worrying about her future (and to some extent, his, too). She was only twelve. Bruce could hardly picture his tomorrow, much less the rest of his life.

But of course Meredith could worry about her future, with her loving parents and excitable brother. Bruce didn't have much in store in regards to family— his indefinite future seemed kind of meaningless.

They pulled up to the front doors of the Elias mansion and Alfred stopped the car. Meredith huffed, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Anymore mess-ups and you're gonna end up in Europe with Oliver Queen," she shot behind her as she slipped out of the car.

Maybe life in Europe with Oliver wouldn't have been so bad, Bruce wanted to say. He was sort of sad that Oliver's parents had forced the blond into a boarding school across the world. Bruce missed Oliver at times like this— Devin, while always trying his best to find time to see Bruce, was usually busy with his own friends at Gotham Academy. And, frankly, sometimes Meredith and all of her "capital-labor substitution" got annoying.

She groaned, looking up to the sky as if the god she probably didn't believe in actually existed. "Ugh. My mom's so gonna kill me. Thanks a lot, Brooch."

The door slammed shut and Meredith walked up the long path to the doors of the house, which were expectantly pulled open by their head maid, Nancy. The pair drifted out of sight as the car pulled away, and a sinking realization settled in the pit of Bruce's stomach: he was now alone with Alfred.

There was a long silence down the expanse of the Elias driveway, and just as they passed through the gates, Alfred spoke.

"Master Bruce—"

"Johnny made fun of my parents, Alfred!" Bruce rushed. While it was true, the dead parent card also usually got sympathy out of the otherwise indifferent man.

There was a pause, and Bruce almost let relief fall over his tense shoulders. That should work.

"—I say this with the most utmost respect and love for Thomas and Martha: I simply do not care."

Bruce was taken aback. He didn't care? What did Alfred mean, he didn't care? He couldn't not care— Bruce's parents were dead. As in not coming back. Ever. Not caring wasn't exactly an option.

Alfred apparently sensed Bruce's confusion. "While you have every right to be upset at the injustices of this world, you do not have the right to take it out on anyone who says something cruel."

"He said this city was better off without them," Bruce spat, pushing himself slightly out of his seat and leaning towards the driver's side. "He deserved it!"

"You," Alfred's voice was now raised an octave, making Bruce's anger falter. "Are not the one who gets to decide who deserves what, Master Bruce. Unless you have a hidden degree in law that I am unaware of, you are not a judge, nor are you old enough to be on a jury. And you are most certainly not the executioner."

Silence.

Maybe Alfred would've been right, if Bruce had truly bothered to listen. Bruce understood that his actions had consequences— more serious consequences than those of your regular twelve-year-old. He knew that maintaining composure was the correct way to conduct yourself, but how could he have the composure of Alfred or even Meredith— how could he be bothered to care about how the public perceived him— when the world was so ruthless?

Everything felt like it was against him. Who cared if Bruce got in trouble, or suspended, or expelled? Certainly not him. He didn't care about the company he was inevitably going to have to run, the one that had caused his father nothing but headaches and late nights. Bruce simply just moved through life, oftentimes wishing he wasn't at all, dealing with nightmares that had hardly gotten better in recent years, and doing copious amounts of homework under Alfred's watchful eye.